Chapter Three

"This isn't something you can just yell until or goes away or, or try to stab in the face! That's not how it works!"

"You think I don't know that?"

The students are staring. Hank scowls, and it looks much more threatening on his new face than it ever did behind horn-rimmed glasses. "Yes. The wheelchair is made entirely of plastic." He narrows his eyes. "Not a piece of metal on it. Not even screws."

Charles feels sick as Erik nods wearily. "It's a good design. I applaud you on your foresight." He looks up, and their eyes meet. "Charles."

"Erik." The name tastes heavy and metallic on his tongue. Erik is tense, emotions bursting out of him in short, sharp lances, like flashes of lightning: Fear, sadness, anger, pain. Guilt, always.

He opens his mouth and closes it again, lips a taut line against his pale face. It takes a moment before he speaks. "It's good to have you back."

"Thank you." Charles feels lost, confused. For once in his clean, structured life, he doesn't know what to do. "It's good to be back."

Erik nods again, short and sharp, and turns on his heel. His hasty retreat echoes in the high-ceilinged hallway; the slam of his door, more so. Charles bites down on the inside of his cheek and wishes he could fade away.

Keep calm and carry on, he sighs in his head. The other turn to look at him and he blushes as he realizes, too late, that he had projected the thought. "Sorry," he says out loud. "Um…"

Sean pipes up, a true Godsend. "Would you like something to eat, Professor?"

Charles forces a smile. "Actually, Sean, I could murder a cup of tea."

It's late by the time Charles manages to get away. He's glad to see the others again, but they tire him out rather quickly. It will be a few days, maybe weeks, until he can successfully keep a lid on his powers, and with a bunch of easily excitable teenagers all thinking as loudly as possible WHILE trying to talk over each other, he got exhausted after a relatively short time. Not wanting to disappoint the students, though, he's stayed up longer than he really should.

The ceiling looks so much higher now than it did used to. Charles wheels himself down the hall, staring up at the vaulted arches as he spins the rims. He feels like he's floating, and if he doesn't look down at his legs, leaning limply against the sides of the chair, he can almost believe that he is.

They moved his room while he was in the hospital, and he's grateful that it's closer now. An elevator is being installed next week but until then Charles is confined to the first floor and the grounds.

His room is dark when he gets in, but he doesn't for a second think that it's empty. One of the benefits of being telepathic. He sighs and wheels himself in.

"Turn on the light, Eric."

An orange glow fills the room. Erik stands by the bed, rolling a small object between his palms nervously. His mind is open wide, bleeding thoughts freely. Charles focuses the last of his strength on blocking them out.

"Charles, we need to talk."

Forcing a smile, he maneuvers himself onto the bed. "No, we don't. Everything is fine." He goes to reach for his pajamas. "Really."

"But-"

He forces out a particularly pushy thought wave and Erik stumbles. "Please. I'm very tired, and I need to sleep now." Realizing that his voice has gained a harsh edge, he tries to soften it. "Please, Erik."

He nods. He's more monosyllabic than ever, Charles notices as he strides towards the door, but his mind is struggling to be heard.

Charles doesn't care. He doesn't want to listen right now. If Erik has something to say he can do it like a normal bloody person.

He's shocked by a second at how bitter he sounds, how cruel. For a moment, just a moment, his guard is down.

This isn't what I wanted.

He shuts off the connection as quickly as it had opened. Erik freezes by the door, hand hovering over the handle. Charles massages his temples, eyes squeezing shut.

"Good night."

Erik looks back at him on the bed, eyes lingering on the motionless legs curled under him protectively.

"Good night, Charles."