A Year From Now, We'll All Be Gone

by goosenik

Charles Xavier is seventeen when he is abducted and taken to Sebastian Shaw's 'school' for young mutants, a pretty name for a torture facility created to churn out living weapons in his army. Erik Lensherr has already been there for seven years. They've been stripped of their names, but they can't be stripped of who they are. That's not, however, for lack of Shaw's trying.

6. Chapter 6: Erik, 2007

Chapter 6: The Price of Defiance- Erik, 2007

It was a good thing that Twelve was shielding Erik's mind, Erik thought later. In the wake of the evening in the observatory, his mind was all over the place. He just kept reliving touching Twelve for the first time, the way he'd trusted him with his body and his most precious possession, the ease of doing even complex things like creating the bracelet when he had someone like that to do it for, to show the extent of his gifts. Those kinds of things had never been easy, but having Twelve's unwavering faith and interest had helped immensely.

When he wasn't overwhelmed by the sensory memories, or considering what his power had been able to do, he was thinking a lot about how Twelve loved him.

It was difficult to believe, in many ways. Twelve was a beautiful, brilliant, kind, incredible person who deserved the absolute best of life. Erik didn't have the ability to give him that. Even supposing they got out of here somehow, Erik had no money and few skills with which to help Twelve make a living. He'd have to start back in junior high to catch up, god forbid. Or at least go to high school. Erik wasn't certain what the policies were, btu he knew he probably had to at least test out of certain subjects, and there were some that he wasn't up to par on.

But the reality of the shared connection they'd had, the way it had broken open their shields, ensured that there was no way to misunderstand. Twelve loved him, as unbelievable as it was, and as undeserving as Erik was, it was true. Erik loved him, and Twelve loved Erik, somehow. It felt like a balloon in his stomach, sometimes painful because it made him so happy and he was so unused to being happy, but usually it was just buoyant and filled with joy like helium. Every night that they managed to steal time away for a chess game, every time he walked into the room and Twelve's eyes lit at his presence, every time Twelve whispered Erik as Erik's hands and mouth memorized his scars, dug the reality of this knowledge deeper into Erik Lensherr's heart.

His mind flickered back to the story Twelve had read to them, to the way the fox had spoken to the little prince. Taming someone, the fox had explained, changed them irrevocably. He had spoken of how the wheat would always remind him of the prince, of how he could never look at the color gold the same way again.

Blue would never just be blue again, Erik understood quite simply. Tea would never smell like just tea, but instead would bring him back to leaning against the counter, watching Twelve prepare drinks for them. Chess would always remind him of long fingers, of sweaters and stacks of ancient books. The world would never, so long as Erik lived, be as simple and plain as it had been before. All of these things had been changed irrevocably because he had been changed. Because he had been tamed.

He was wildly, stupidly, ridiculously in love with a boy whose name he didn't know, and they needed to get out so he could find a way to build a life for both of them that Twelve and Erik would both enjoy. Because like hell he was going to let them live out whatever remained of their lives here, under Shaw's thumb.

He'd had a particularly exhausting session one day (Shaw had wanted him to flip a traincar) and had barely gotten to see Twelve, only glimpsing him on his way to bed. Twelve had set the chessboard aside and firmly ordered him to sleep, waving off Erik's tired attempts to make casual conversation. "You need to rest," he pressed, covering Erik's mouth with his hand. "Go to sleep, I'll see you in the morning."

Erik argued for a few minutes, but finally did, falling directly into nightmares.

"You have great power, Erik." Sebastian Shaw rested a hand on his shoulder, dark eyes glittering. "And you could do great things with that power. That's all I want for you. I want you to be as strong as you can be, and the only way we can do that is if we push you. So I'm going to push you. It's not going to be easy, it's not going to be fun, but it's going to turn you into something magnificent. You're just going to have to be brave for me. You're thirteen, you're turning into a man already. You can be brave, can't you?"

Erik nodded quickly. "I can be brave," he agreed, wanting to make Mr. Shaw proud. "I try hard in school, my teachers push me and I do really good. Well." He corrected the mistake quickly. "I can learn, Herr Shaw."

"I know you can, my pet." He ruffled Erik's hair, fingers lingering there for a moment, and then he turned, waving a hand. The tall, muscled man at the door turned and opened it, and a tall girl with red hair and frightened eyes was brought in.

"So then," he said, pulling a knife from his pocket. "I'm going to throw these at her, and you're going to make sure they don't hit her. Sound good?"

The girl said something rapidly in a language Erik couldn't catch, clearly panicked at the sight of the knife, and the tall man grabbed her wrists, holding her still. Erik stared up at Herr Shaw, stumbling back. "Sir, no! No, I can't do that, What if I miss? What if I mess up?"

"Oh, little Lensherr, I trust you." He clapped him bracingly on the back. "I'll tell you what- I'll start far away and get closer. Let you warm up a bit."

He threw the knife. It hit the wall, too fast for Erik to even track. Shaw pulled out another knife. Erik tried this time, reaching a hand out as soon as he saw it, but it hit the wall again, this time close enough to the girl that she let out a small squeak. Shaw tutted disapprovingly, pulling out the third. Erik felt sick nervousness drumming through him, but raised a hand. He could get it, he could push it away and stop this. Surely this was just a test, it was just… it was practice. It wasn't real. The knife wobbled in the air, but hit her in the arm and the man's hand muffled her scream, still held her in place. Shaw held up the last knife, making eye contact with Erik, who felt sick.

"Last chance," he said gently, and then threw it.

It hit her square in the throat and she choked as blood spurted across the floor. The muscled man released he in disgust, letting her drop, and Erik stared at her, knees and hands shaking as he tried to form words, reaching out for her.

"Sir," he tried to say, but it came out more as a squeak. "Sir, I…" she was dead, and it was because he wasn't strong enough to stop something as little as a knife. She was dead, she would never be able to do anything again, he hadn't known her name or who she was, and now her parents wouldn't see her again and it was his fault...

"I know, I know." Shaw drew him into his side with a disappointed sigh. "You failed her. But maybe it wasn't the right circumstances, that's all. Maybe we need more of a personal motivation for you. How would you like to see your mother for a visit, hm?"

Erik woke up yelling, jumping out of bed at the touch of foreign hands. He grabbed the shadow, slammed it down on the bed with a hand around its throat, and fingers caught his shoulders.

Erik, Erik, it's me. You're safe, you're safe. It was a dream, it's never going to happen again, you'll never be put in that situation again. It's me, it was a dream.

Twelve didn't move otherwise, didn't even try to remove the hand from around his neck, just stroked Erik's shoulders, repeating his soothing words, and somehow that was the worst thing as Erik staggered back, hitting the wall as self-disgust and revulsion hit him. He had hurt Twelve, had attacked him without even thinking about it. All the metal in the room fell to the ground where it had been levitating, ready to strike, and Erik pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, staring at the dark figure he could barely see in the dim light given from the hallway. "Twelve?" His voice cracked, as it had in the dream. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he assured him softly, standing up and crossing to where Erik was standing. The light from the hallway hit his face there, illuminating the soft blue eyes and messy curls. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have touched you while you were having a nightmare, I just-" he reached for him, faltered. "I don't want to make it worse," he said lamely, uncertainly, hands hovering between them.

Erik took his hands, burying his face in Charles' palms. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I just… no one ever touches me when I'm having nightmares, I didn't know to tell you not to. I'm so sorry I hurt you."

"Don't be a fool, you didn't hurt me," he scoffed it, moving closer and catching Erik's shoulders. He pulled him back to the bed and pressed down on his shoulders until he sat. Then Charles climbed onto the bed, sitting behind him and hugging him from behind. "You choke like a girl," he offered, tone light and teasing.

Erik took a deep breath, closing his eyes and trying to focus, to settle himself. "I can still spear you with a fork," he said, trying for lightness as well. "Thank you for waking me up. I'm so sorry." He took in a deep breath again, then relaxed a little. "How did you know I was having a nightmare?"

"I wasn't asleep yet, I was reading and heard you." He pressed a kiss to the back of Erik's shoulder, hesitated there, then, "Erik, I'm… I'm so sorry about your mother. It wasn't your fault. You do know that?"

Erik let out another long breath. "It was. They were both my fault. I should have been able to stop them, it wasn't like lifting a person. A knife and a bullet, they're not even heavy. It's not even hard." Erik focused so he didn't start twisting all the metal in the room into corkscrews. "But I failed, and they're gone."

"You did not fail." Twelve's voice was aggressive, nearly violent, and a flicker of rage burst across Erik's mind before he realized that it wasn't his own. "Erik, you were a child. You were frightened. You had just manifested. That would be like- like ordering Ten to manifest a sword out of flame when she was a child, or telling me to-" he broke off for a moment, arms tightening where they were banded around Erik's shoulders. He was silent for a moment, then, "You had no idea how to control your abilities then. You could do it now, yes, you're experienced and practiced, you've almost mastered your gift. But it's like telling a child to write an essay in university-level vocabulary. They're going to fail because they simply don't know how to do it yet."

Erik turned slowly in Twelve's arms, resting his head against the shorter boy's, hugging him tightly. There were moments, here and there, where Twelve slipped and mentioned that his life had been harder than maybe he usually let on. It always made Erik feel sick. How anyone could mistreat this beautiful, wonderful boy, Erik would never understand. "I know that, logically. But it doesn't make the way I feel change at all." He slowly stroked Twelve's curls back, calming down a little. "I like that you get mad, and protective. I've never met anyone like you."

"To be fair, you've not had the opportunity to meet very high quality of people," he reasoned softly, anchoring a hand at the back of Erik's neck. "It wasn't your fault, Erik. It was Shaw's. He knew you would fail. He knew it would cripple you, he knew you would spend the rest of your life grieving and hating yourself for not saving them. He knew you would work that much harder afterwards so that you never felt weak or failed again. There was no way out, he didn't leave you one. The game was always fixed, my friend."

Erik smiled a little, closing his eyes again. It soothed him, somehow, that even though they were definitely more than friends, Twelve still called him 'friend.' It reminded him that their relationship hadn't really changed in the ways that mattered. "It's always so easy for you to see all these things, to make logic work." He shook his head, heart rate slowly lowering. "Next time I'm having a nightmare, just throw something at me or let me sleep. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if something happened to you because I was frightened."

"No," Twelve disagreed gently. "I will always wake you up, Erik. And it will always be with a gentle touch and your name. You've had enough cruelty for one life." He scooted back and laid down in Erik's bed, pressing himself against the wall. "Come on, come sleep."

"Throwing water on me isn't cruel," Erik protested, but curled up against Twelve anyway, resting his head on the pillow they always shared whenever Twelve snuck in. He was quiet for a while, sliding his hand beneath Twelve's shirt to rest his fingers against the skin beneath, just seeking comfort. "Thank you," he whispered into the younger boy's shirt, inhaling the warm tea and old book smell that Twelve always carried with him.

I will always come back for you. Twelve promised it easily and yet sincerely, tucking his head on top of Erik's. I'll keep an ear out for anyone who gets too close. Just rest, Erik. I'm not going anywhere tonight.

And this time, Erik's dreams were soft, sweet, and seamless.

They had a break after that, an odd period of a week before anyone was called. Twelve took up the given time with chess sessions and books, neverending questions about Erik's life and preferences. In odd moments, when they seemed to be alone and there was no one paying attention to them, Erik would catch Twelve, pulling him close for a quick kiss before separating and heading his own way. Sometimes, in the dead of night, Twelve would slip into Erik's room and curl into bed beside him. Sometimes they just fell back to sleep. Other times they'd kiss, hands exploring and minds focused solely on each other, rather than just survival.

Erik loved those tiny moments that they managed to sneak in between everything else that they were dealing with. The fear of discovery was strong, the awareness that they could be punished or killed very present, the fact that they were prisoners was undeniable… But Erik had someone, for the very first time in his life. He was as happy as he could be, and it was all because of Twelve.

Erik knew factually that these were the best few weeks of the last seven years of his life, all things considered. He felt like he was walking on air all the time, high above the fears that had weighed around his neck for so many years. Even when they weren't flirting or kissing, they were still spending time together, which is what mattered and what Erik enjoyed. Having Twelve to talk to, to laugh with, to discuss everything under the sun with, made a huge difference in the way that he saw the world around him. They argued endlessly about books and politics. Twelve updated him on the state of the world, detailing current affairs in Europe as well as America. Chess matches commenced daily, sometimes observed and commentated on by Ten. Erik was beginning to feel like he was where he needed to be: by Twelve's side, within arm's reach.

That feeling was terrifying. If he was walking on air, then he was constantly at risk to plummet, crashing through the air and into the earth like Icarus.

Those seven days passed in a beautiful blur, with all of these things and all of this beauty. On the eighth day, Emma came for Eleven, and Twelve… interfered.

"We don't know where she is," he said calmly, hands in his pockets. Eleven, who was curled up in her usual chair, didn't react to this. Emma started to laugh.

"Please, sugar. You think you can play this game with me?"

"What game?" Twelve arched an eyebrow at her. "We haven't seen her all day, I thought she was in her room." His tone was so light, so airy, but his eyes were focused sharply on Emma, small lines of strain evident in the tension of his shoulders and back. Emma's mockery seemed to waver slightly as she turned her head to look at the chair, and Twelve gripped the edge of the desk beside him, body trembling minutely. Erik wanted to run to him, support him, but he couldn't do anything right now, because it could distract him.

"She's here." But Emma didn't sound certain anymore, her eyes slowly moving across the armchair. Ten was sitting bolt-upright, staring at Twelve in open-mouthed disbelief. Erik was in equal shock, past the worrying way Twelve was standing. Twelve had never said anything to suggest that he was strong enough to do this, to fool Emma, of all people, and like this. Could he do this to anyone? It was absolutely fascinating, if it didn't worry Erik so much.

"We haven't seen her all day," Twelve repeated. "You may want to search the building."

Erik kept his thoughts as shielded and caged as he could, looking between them. He needed to protect Twelve, but he couldn't throw him off, couldn't disrupt this distraction that Twelve had created. He couldn't risk the retaliation that would follow.

Emma faltered, uncharacteristically off-balance for one more moment, then turned on her heel and vanished back into the hallway, her heels clicking away rapidly. Twelve dropped to a crouch, his hand loosely holding onto the desk for support.

"I wasn't inside her shields," he said, and it took Erik a moment to realize that Twelve must be answering Ten's unspoken question. "I was just… projecting. Very loudly." He reached up with his other hand, which was trembling, and pressed the edge of his sleeve to his nose as blood slipped onto his lips. "They'll realize the truth, I only stalled it."

"Twelve." Erik lunged forward, helping him sit quickly and pressing his sleeve to Twelve's nose. "Jesus, what did you do?" His heart pounded at the sight of Twelve's blood, something he hadn't actually seen before. "Are you okay? What hurts?"

Twelve nodded, though he tilted his head back very slightly. "No, you'll get blood on your shirt-"

"Here." Ten offered a tissue, clearly impressed despite herself, and Erik felt a flicker of gratitude as Twelve took it with a murmur of thanks, pressing it to his nose instead and sagging against him bonelessly.

He glanced up at Erik with a crooked, weary sort of smile. I couldn't stand by and watch her be hurt if I could stop it. He said the words just to Erik, stretching his long legs out in front of them. She's just starting to do a little better now and if they cut her up again, she'll go right back to being buried. If she makes it at all. I'm okay, it's just a bit of a strain.

Erik wanted to hit him. And if you give yourself a goddamn aneurism how does that help anyone? "I could give less of a shit about my shirt," he informed Twelve. "Where are you hurting?"

"It's just a headache, I'm fine," he assured him quickly, checking the tissue before pressing it to his nose again. He seemed paler, but he wasn't shaking as badly now. I've just never done that before, that's all. Really, Erik. "It's just an everyday nosebleed," he dismissed with his usual talent for weaving in and out of silent and verbal conversations on a whim. Erik could never determine if it was intentional, or even if Twelve fully knew he was doing it.

Erik searched his eyes, trying to determine if he was lying to help Erik feel better, or if he was telling the truth. "You need to be careful. Don't overdo it so much again, you'll hurt yourself and we don't have any healers here."

"All right," he agreed with his usual good nature, giving in easily enough that it made Erik that much more suspicious over his health.

He looked up at the surroundings, wishing that he could reach into the infrastructure and pull the whole goddamn thing down, then focused back on Twelve. "Have you bled like that before?"

"No." Twelve pulled the tissue away from his nose carefully. "I've never had to strain like that before. I couldn't access her mind, so instead I had to present my mind and image as so vivid and alluring it overwrote what her conscious eyes were seeing. I've never had to try before." He studied the blood on the tissue, then threw it away quickly. "It's nothing. I'm sure you've had similar when you push yourself."

I doubt you had to try very hard. You are always the most alluring thing in the room, Erik shot him, and had the pleasure of watching as Twelve coughed, choking somewhat on the water Ten had tossed him.

Twelve's point, however, was fair— Erik had bled from practically everywhere at some point; Shaw's pushing had a habit of getting very intense very quickly, and human or mutant bodies could only take so much stress before something broke. "It's not nothing, though. Take it easy now or you're going to have a migraine for a few days." He glanced at Ten. "Do you remember the time you couldn't even turn on a light for a week without throwing up?" He gave her a half-smile.

She scowled. "I'm better now. I haven't hit burnout for months."

"Of course not." The smile Twelve offered her was winning, another clear attempt in his endless campaign to get himself in her good graces. "You're far too experienced for that."

She snorted and looked away, a little pleased despite herself, and Twelve shot Erik a quick grin. He had taken it as a challenge when Erik had informed him that befriending Ten was an extremely slow process, and it warmed Erik's heart to see him trying so hard, and succeeding. "Yeah, it would be a shame if I got a migraine," he mused in a low voice. "I wouldn't be able to stay up late arguing with you about proper library organizational methods or the fact that you have abysmal taste in literature."

Erik glared at him. "My taste in literature is fine. There is nothing wrong with what I read. Not all of us have such high-brow tastes." And actually, he thought to himself, it would be a shame if they couldn't stay up late arguing or doing anything more fun. Arguing with Twelve was one of Erik's favorite things to do, right behind eliciting the whimpers he could sometimes get Twelve to make. He looked glorious when he was furious, for one, all flashing cerulean irises and flushed freckled cheeks, all beautiful 8anger and righteousness. For another, it was a good way of keeping his mind off his sessions, but Erik didn't particularly want to admit that. Twelve disliked references to his own weakness. He had very few, if any, in Erik's opinion, but he allowed Twelve to guide the conversation about it, most of the time.

"But Kafka is excellent!" Twelve stared at Erik now, eyebrows raising high. "You don't know what you're missing, you need to try it. Just one short story!"

"Oh my god, get a room," Ten grumped, braiding Eleven's hair, and Twelve, though his grin didn't diminish, looked faintly pink as his eyes flickered to Erik's lips. Erik had to fight very hard not to do the same thing. After a few minutes, Charles invited Erik into the library for a game of chess.

They barely made it through the door before they were kissing, Erik's hands pulling Twelve's shirt up over his head and onto the floor. He pressed him up against the nearest bookshelf and Twelve's leg wrapped around his waist, his hands eager and insistent on Erik's shoulders as Erik hiked up his other leg up around his waist, supporting his weight.

Life, Erik reflected as he bit down on Twelve's neck, resulting in that lovely soft, low whimpering noise and spasming fingers, had gotten terrifyingly wonderful in the past few months.

That night, while Erik waited for Ten and Eleven to fall asleep so that he could sneak to Twelve's room and debate with him, he read The Hunger Artist, by Kafka. It was unbelievably pretentious, and he mentally prepared his arguments against the short story, going so far as to making notes so Twelve's eyes wouldn't distract him from his arguments. It had happened before.

Book in hand, Erik started to Twelve's room, ready to sit and argue with him for a few hours about what did and did not constitute an 'excellent' author. While not quite as well-read as Twelve, Erik definitely had some forceful opinions of his own on the topic, and saying Kafka was one of the best authors in the last hundred years was absolutely ridiculous. Erik reached the door, stared at the room that sat beyond, and stopped short, confused.

Twelve wasn't there.

Erik glanced at his watch, feeling the usual mix of resentment that he relied on something that Shaw had given him and of relief that he even had a watch to use. It was one in the morning, Twelve should be in bed, should be waiting to talk to him and play chess and kiss like every night. Erik couldn't feel the metal of his bangle anywhere in the vicinity nearby and frowned harder, then headed for the library.

He couldn't shake the odd feeling of foreboding in his bones as he opened the door and scanned the bookshelves. Twelve wasn't tucked into the niche he had built himself out of stacks of books, and Erik didn't see him wandering through the shelves in search of some obscure novel that their ancient and moldering collection almost definitely didn't have. The foreboding intensified, Erik finding himself taking a small step back toward the hallway, and then he froze as the idea hit him like a battering ram.

They'll realize the truth. I only stalled it.

Shaw would be out for blood. Twelve had lied to Emma, had lied to him by extension.

Vicious multilingual swear words crashed together like thunder in Erik's mind as he turned on his heel, heading in a run toward the rooms where Shaw always took them. If Twelve wasn't here, that meant he was with them. Shaw had him, and that meant he was hurting. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, pounding like a drum just under his skin. Shaw had Twelve and he was angry, which was just about the worst sentence Erik could string together in any language.

That same nausea born out of fear for someone he cared about reared its ugly head and he put on speed, sprinting now. The doors he passed rattled in their frames, the casing on the lights shivering and crunching in on the lightbulbs as he sprinted down the hallway. He wasn't paying attention, angry and scared out of his wits.

Shaw appreciates strength, Erik reasoned with himself frantically as his feet beat against the ground. Surely Shaw would see the worth in the fact that Twelve had been strong enough to fool Emma. He would be furious, but he wouldn't kill Twelve, not yet, not for that… right? It was a sign of potential amongst the defiance, and Shaw craved nothing so much as potential.

But then, nothing infuriated him so much as defiance, either.

"Two," Emma's voice greeted Erik idly, and he skidded to a stop in front of her. She was lounging in a doorway, painting her nails with silver paint. The fact that she was waiting there for him made Erik's fear ratchet up another notch. "What are you doing out of bed?"

"Coming to see you." Erik quickly reordered his thoughts, trying not to completely panic, and definitely trying not to let Emma see his terror. He needed her to not be here, needed her to get out of the way, needed to be in front of Twelve and needed to be protecting him from whatever Shaw was doing in this moment. "We missed your face at dinner today, and I thought I would come by and see how your nails were doing."

Twelve where are you? He cast the words out, trying to keep his expression and stance steady. Twelve didn't answer. He hadn't ever not answered. Terrifying scenarios flashed through Erik's mind, making his legs shake. He had never not answered.

"My nails?" Emma eyebrows raised, her hip popping to the side. "Oh, honey, growing up here really didn't do wonders for your social skills, did it? And I can hear you projecting to him, it's not exactly subtle."

Erik could hear distant, muffled screaming, and his stomach tied itself in knots. He wanted to scream back, wanted to tear through everything in his way to get to Twelve. Nothing was going to be able to stop him, but he also knew what Emma could do. He needed to get her out of the way. "Emma, where is he? What are you guys doing to him?"

Emma watched him, her blue eyes so utterly incomparable to Twelve's. Hers were arctic while his were a Grecian ocean. "It's not a good idea, honey. You've been here seven years, you know they don't last. Why would you let yourself get attached? Just because he's cute and fantasizes that he's in love with you doesn't mean you have to reciprocate those affections. If you just applied yourself a little more, you could be out of here."

Erik stared at her for a moment, then peeled a door off the hinges and threw it at her without another thought, running through the now-open doorway toward the screams. He needed to stop it. He had to stop it, Twelve couldn't die now, he couldn't disappear now, Erik had just gotten him and he loved him and Erik should have known better, he'd seen what defiance did and he should have stuck with him all day. He should have warned him, he'd seen what happened when people challenged Shaw. Twelve, his Twelve, was alone with Shaw and Shaw was angry and they knew that Twelve loved him so they probably knew that Erik loved Twelve, too, and Erik had honestly never been more scared in his life.

Sebastian Shaw looked up in surprise as Erik burst into the room at a dead sprint. "Lensherr?" He asked, and it was really, truly, one of the only times Erik had ever seen him caught off-guard as Erik froze in place, taking in the scene as the floor dropped out under his feet and his head spun.

Twelve had gone silent, broken off into hoarse wheezing. His eyes were hidden with a bloody blindfold and he was laying on his stomach, his back bare and slick with blood. Shaw was holding a knife and oh god, Erik could see what looked like Twelve's spine through the cuts that had been ripped into his back, entire sections of skin missing. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Surprise changed to ice as Shaw set the knife down. Erik was immobile for a moment, the violence and hurt Twelve had to be feeling hitting him like a tidal wave.

What doing, why here, go back- Twelve's thoughts were disorganized and chaotic, splinters of pain and thought pushed clumsily at Erik. Go be safe, go back, please please please go be safe Erik please—

Terror gripped Erik- had Shaw blinded him? He'd badly hurt his back, Erik wasn't sure how he would get him out but would get there when it came to it- and then he lunged, sending instruments and knives and scalpels pelting Shaw, imbedding in his skin and drilling as deep as he could, driving him back as Erik reached for Twelve desperately. He needed to get him out of here. He'd ball up all the metal in the whole fucking building and throw it through a door or window or whatever he could find and he'd get Ten to help. They could burn through everything until they were free and they'd burn everything behind them-

And then the world went black with the clicking of a pair of heels.

"Erik, Erik." He woke slowly, Shaw's disapproving and somewhat-regretful voice dragging him from the depths. "You were meant to be so much more than this, my pet. I don't know where we went wrong, everything was coming along so well." His finger tapped Erik's forehead twice, lingering there.

Erik opened his eyes slowly, focusing on Shaw as fear swept back through him, hot and heavy. He couldn't see Twelve, he couldn't hear him. Twelve wasn't there, and last time Erik had seen him, he had been scared and bleeding all over the place. He couldn't feel the bracelet, the metal that he had become so intimately familiar with, he probably could have picked it out in a landfill buried under hundreds of pounds of trash.

"Where's Twelve?" Erik asked, desperate enough with fear and sickness not to even try to be circumspect. "It was a dare, we were practicing our powers and it was perfect, it worked out so well and we were going to tell you, sir." He hated more than anything the way he regressed when he was with him, a child terrified of what was coming, but he'd do anything, whatever Shaw wanted, to protect Twelve. Whatever he wanted, Erik would take care of it. He would do whatever horrible thing he wanted, he just wanted him safe and back in his arms.

Shaw sighed, looking down at Erik with something akin to regret. Erik's brain processed their surroundings slowly— they were in the basement, in the plexiglass room he had shown him only twice in the past seven years, each time a distinct and clear threat. He was lying on the ground, his hands in plexiglass cuffs in front of him, and Shaw was crouched beside him. He couldn't feel any metal in the room at all, nowhere near.

"Darling Erik, I could have believed that. I could have forgiven it, at least- you know how much I've always liked you." Shaw's fingers combed once through Erik's hair. He wanted to recoil, but he held frozen, too terrified for Twelve. "But you didn't lead with that, did you? You tried to kill me, my boy. You would have, had Emma not been around to stop you." He stood, straightening. "Such a betrayal to the man who made you, who gave you everything you are."

"No sir," Erik said fast, feeling his heart pounding hard enough that he was certain Shaw had to be able to hear it. He reached and couldn't feel any metal, just a tiny echo far above them. Without metal, he was powerless, no better than a human. He couldn't get his hands loose and Shaw wasn't telling him where Twelve was. Erik's head spun, his heart thundering violently under his skin. Twelve wasn't here and Shaw wasn't talking about him, and if there was metal anywhere near, he would have been pulling it all together, crunching it into a ball around him with his helpless fury and boundless fear. "No sir, it was just… just panic. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, but I was ashamed." He had no way to protect himself or anyone else, the way the room was laid out. "Sir, what happened to Twelve? It was practice, sir. Just practice, he didn't do anything wrong."

"He was clearly a bad influence on you," Shaw said, sighing heavily. "We put him down this morning. It was not quick." He shook his head. "If you hadn't attacked, this all could have been sorted out… but now the two of you have ruined everything. We'll have to clean house. Restart all of this from scratch."

Put him down this morning. Put him down this morning. Erik felt himself shaking as he stared up at Shaw, trying to understand. Twelve had been killed and it was Erik's fault because he knew how Shaw was, he knew Shaw was cruel and possessive, and Erik knew that it was a terrible idea to get that close to anyone. He'd known that for years and still he had pursued a relationship with Twelve, with that gorgeous, wonderful telepath who had captured his heart since the first time he had seen him. He had known that defiance would get Twelve hurt and yet he'd left him alone. He hadn't protected him. He never have left Twelve's side, he should have taken care of him.

Erik would never see those eyes light again, would never hear him laugh again. Erik would never argue with him about something stupid in one of his books, would never kiss him again. He would never wake up again to that insane hair and beautiful smile. He felt a sound escape him as it fully hit him that Twelve was dead because he, Erik, hadn't stopped him and then he'd left him alone… and then, Erik had attacked Shaw instead of talking him through it, using charm and logic like Twelve would have.

Well, maybe that wasn't true, he realized in a distant part of himself that would have almost been amused any other time. Twelve had always been ready to challenge Shaw, ready to snarl. He wouldn't snarl anymore, his countless arguments with Erik about who deserved respect all coming to naught.

And Erik still didn't even know his name.

"What was his name?" Erik squeezed his eyes closed, barely able to speak through the painful lump in his throat, to try and contain the shaking that was racking his frame. It took a conscious effort to keep his voice from cracking, but he wouldn't cry in front of Shaw, he wouldn't cry at all. He was a man, he wasn't a child. "Tell me his real name. It wasn't Twelve."

"No." Shaw's voice was sharp. "He was just a number, just a notch on the wall. Not important enough for you to memorialize or mourn, you pathetic fool. He doesn't matter to you enough to know his name. The only name you need is mine."

Erik yanked on his bonds, baring his teeth at Shaw. "You've taken everything else, give me that. It's not anything to you, what the fuck does it matter if I know his name? He's gone. Give me his name!" His voice rose, cracked, and he shut my mouth quickly, trying to get hold of himself. He wouldn't break down in front of Shaw. Not him.

"No," Shaw repeated coldly, furiously, and Erik snarled, then felt every muscle in his body freeze at a soft brush against his mind. For one moment, one split second, he hoped beyond reason… but no, it was Emma's coldness brushing against Erik's thoughts. He couldn't see her, but she couldn't be too far away, clearly keeping an eye on the progress of the conversation. He readied to raise his shields and shove her out, the grief and rage flickering for control for a moment, but then-

Charles, she told Erik quietly, her tone almost sad but not quite. His name was Charles.

Tears threatened and he squeezed his eyes closed, trying to maintain his breathing. Thank you. She was a bitch, but at least she had that much heart to her. Thank you, Emma. Charles. Of course his name was Charles, that was a perfect name for him. Beautiful and formal and British. Gorgeous.

He had a beautiful mind. And it was odd, the tiny touch of regret and respect to her tone. Not enough to betray Shaw, not enough to save Charles (Charles, Erik's mind echoed again, tasting it in conjunction with the image of his blue eyes) but she did, in her way, feel remorse at this. She had to, of course. Anyone meeting Charles would feel the same way. He did have a beautiful mind. She withdrew from his mind sharply at the realization, leaving almost too quickly, and Erik focused on his breathing for another minute, straining to regain control. It did help the screaming pain in his chest, a little, that at the end, she had been there, maybe in his mind. Someone not completely cruel or evil, someone who respected who and what he was, if nothing else.

Maybe he hadn't fully died alone.

It was another beat before Shaw spoke again, and then he seemed to be straining for a tone of calm. "I'm going to leave you here," he told Erik, and he opened his eyes to see an expression almost like sadness on his face as he watched the younger man process. "If you live, I'm sure you'll seek me out. You can't not, my beautiful monster. If you don't live… well. I certainly don't regret our time together. The next batch of trainees will be done right. I'll learn from this. It won't be for naught. Your contribution could never be meaningless."

Erik searched his face, his battered, grieving brain struggling to process, then frowned slowly as he understood what was actually being said. "You're going to leave me here? Locked up like this?" The horror of a slow death of starvation and thirst crept up on him.

"Don't look at me like that!" Shaw's foot lashed out with sudden rage, crashing into his rib cage. "I didn't want this! I wanted you, I wanted us and victory together! This was your decision, this was your fault! We could have done so much, and you pissed it all away!" He kicked again, harder, repeating as his rage built. "Pissed away everything we built!"

Erik gritted his teeth, fairly certain something in his ribs had snapped, but at this point, he didn't care. Shaw had said clean house, Erik registered suddenly. Not only Twelve, but Ten and Eleven, too. They'd all been killed and if Erik hadn't attacked Shaw… grief gripped him again, stabbing him like a thousand knives, and Erik closed his eyes. "If you'd tried to be anything other than a mad scientist with his sad little experiments, maybe it would have worked. As is, all you did was torture us."

Shaw grabbed Erik by his hair, yanking his head back. "I made you," he growled. "I made you into a man, into a force of nature, into the most powerful weapon you could ever have dreamt of being. You would be nothing and no one without me, and just because some British faggot tried to convince you otherwise for a few months doesn't mean it isn't true." He released him roughly, breathing hard, looking vaguely unhinged. "The rest of the experiments are dead. If you survive this and find a way out- and I do think you can, you are my prize, after all, then you can find me then and we can reevaluate where to go from here."

Ten and Eleven were gone.

Erik closed his eyes, resting his head back against the floor as he fought the aching lump in his throat. He had gotten them all killed. His stupidity, his rashness and emotional reactions had gotten them murdered. Three complete innocents… well, at least two. Ten was sometimes just as violent as Erik was, but that didn't mean that she had deserved to die. She had been good to Twelve, to Charles, his name was Charles, and to Eleven. And to Erik himself, when he'd needed it. He didn't open his eyes and look at Shaw, not wanting to look at him again, keeping the image of Charles in front of his eyes instead. "I'm going to kill you, Shaw," he said quietly. "Whether it's today or in twenty years. I will get you and make you pay for their lives in blood. I can't wait."

"Nor can I." His grip on Erik's chin was bruisingly tight, and then he was walking away, the plexiglass door swinging shut behind him and his feet echoing up the stairs.

Erik waited until he was gone before he allowed himself to scream until his throat bled.