It takes him three weeks to track Erik down, after what happened at Alcatraz. Even when St. John pulls out all the stops, goes to all of his contacts, it's still infuriatingly difficult to find the old man. He dyes his hair, dark again and takes the Greyhound until his money runs out, hitchhikes the rest of the way.
The house is a big Brownstone, the kind that reeks of old money, inside and out. Here, Erik just looks like another aged, eccentric aristocrat and John can't even imagine how he can afford the place.
Erik isn't surprised to see him but then, John didn't think he would be. Somehow, even now, he looks so powerful and unflappable and John thinks that maybe, that's why he's here. That's what draws him to him. He looks older though, and tireder. Weary. John supposes that he does too, the same blank, dead-eyed look that he see's on Erik as they stand on the porch.
They stay like that for a while and John wonders if Erik is going to let him in. It seems like forever that they stand there, in the silent dead-lock but they're both too exhausted for arguments and as John makes to leave, there's a hand on his arm, old and thin, but strong and he hears the voice that he's been aching for, that he needs to hear,
"I thought you might come," It's a voice that still has the force of iron behind it and to John, it's as magnetic as it ever was "Inside, dear boy, inside."
The sitting room (Erik call it the 'Parlour') has leather sofas and wood panelled walls. It reminds John of the Professor's study, back at Westchester and it's disconcerting. His fingers tap a nervous staccato against his knee because he thinks playing with his lighter might be inappropriate. Erik sits down next to him, but not close, and sighs.
"How did you find me?"
Everything that John wants to say is stuck in his throat and he can't swallow it or cough it up, so he shrugs and answers the question.
"One of the psychics you introduced me to, they gave me the heads up that you were here." It's the first time that he's spoken in a day, a day and a half and he sounds hoarse so he takes a drink of the tea that Erik has made him. It's earl grey, black with honey, exactly the way that he used to take it and he didn't even ask. For some reason, the gesture makes his hands shake. Erik sighs again and puts one of his hands on John's knee. It's only to stop him fidgeting, but he moves into the touch like it's the centre of his world.
"I only made a few mistakes in this war," Erik says "The biggest one was you."
And that hurts. John pulls away, stands up and he thinks that this must be how Julius Caesar felt, when he saw Brutus with the knife.
"Do you want me to leave?" This was a mistake. He's got money in his pocket, from sucking off some middle aged family man, in a truck stop bathroom, just outside of Pittsburgh, while the guys wife and kids were outside in his RV. It's enough to get him back home, wherever that is now but then those fingers are on his arm again, pulling him back down, closer than before.
"I don't want you to leave, St. John." Erik doesn't call him Pyro anymore, the same way that he can't think of Erik as Magneto. Pyro and Magneto got left behind on whatever remains of Alcatraz island and John only see's them when he dreams of noise and fire and death "That's not what I meant."
John's confused and he's regretting ever really coming here but at the same time, he knows that he had to. When Erik speaks again, he sounds as weary as he looks.
"I don't regret what I did, John. I still believe that I was right and this, this only proves it. What I do regret is that you had to be involved. All I wanted, was a world free from fear and hatred and persecution for me, and you and everyone like us. I wanted to show then that you couldn't cure us." The old man's voice is so raw and frail and sad that John leans against him, curls up against his side, his head almost in his lap "I wanted all of that for you but I failed. I ruined you. Now all you'll ever know is the fear, or the cure. You'll never be free of it. You needed someone to look to and it shouldn't have been me, It never should have been me."
John pulls Erik's arm across and traces the spot where he knows the faded blue numbers are, underneath the stark, white Oxford cotton and he says, "I wanted it to be you."
Erik's hands are in his hair, stroking and smoothing and he sounds so choked.
"I can't lead you anymore, John. I can't protect you. I'm not like you."
John smiles and his hand reaches and he laces fingers through those old and thin, but strong ones and somehow, he feels completed.
"It doesn't matter anymore," He mumbles, into the crook of Erik's elbow, as Erik sighs again "This is all that matters now."