Summer 1963
When Erik woke the next morning, his head felt clear, and he came awake cleanly and sharply, the sunlight startling him until he remembered the floor boss had told him to take the rest of the shift off. That gave him a full week before he had to go back to work. He would have time to go to Mitch's funeral, and gather himself up for work again. He remembered thrashing about in a guilt-stricken panic after Mitch died, trying desperately to get to him though it was clearly too late, a couple of men finally restraining him and dumping him in the floor boss's office and then throwing a bucket of water over him to snap him out of it. He hadn't mentioned that to Charles.
Charles. Last night. Erik stretched and sat up. He'd finally talked about Vietnam. Charles should be happy about that, though he might not be so happy about everything else that had happened last night. He had a recollection of throwing Charles to the floor when the upstairs neighbor had hit the ceiling.
Yesterday seemed very far away and close by at the same time. Erik frowned thoughtfully and puzzled out the problem. He didn't feel much about yesterday - Mitch's death, the series of flashbacks to Vietnam and the torrent of guilt when the dam broke felt very sterile right now, as if those events had happened to someone else. But every detail was sharp in his mind. The thoughts were all still there, while the emotions were largely spent and gone in the flood. The ones that remained weren't overwhelming, the pain duller than he expected, something other than the open wound that they'd been whenever he touched them in the past. It was a refreshing sort of clarity, and he hoped it would stay like this. He could handle memories as long as the feelings stayed muted.
The apartment smelled like hash browns and toast. He got out of bed and pulled on the first clothes he could find that didn't smell like the steel factory to get out to the kitchen. Charles never got the hash browns crispy enough. When he tried, he burned them.
Charles was dressed in a pullover and jeans, which was unusual for this time of the morning. He typically stayed in pajamas until nearly lunchtime. Come to think of it, it was unusual for Charles to be out of bed this early at all. "Morning," Erik said.
Charles startled and dropped the pancake turner he was using to stir the hash browns. Erik retrieved it and took over at the stove. Charles wouldn't make eye contact, and set the table instead. He was moving cautiously, Erik noticed, holding onto the counter when he could and walking stiffly.
They didn't talk again until breakfast was on the table, and even then the conversation was limited to polite things like 'pass the jam.' Erik wondered why Charles didn't bring up all the things he'd talked about last night. It wasn't until Charles had to practically haul himself out of his chair by leaning on the table that Erik realized what was wrong.
"Does your back hurt?"
"Yes, Erik," Charles replied, biting off the words, "I was rather forcefully bent backward over a chair yesterday while being shouted at in German. Yes, my back hurts."
The toast turned to sand in his mouth. "I hurt you?"
"Yes, Erik," Charles said, his voice shaking. "You didn't even notice you hurt me, did you? You selfish bastard! You didn't even notice!"
Erik stood up to pull Charles into an apologetic hug, but Charles was backing away from him, his eyes wary even as he fought to keep the tears back. "Don't touch me!"
"Charles, I'm sorry."
Charles turned away from him, taking deep breaths and forcing himself not to cry.
Erik just stood there, feeling ashamed and useless. "You should have said something last night."
"With all that was happening to you? There was no room for me to say anything about myself, there never is. I know you didn't do it on purpose, but you've scared me these last two days, differently than you usually scare me. Usually I'm scared of you because you're yelling at me and I'm afraid you're going to get mad enough to hit me someday, but last night was new. Last night, I was scared you wouldn't even know it was me if you hurt me."
Stunned, Erik watched Charles struggle to hold the tears back. Charles was scared of him? He would never hurt Charles. Even when he was yelling at Charles, he was just trying to get him to stay away from Vietnam and other things that could really hurt him. Except Charles had just said Erik had hurt him, scared him too. With Erik's own emotions at bay, he could better consider what he had put Charles through. Yesterday, which had been such a cathartic release for Erik, had traumatized Charles. In this new clarity full of thoughts that weren't overpowered by feelings, Erik could see it now, and he wondered how he'd missed it yesterday.
"I offered to leave," Erik said lamely.
At that, Charles did start to cry, horrible jerky sobs because he was trying so hard not to. "You knew I wouldn't let you leave. You knew I'd do anything to get you to stay. What if you'd left, Erik? What would you have done? Would I be calling hospitals right now, looking for you? Would the police have picked you up after you attacked someone? Would I be reading the newspaper, searching for a story about an unidentified Vietnam vet who jumped in the river?"
Erik stared at Charles in shock. He'd thought he was giving Charles a choice, and instead he'd essentially blackmailed him into tolerating that outburst to get Erik to stay. Of course Charles would have assumed the worst when Erik offered to leave.
"I already called Dr. Swann. You're to call him at 11:00. He's blocked out an hour to talk to you. If you won't go to Bellview, you talk to him on the phone," Charles said. "I've got some errands to run; I'll be gone most of the day."
Charles was so bad at lying.
"You stay home, Charles. Take care of your back. I'll leave," Erik suggested.
"Don't you threaten to leave! Don't you ever! After what I did last night to get you to stay, you do not leave!" Charles yelled at him. "If I want to kick you out, I bloody well will, but you don't leave unless I say!"
Erik nodded, dumbstruck. He'd done it; he'd broken Charles. "I'll stay, I promise."
Charles wiped his face on his sleeve, swallowed a couple of aspirin and then stuffed the entire bottle into his canvas satchel and left. His last words were, "if you don't call Dr. Swann at 11:00, then move out!" He slammed the door behind him.
Erik sat there, stunned. The oddest thing was that he couldn't get lost in his head. He was acutely aware of everything around him. After a while, he cleaned up breakfast and then made stew, killing time until the telephone call.
At 11:00 sharp, Erik called Dr. Swann.
"I got Charles' version of events already. You tell me what happened," Dr. Swann said.
Erik described Mitch's death, his failed attempt to save his life, fading in and out of Vietnam on the bus ride home, and then the evening with Charles. Saying it out loud drove home to him Charles' point of view, and how Erik's unpredictability and instability would have terrified him. Once Erik had made a full confession of how he had jerked Charles around physically and mentally, he went on to tell Dr. Swann about the dam bursting, and the catalogue of Erik's guilt. He thought Dr. Swann would have something to say to help him with his guilt, but instead Dr. Swann turned the conversation back on him.
"Where do we go from here, Lehnsherr?"
"Sir?"
"This dam of yours; it's survivor's guilt," Dr. Swann went on. "You've got to find a way to process the guilt, or the dam is going to fill back up. You want that to happen? No, you don't. I can't get you in here to talk to me. What are you going to do? If you want to do this your way instead of my way, then you better have an idea because now you've seen the result of what you've been doing."
Dr. Swann was mad at him; Charles was upset with him. It really made Erik sit up and take notice. You selfish bastard. How many times had people tried to help him? If he'd accepted that help, could he have avoided the breakdown last night?
"I'll come up with an idea," Erik promised him. He still could not face going back to Bellview, not even as an outpatient.
"I've got another appointment coming in, I've got to go. Charles isn't coming home until you've told me your idea, so call me back once you think of it," Dr. Swann said.
"You're in touch with Charles today?"
Dr. Swann huffed out a laugh. "He sure talks a lot once he realized he didn't need to be scared of me."
Erik's heart broke. Yes, his dear lover was chatty when he wasn't terrified, and Erik craved the sound of his voice, even if Charles wanted to yell at him some more. "Tell him how sorry I am."
"This isn't about how sorry you are, and it isn't about Charles forgiving you. This is about rebuilding trust, and that's going to take time, and a really good idea to get rid of all this guilt you're holding onto," Dr. Swann said. "My secretary has orders to put your call through even if I'm with another patient. Don't make me wait too long."
"Yes, sir."
Erik stared at the receiver for a few minutes before he hung up the phone and wandered aimlessly into Charles' room where he sat down on his bed. The painted map of Middle-Earth that Erik had given Charles last Christmas took up most of the wall next to the window, where the light was the best. There were a few cardigans on the floor that had apparently been there since last winter, dirty socks, a stack of paperback books next to the bookshelf rather than on it, and various school papers scattered on the desk and floor. The window seat had green cushions, and green and blue curtains. Charles had painted his walls a warm hue of light brown, and hung a few sports pennants and some landscape prints that he liked. The room was sloppy, cozy and welcoming. Erik wondered why he was so uptight about Charles being messy when it was so much more comfortable than the Army corners that Erik lived in.
Charles' room was colorful, but with pastels and blended colors rather than the bright, sharp contrasts that Erik preferred. Charles had filled his life with color. I could lose all this. That had never really hit him before. He'd taken Charles for granted, assuming that the kind man would put up with anything. That assumption had been tacit permission for Erik to act badly.
Charles' threat to kick him out shook him up. He remembered the wistful look on Dale's face and had a sudden vision of himself, living alone, hoping to find a hookup in a bar once in a while to ease the loneliness. Being alone recalled the isolation of Bellview, even the POW camp, and Erik's insides shuddered at the horror of being alone ever again. Living with someone he cared about was a privilege, though, not an entitlement. If he wanted a life with Charles, he was going to have to earn back his trust. And the first thing he needed to do was come up with an idea to keep the dam in his head from filling back up, so Charles would come home.
It took some thought, but Erik finally called Dr. Swann and explained his idea.
"That could work," Dr. Swann allowed. He asked a few more questions, made a few suggestions, and pushed Erik to think through all the steps and details. "I want to hear from you every other day for an update." They scheduled an appointment.
Erik got to work, so he would be ready by the time Charles came home. His thoughts were still bright and clean, without the tarry weight of too much emotion.
Charles came home about 4:00, his eyes still wary of Erik. He wasn't walking as stiffly as he had that morning. There were more books in the canvas bag than when he'd left this morning - Erik suspected he'd gone to the library rather than to Raven's or Moira's house where someone would ask questions.
"I'm sorry, Charles."
"Yes, I know," Charles said, staying across the room from Erik. He didn't say it was all right; he didn't say not to worry about it; he just let the apology hang there. "Dr. Swann said you had an idea."
"I don't do well talking, Charles. But I can write." Erik held out a letter and Charles came close enough to him to take it. "Would you please read it out loud. Then I'm going to burn it."
Charles skimmed through the letter, and when he glanced up at Erik, it seemed his expression was a little more open, though that might have been wishful thinking on Erik's part. Charles read the letter aloud.
Dear Private Darwin,
I wrote a nice letter to your parents, and told them you didn't suffer. I lied. I hope you can forgive me from whatever afterlife you're living in. I didn't want to describe the shrapnel. If there'd just been one or two pieces, I think you might have made it. But you caught the brunt of that shell. Did you know Masterson was behind you? You shielded him. It was unintentional, but I wanted to make sure you knew you saved someone's life. At least for a while. Masterson died later. I don't think there was anything I could have done to save your life, other than leaving you back at camp. I'm sorry, Darwin. I'm sorry that I lived and you didn't. Please forgive me.
With respect,
Staff Sergeant Erik Lehnsherr
By the time Charles' British accent had finished transforming the agony of Erik's guilt into something that could exist in this world without seeming as monstrous as it really was, Erik's face was wet with tears, the pain and guilt of Darwin's death peeled off cleanly from the flood that had drowned him last night.
Charles waited while Erik grieved, his blue eyes serious. Erik cried for a few minutes, the tears he couldn't shed in Vietnam because grief could distract him and get him killed. When at last he could breathe evenly again, he held out his hand for the letter.
Erik lit a fire, even though it was summer, and fed the letter into the fire on his knees, then stood and saluted the blaze while the fire transformed his apology into ash and smoke and carried it away.
Across the room, Charles watched without comment. His silence surprised Erik. He was used to Charles trying to pry into his feelings. "Aren't you going to ask me how I feel?"
"No, I'm not," Charles replied quietly. "Whenever I did that, you would yell at me and refuse. I found those experiences to be rather humiliating. If you want to tell me how you feel, you can, but I'm not going to ask anymore."
Erik rubbed his face. Of course he'd seen the pain in Charles' expression and knew he'd hurt his feelings, but that had seemed to be better than talking to him about Vietnam. "I couldn't answer your questions, Charles. Soldiers aren't supposed to have feelings, much less talk about them."
"You could have said as much. You didn't need to yell at me."
"I'm sorry, Charles."
"Yes, I suppose you are," Charles answered. He sat there for another minute while the silence stretched between them, then picked up his bag of books and went in his room, shutting the door behind him.
The next day, Erik asked for permission to leave the apartment to attend Mitch's funeral.
"I didn't mean you had to be a prisoner, Erik. Of course you can go to the funeral. When will you be home?"
Erik told him.
"Will you still write a letter today?"
"Yes."
Mitch's funeral was brief and perfunctory. It seemed unfair to Erik that there were so few people to grieve Mitch. Most of the men from his shift at the steel factory came, but almost no friends and family, just a couple of neighbors. It appeared that Mitch was largely alone, and Erik felt sobered by the reality that not everyone was loved.
After the funeral, Erik got some more thoughts down on paper. He asked Charles when he would have time to read it with him, and Charles said after dinner, so Erik waited. After another silent meal, Erik handed Charles the letter.
Dear Corporal Azazel,
We joked that you were a magician, the way you could appear and disappear. That's what made you such a good radioman - you could flicker in, send the transmission, and then have the radio disassembled and flicker right back out. I honestly thought you were going to survive the entire war. I couldn't find you when the shooting broke out. I still don't know how you ended up behind all of us. I didn't find your body until after it was all over. I don't think your death was my fault but I wish I could have saved you somehow. You know what, Azazel? You would have made a good sergeant. I wish you'd lived long enough to get promoted. I'm sorry, Azazel. I'm sorry that I lived you and didn't. Please forgive me.
With respect,
Staff Sergeant Erik Lehnsherr
Erik buried his face in his hands while Charles' British accent worked its magic. Somehow, the agony that had nearly drowned Erik sounded civilized, like a sorrow that could become part of this world, rather than a barrier that kept him out. When he finished crying, Charles handed him the letter, and Erik fed it to the fire, saluting the fallen soldier. Charles stood next to him this time, his hand over his heart, his own face streaked with tears.
The third day, Erik wrote the letter in the morning. This one was about Jaspers, who had stepped on a landmine. Charles read it, and the two of them grieved together and then burned the letter. Charles didn't ask any questions. He still didn't ask Erik how he was feeling; he didn't ask if this was helping; he didn't make any comments at all other than to read the letters and cry with him. It gave Erik space, but it also worried him that Charles was pulling away from him. He knew it would be best if he talked about his feelings, but these letters were as much as he could handle right now. He settled for another option.
"Charles? Is your back feeling better today?"
"Yes, thank you."
"I would like to go work out at the YMCA. Would you come with me?"
"I don't usually go . . ." Charles trailed off.
"Please." Then Erik realized he actually could say something, even if it was just to say he couldn't talk as much as Charles wanted. "I know I should talk more, I know you want that, but these letters are all I'm capable of just yet. I want to spend time with you. Please come with me." He forced himself to look Charles in the eye as he said all that, even though his instinct was to look away self-consciously. He was rewarded by a glimmer of surprise and a flash of hope in Charles' eyes. It appeared he'd said the right thing.
"Alright," Charles agreed.
They spent a couple of hours together at the YMCA. Erik showed Charles the basics of boxing, got him to throw a few punches and practice some footwork. Then he put Charles through a workout with the weights. Charles stuck with him, even though Erik could tell he was not used to this much physical activity.
"Want to come back tomorrow?" Erik offered.
"I think I do," Charles said.
Erik almost made a comment about how much he liked watching Charles sweat in a tanktop and shorts, and then thought better of it.
That set their pattern for the next few days. Erik would get up early to write the letter. Charles would read it, then they would go to the gym together and burn off the tension and energy of what Erik was putting both of them through. Erik complimented Charles on sticking with the difficult workouts. He hadn't expected his sedentary friend to throw himself into weights and boxing so enthusiastically.
On the day Moira phoned to say she was coming for tea, Charles suggested waiting and asking Moira to be part of their ceremony. Erik thought about it, and then agreed. The three of them had a good conversation with their tea; Moira asked several questions, drawing him out in that serious and quiet way that made Erik talk more than he expected. Moira grieved with him that evening while Charles read about Peter's death. The Vietcong had stabbed Peter in the ribs before Erik could shout a warning, and if he'd been paying better attention, he would have seen the Vietcong sneaking up on them. Peter, whose quicksilver feet had never lost a foot race to anyone else in their unit, hadn't even had a chance to run.
The letter concluded with the line that was creeping into every letter he wrote: I'm sorry, Peter. I'm sorry that I lived and you didn't. Please forgive me.
Moira wept the entire time the letter burned, with Erik holding his salute for the fallen soldier.
"Erik, forgive my question, but do you really feel that Peter would be upset that you survived and he didn't?" Moira asked after the letter was consumed into ash.
Erik thought about it, making the effort to untangle one emotion from the tangled mass of pain. "I feel that he should be upset. There was no reason that he should die and I should live. Peter should be angry at the injustice of it. Why me? Why not him?"
"You're angry at the senselessness of it all," Charles said.
That put words to Erik's anger and guilt. The war made no sense; the pattern of death made no sense. Of course he was angry about it. It helped him redefine his guilt as anger at the senselessness of it all, rather than feeling guilty because he might have traded places with someone and saved a life that way. If he had died, it would have simply added one more soldier to the death toll. His death wouldn't have saved anyone else. It eased Erik's guilt a bit.
Erik talked through the idea with Dr. Swann in his next phone call. He was still calling in to Dr. Swann twice a week when he was off-shift; Charles talked to him once a week. Dr. Swann listened, and then told him that many of the soldiers he worked with struggled with anger at how the death and violence made no sense. It didn't answer Erik's questions, but it felt better to know other soldiers had the same issues. The sense of isolation eased.
Raven and Hank came for dinner one Sunday night. After some thought, Erik agreed to ask them if they wanted to stay to hear about Blekins. He wasn't surprised that Raven wanted to stay, but he was surprised that Hank agreed without argument. Blekins had died of a shot to the belly, a particularly painful death. Raven cried noisily while Charles read the letter and then Erik burned it. Erik felt that it was appropriate that someone would grieve Blekins so deeply. Even Hank's eyes moistened.
Later, when they were saying goodbye, Raven hung onto Erik and cried some more. The handshake with Hank turned into a shoulder bump and smack on the back, the most attention he'd ever had from Hank. Hank even said "take care" before he left with Raven, who was still telling Erik how much she loved him and was sorry for every single thing he'd ever been through.
For a week or so, Erik felt so drained and empty at what he was doing that he allowed himself to hope that he would never feel anger or despair again. He was wrong, of course. As days passed, the emptiness began filling back up with ordinary life, including the emotions he struggled with. The anger flared when he read a newspaper editorial praising draft dodgers. Erik had his own opinions about the politics of the war, but it made him crazy with anger when people aimed their disapproval at the soldiers. Erik didn't even have the excuse of the draft. He'd joined voluntarily and re-enlisted voluntarily, but his decisions had nothing to do with politics. That editorialist would probably look Erik right in the eye and say he'd gotten exactly what he deserved. On one level, Erik agreed with him, and he couldn't handle the fact that he'd brought all this suffering upon himself.
Charles was backing away from him even before Erik had thrown down the newspaper. Erik suddenly realized how much was at stake right now. If Charles was ever going to trust him again, he had to be trustworthy. Plus, he was going to have to talk to Dr. Swann about this tomorrow, and the thought snapped into place that he wanted to handle this well. Dr. Swann kept hammering on him that it wasn't about his feelings, it was about how he handled his feelings. Charles wasn't asking him about his feelings anymore, so Erik knew he would have to volunteer an explanation.
"Charles," Erik said, bent almost double with his head on his knees and hands twisted into his hair. "I'm angry about a newspaper editorial. I don't want to yell at you. I'm going to go in my room and read a novel. Please don't ask me what's wrong; I can't talk about it right now."
"Alright," Charles said, and that was all he said.
"I want to take a tranquilizer later tonight, if you want to make sure I've got one." Charles had his tranquilizers hidden under the cushion of his window seat in a paper sack, but it made him feel better to think Erik only had access to one pill at a time, so Erik didn't insist he put them back. He hadn't meant to find out Charles' hiding place, but Charles was about as sneaky as a puppy.
"Alright," Charles said again.
It worked out exactly as Erik hoped. He got through the entire evening separate from Charles so he wouldn't yell at him, then took a tranquilizer. The next day he told Dr. Swann how he'd handled his anger, and felt a swell of pride when Dr. Swann told him he was making progress.
Progress was slower than he would have liked, but Erik didn't try to force himself to go faster than he could handle. With time, he let the nightmares dictate the letters. Several days a week he slept without nightmares and without tranquilizers. Then his mind would dig up the next thing he felt guilty about and send him a nightmare. Erik stopped thinking of the nightmares as an enemy and started thinking of them as a scared child asking for help in making sense of it all. Now that he was paying attention and trying to help, the nightmares became part of the healing process rather than a signal of failure.
Still, it took several days of nightmares about Logan before he could get that apology down on paper. He didn't want to share it with Charles - their relationship being as fragile as it was right now - but it also seemed wrong to keep anything from him. Erik eventually decided to take the risk.
Dear Logan,
You weren't very good at playing chess, but I was impressed that you were willing to learn. It helped with the loneliness to have someone I could spend time with like that. I know the sex we had was about that too, the companionship and comfort of having someone else who gave a shit about us. You helped keep me from falling apart and I never thanked you for that.
Here, Charles looked up from the letter. "Logan was your lover?"
"Not the way you are Charles. It wasn't a full relationship, just sex when neither of us could stand the world anymore."
Charles looked back down at the letter. "Did you tell him about me?"
"Logan wasn't really the type for long, thoughtful conversations."
"Do you prefer that type? I know I'm chatty."
"No, I prefer you. If you weren't chatty, you never would have included that first letter with the care package, and we never would have met." Erik searched Charles' face, hoping for a clue about how Charles felt. It was rare that he didn't know what Charles was thinking, but these past couple of months had hidden Charles from him and Erik missed him.
Charles just nodded and went back to the letter.
When I heard the bullet, I dropped to the ground by instinct. I didn't know you were standing right behind me. For a long time, I felt so guilty that I'd saved my life at the cost of yours. You're the only soldier that I honestly think I could have traded places with, and died in your place. Now I wish I'd knocked you down with me and saved us both, because I don't wish I'd died anymore. Life has become precious to me. I wish I'd told you about Charles. When you died, I destroyed the chess set he'd sent me. It was like I lost both of you at once. I was so angry and confused that I decided to re-enlist.
Charles looked up again. "Logan's death is the reason you stayed over there, Erik? If you'd come home, you never would have been captured."
"Yes, I know," Erik said quietly.
"You must have loved him on some level."
"I did," Erik admitted. "Not like you, but he got under my skin more than I wanted to admit at the time."
Charles took a minute to process that. "I would never begrudge you any bit of happiness or comfort you could find over there, but I do wish you hadn't re-enlisted."
I'm sorry, Logan. I'm sorry that I lived and you didn't. Please forgive me.
With respect,
Staff Sergeant Erik Lehnsherr
After Erik burned the letter, he waited a few minutes, hoping Charles would ask a question or say anything at all. "Thank you for telling me about Logan," was all Charles said, and then he went to the kitchen table to work on something he was getting ready for school, which started in a month.
Erik got his newspaper and sat down on the couch. Charles didn't lean up against him when he read the paper anymore, and Erik missed him fiercely. Every so often he turned a page, but he wasn't really understanding anything. He turned another page, then folded up the newspaper and joined Charles at the kitchen table.
Charles looked up from where he was coloring planets with a marker.
"Need some help?"
Charles handed him a red marker and a circle labeled 'Mars.'
"Do you mind if I draw in Olympus Mons?"
"Knock yourself out," Charles said, nodding at the stack of markers and colored pencils.
Erik started sketching in the volcano. "Charles, it helps when you read those letters. I've had all this guilt locked up in my head with all those people for so long. That's the dam. You're keeping the dam from filling back up. It's your voice, that British accent, maybe it's how much I love you, but once you've read one of those letters out loud, it's like the guilt and pain can become part of the world outside of me, instead of locked in my head. You're a bridge, you always have been."
"Thank you," Charles said, looking up from where he was coloring Neptune blue, a brief sheen of tears in his eyes. "What do you mean, I'm a bridge?"
Erik used the eraser to smudge some of the pencil lines to shade the base of the volcano. "Between my world and your world."
"Explain, please."
Charles had been a bridge for so long that somehow Erik had assumed that the image made as much sense to Charles as it did to him and he had to search for words. "You live in this world full of colors, where people are normal and life makes sense. I belong in a grayed out world. It's like I've got my face pressed up against a window, watching the happy normal people inside the room, and I wish I was in there with them, but there isn't any way to get in. Then I start thinking that I don't belong in there anyway. If I got in, I would ruin things for everyone. There's something so dangerous about me that I have to stay outside to keep everyone else safe."
Charles stopped coloring Neptune. Erik kept his head down, and decided he wanted to draw an eruption. He picked out the red, yellow, orange and black colored pencils and started sketching. "Sometimes when I would yell at you, it was to try and get you away from me for your own protection, like if you got too close I would contaminate you and ruin you too. Other times it was because you were trying to drag me into that world of colors, and I knew I didn't belong there, so I was yelling in self-defense because I have to stay outside where it's gray enough to be someone like me."
"You live in a different world because you love this one too much to risk harming it with your presence," Charles said.
Erik looked up in surprise and got caught in those deep blue eyes.
Charles went on. "Somehow it seems that you're powerful enough that you could do real damage if you tried to be part of the world full of the people you love. It's a contradiction, really. On one hand, you know you're less than everyone else - less loved, less important, even less human, maybe a different species entirely. But on the other hand, you're so powerful that if your pain soaked into their world it would poison all of them and then you wouldn't even have the promise of a better world existing somewhere just out of reach of someone like you."
"Are you reading my mind?" Erik asked in awe.
"No, I'm telling you how I felt during those years when my stepfather would beat me. I had to soak up all the pain to keep Raven safe. It wasn't just the beatings, you know, it was my mother's emotional abandonment too when she crawled inside that bottle. I was less than human and so I deserved the beatings and abandonment, but I was also my sister's savior, and for that to work I had to keep my pain out of her world in fear that it would destroy her if she knew about it. I've had to live in that other world too, Erik, but mine was silent instead of gray."
Erik dropped the colored pencils and violently pushed away from the table and began to pace. It was wrong, what Charles had just said was so terribly wrong he couldn't stand to have the words hang in the air like that. He was conscious of Charles watching him silently, and he hoped he would remain silent. There was an anger building in Erik that he didn't understand and he didn't want to aim it at Charles.
"I offered you understanding, Erik, why would you reject that?" Charles asked quietly.
Erik was too agitated to think.
"If you need to do some push-ups, go ahead. I've noticed how much you need physical activity when you're trying to process the thoughts inside that handsome head of yours."
That wasn't a bad suggestion, actually. Erik did push-ups until his anger crystallized into words and then he just stayed sitting on the floor where he was as he voiced them. "You shouldn't understand me. You shouldn't be anything like me. Ever since your letters started coming, you were an oasis, safe from Vietnam. Your letters, the idea of you, created a safe space for me to be human again. When my life was entirely Vietnam, it crushed the humanity out of me. Then there was you, uncontaminated by Vietnam and all the things I can't deal with. Charles, I need you to be that oasis. If you understand . . . ." Erik trailed off. If Charles understood him, it would mean Erik had contaminated him. Or wait, his stepfather had contaminated him. Whatever had done it, the idea that someone as pure and happy as Charles understood the echoing depths of pain in Erik's life threatened to pull Charles out of that world of colors and into Erik's world.
"I'm not an oasis, Erik, as much as you might like to think of me like that. If there are people whose lives have never been contaminated by pain, I've never met one, though some people seem like that until you get to know them and hear their stories. If I am a bridge, it's because I'm anchored in both your world and mine. An oasis isn't a bridge, now is it it? I can't be both; I'd rather be the bridge. Believe me when I tell you that there are plenty of people like you on the other side of that window you're pressing your face against, Erik. You're not as different as you think you are."
That tangled mass of pain clotted Erik's tongue again and he couldn't speak. The anger was dissolving into tears, but whether they were tears of disillusionment or hope was a mystery to him.