The garden was almost always cool, even in the summer. Charles would come here, roll in his chair under the towering trees, and tried not to hear the world think.
People always had to think though, and Charles had to hear them.
The Brotherhood is arming in self-defence, the trees told him, their long billowing hands moving gently in the wind. He knew it already. Rumours and whispers had jumped from mind to mind across the country, some red with indignation, some with a hint of pride.
They spoke of the Brotherhood like they were terrorists - like they were saviours.
Charles did not want to here about Erik's political agenda right now. He didn't want to hear about anything.
He told the trees to shut up. They did not argue with him, possibly because they were not sentient at all, but just a means of processing the thoughts of thousands, a way of making his mind make sense of the influx of sound that threatened to overwhelm him sometimes.
He closed his eyes.
He saw Raven, under the pulsing blue lights of Genes, taking a pill and letting the waves of pleasure rack through her. They rippled through her body, and she rippled too, her skin shimmering from blue to green to candescent orange. Angel was laughing, her eyes scrunched up and her wings fluttering behind her, but Raven remembered her neck in particular. It was long and tanned, and begging to be kissed.
Charles tried to pull himself out of this memory. This was not his place. This was Raven's memory, Raven's guilt, and he should not be listening.
He focused on the garden, on the trees, and did not think about the pulsing lights, and those fluttering wings, and after a while, they began to dissolve away, someone else's ghosts.
Further afield he could heard Hank, always thinking, always musing. Those who mocked Hank for being timid couldn't see into his mind, and see the lightning-fast connections leap from one idea to the next without ever stumbling.
Hank was writing a list in his thin, inelegant scrawl, the names of senators, of governors, and their phone numbers beside them. His thought process was awhirl - maybe an appearance at a convention? - need to rally public support now it's critical - humanise the issue - is it too soon to ask Raven? -
Charles was deeply familiar with this route, the long road of non-violence, of agitation and awareness. He did not wish to hear of it now.
Beyond Hank, beyond Raven, were the men and women patrolling the ground with their long black rifles and thick, bullet-proof vests. The state government had sent them out to the school, which was a potential target in their eyes.
Charles rankled at the idea that he could not keep his home and his students safe. If he wished to, he could toss those soldiers aside like used toys. He could force them to walk on their hands, to do backflips, to eat their own guns. They were nothing compared to what he could do.
He realised his knuckles were clenched tight around the arms of his chair, and he loosened his grip, and took a long breath. The offer of protection for the school was well-intentioned, he assured himself. It was symbolic of the state standing with them. There was no need to resent the soldiers' presence, even if he was the only one who could feel their repulsion at Raven's skin.
It grew dark around him before Charles was nearly ready to come back. It was truly cold by then in the shadows of the trees, by the newly turned soil underneath. The voices had begun to quieten now, as people began to put their minds to rest, to come home and to let their anger and grief ease.
He knew that students who were left would be cooking in the kitchen now. They had banded together in bravery, taking turn to make dinners that they had had at home, for that sense of comfort. Charles had no appetite since everything, and yet he wanted to be in the kitchen with them, under the bright lights with the fire alarm intermittently ringing out, to smell the pasta burning into the bottom of the pan.
He remembered the summer that Erik cooked him German dishes in that pan every night, and he had to close his eyes again.
It was too dangerous for Erik to show up on the property right now. Charles knew that. The military presence alone would only cause trouble, but also Erik was wanted for connection to shadier groups, for the gun-running rumours.
Charles rolled his chair towards the house, where there was food waiting for him, and people who needed him. He tried not to listen out for Erik's footfall, for his voice behind him, the feel of his hand on his shoulder. He had a home without him now.