#I have a firm belief that there is no way for cherik to be ever fully happy after DP and this author is representing it sooo good

[bighandsforabigheart]

Recently found a fic author whose works all make me have that heart squeeze that happens when I’m reading really good angst and while it’s enjoyable it is actually starting to become painful lmAO

[brawlingdiscontent]

the men of metal, menacing with golden face, 2/?

a.k.a sequel to terrible with the brightness of gold

(cherik fic, viking au, subtle a/b/o, mature rating)

(first part) (tl;dr for any of you, like me, who can’t remember what happened: Charles wakes alone, finds he’s trapped in the tent, snoops around and writes a secret letter)

(part three)

This part is dedicated to all you amazing anons and non-anons who have been checking up on me and sending encouragement. You know who you are!

Warning: this chapter contains minor descriptions of violence, graphic threats of rape and murder, and some misogynistic/feminizing slurs (none of these last from Erik)

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As Charles is marched outside the tent and herded through the camp, guarded in front and behind, he reminds himself that Lehnsherr needs him alive. The thought is especially comforting as he hears the crinkle of the letter concealed up his sleeve. 

There’s no Azazel this time to fetch him. In the bleak silence of the passage, marred only by the everyday sounds of the camp, he almost misses the other's cheerful if subtly threatening presence. Now there's just the crunch of feet on the compacted dirt of the camp. Of course, there’s no need for such official escort, nor for formality now, he thinks grimly. Formality is for guests, which he is no longer. Now he's caught.

He hears them before he sees them, in snatches of raised voices, as they approach the edge of camp. The voices echo as though carried on the wind, rising in pitch in the distinctive pattern of an argument, but words indistinguishable. 

They round the corner and the narrow view of tents opens up onto the plains that demarcate the outskirts of the camp. Horses are tethered here, by a small copse of trees. He sees Lehnsherr attending to a horse, his figure—though by no means short—dwarfed by the hulking, agitated form of another man: the source of the argument. Despite the size difference and latent threat in the other’s posture, Lehnsherr, though tense, looks more bored than worried.

As they get closer, it becomes clear that the conversation is uneven. The large man seems to be doing most of the talking, his anger apparent. Lehnsherr’s reaction is subtler, but appears in the tight curve of his shoulders, gradually stiffening as the man goes on, like a bow drawn taught just before it’s loosed. Before Charles can begin to suss out the particulars of the dispute through tone and gesture alone, it erupts. In a flash Lehnsherr's opponent buries a dagger in the point of a nearby tree, and then tugs it out aggressively, brandishing it in threat. Lehnsherr, for the first time, looks up fully from his task. He says something, steady and so low that Charles can’t even make out the shapes of the foreign words. With a thunderous look the other man lowers the knife, and, sneering, retreats. Throwing final warning glare back over his shoulder, he stalks off into the thrum of camp heading somewhere off to Charles' left.

Curious though the scene is, Charles only half follows the man’s progress, for the sight of Lehnsherr sets off a flare in his chest that's been building, smouldering since he tried to leave the tent that morning. He forgets his apprehension at the ambiguous summons and breaks from the rank of his escorts. A breath later he’s standing before the man.

“I told you I wouldn’t be a prisoner.” The accusation spills out of him, sharp and hot.

"Charles," Lehnsherr says in dry acknowledgement. “A moment, if you would.” 

He doesn't like the familiarity of his name as it curls across the other man's tongue. 

Lehnsherr gentles the horse--who’d begun to flick its tail nervously at the commotion--and gestures off to the side. It’s only then that Charles sees the dark-haired woman beside him. She's much smaller than the man who just left, so much so that he failed to notice her. She doesn’t seem to be an alpha, but her dress is looser, freer than that he would expect of betas or omegas. Lehnsherr picks up the interrupted conversation, imparting a few more words; likely some kind of instructions. She gives a brief reply, perhaps an affirmative, and darts a curious glance at Charles before slipping off back through the camp—possibly following the path of the man who just left, but he doesn’t turn to look. 

Lehnsherr watches her go for a moment. "Now then,” he says, sparing Charles a mere glance as he turns back to the horse, a mare with a silver-studded bridle—probably not his, “what was it you wanted?"

“I won’t be confined to a tent,” he repeats. Anger still colours the words, but of a more controlled sort, his initial outburst steadying to composed censure now that his displeasure has been given breath.

When Lehnsherr looks up at him, his eyes are shaded, obscuring his expression and any hint of whether he’s surprised or displeased by Charles’ outburst. 

“For your protection, I assure you,” he says with a wry twist of his mouth. “I was concerned about you wandering around on your own in the midst of such unsatisfied men.” 

Though it's seemingly said in humour, Lehsherr’s voice carries an acerbic note to it, as if to remind Charles that it was he himself who had forestalled that satisfaction by leading the omegas and beta women out of the city.

He ignores the warning in the twist of the other man’s words. “You’ve no right to keep me.” It’s a foolish statement to make. Even had he not the conqueror’s right to do as he pleased, then the right surely falls to Lehnsherr as his husband-to-be.

Lehnsherr tugs the lead to check it’s secured to the tree and steps suddenly away from his horse—and into Charles' space. Charles feels his pulse pick up, despite himself, not sure what to expect.

Were they commoners, it might appear to be the close conference of a newly-engaged couple; young lovers tentative in their newfound intimacy or drawn together by the animal urges of youth, like the amorous shepherds sung about in the bawdier ballads. But for people of their station such marriages do not exist. Marriages are made for political reasons, not romantic ones, and whatever else may lie between them Lehnsherr’s gesture denotes not intimacy but a desire to shield their conversation from those around them—the scattered remnants of his guard and runners scurrying back and forth—and most of all, a power play. To lean back would be to cede ground, so despite Lehnsherr's uncomfortable closeness, Charles stands firm.  

“In the past day you’ve proven yourself more capable than my top generals combined." The words slip silkily from Lehnsherr's tongue in almost an accusation as he fixes Charles with a piercing stare. He notes Lehnsherr’s arm where it hangs loosely, aligned with but not quite touching his. It burns with the potential to grab his wrist and close the final distance between them--in violence or in something else. 

“Beyond that,” the other man continues, “you've all too readily shown that your loyalty lies with your people. I would be a fool to ignore the evidence I am presented with and underestimate you." 

Charles feels a burst of regret, then, at the necessity of showing his hand and drawing Lehnsherr’s scrutiny—though never at its result—while at the same time he's somewhat relieved that Lehnsherr had confined him in order to protect himself, and not in demonstration of his beliefs on the place of spouses. 

His point made Lehnsherr steps back, leaving a gap in the space where he stood, and returns to the horse. He grabs a coil of rope hanging from a nearby branch and begins to fashion a hitch, when Charles’ mind suddenly catches up to what he’s seeing.

"What are you doing?" 

With an efficient tug, Lehnsherr finishes tying the hitch, securing an oilskin bag to the saddle. 

“Leaving.”

“Leaving?” For a split second Charles imagines he means the island; withdrawing to the longships and departing, leaving the shores of England bloodied and battered behind them—before reality catches up with him. Such an undertaking would require the disassembling of the entire camp, yet the preparations around him suggest a smaller party, a group of men, only. His hopes raised deflate once again, dropping back into the reality of the present moment.

“Yes,” Lensherr continues, unaware of his brief flight of fancy. “It's what I summoned you to tell you. We’ll be married when I return.”

“Why, what’s happened?” He ignores the latter point in favour of more pressing concerns. 

Lehnsherr doesn’t respond right away. He seems to be considering whether or not to tell him. He holds out a hand in gesture, and a man, one of Charles' guards, offers over the casket from the tent. Charles very deliberately does not look at it, wondering if Lehnsherr will be able to tell that it's been disturbed, will notice the missing vellum.

“I've received report of a disturbance near Eoforwic," the other man says at last, relenting. "I’m heading off to investigate.”  

A disturbance...what could it be? What force in the land would dare to rebel? He now sees the reason for Lehnsherr’s hesitation. Regardless of the distance to Eoforwic, Charles’ actions have certainly marked him out as a suspect. But one thing Charles knows for sure...

“I’m coming with you,” he asserts confidently. “And beyond that, I’ll need my men back to accompany me.”

“I’ve just told you I can’t trust you, Xavier,--” he starts at in suprise his family name -- “what makes you think I would ever allow that?" Hardness and wariness are the dominant notes in Lehnsherr’s tone, yet they make way, in part, for exasperation and a hint of something further—humour, even admiration at his daring, and, unmissable now that he knows it’s there, the faintest undercurrent of desire. Lehnsherr has relaxed his barriers, perhaps; or else he is starting to be able to read the other man. He can use this.

“If you don’t trust me, wouldn’t you rather I was somewhere you could watch me?”

“And your men?” the other’s amusement is such that Charles can hear the implied finish...how are you going to justify them?

“You yourself have just told me that you keep a dangerous company. Who better than my own men to protect me?" His tone offers a hint of challenge. "Call it a demonstration of good faith, a show of Danish spousal respect,” he adds, recalling Lehnsherr’s words the previous night. Bold, but he thinks he can get away with it. “Furthermore, I’ll need to fetch my travelling clothes.”

Lehnsherr looks at him, now, with a calculating stare, as though he’s weighing his options carefully. His blue eyes appear quite grey in the afternoon light. 

“No,” he says at last, tone firm. “I’ll let you send someone to the city for your things. But that’s it.”

Charles opens his mouth to object.

“If it’s so important to you to be near your men,” Lehnsherr presses on before he can utter a word, “you’re welcome to stay here with them.” 

The glint in the man’s eye is the equivalent of a victorious grin on his reserved countenance, and Charles closes his mouth, accepting the temporary defeat. 

He submits once again to the escorts when Lehnsherr gestures them back over and directs them curtly in Danish. Their presence no longer chafes as much, having tested Lehnsherr’s limits and found some slack. If he’s caught now in Lehnsherr’s grasp, there’s give; and if he’s careful enough, strategic enough, he can use it in order to wriggle free.

.

…

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Going through the camp a second time, Charles notices what he should have seen sooner: the signs of a journey in the making. The camp is buzzing with potential, like a dragonfly touching down on the water, its surface thrumming with tension. As they walk he sees a few more of those he assumes are beta women and omegas, moving with the camp’s rhythms. There’s even a child or two, ducking into tents and scampering underfoot.

The guarded tent they are approaching is a familiar sight. This particular tent is big, large enough to require the support of a central wooden pole that shoots up towards the sky. A place for meetings, likely, or even dry goods storage. 

“Be quick about it,” the group's leader says sharply when they stop outside. She's a female alpha, demonstrable, as Northern custom dictates, from the braided sash she wears across her shoulders. With the tinge of red in her hair she might remind him of his daughter, were it not for her lethally sharpened teeth. 

He wonders if her keenness to hurry him along is based on an explicit order from Lehnsherr, or if she’d just prefer not to waste time watching him. Whatever the case, he's relieved to note that her instructions don't seem to extend to surveillance, and he’s free to duck in under the canvas flap alone, stepping into the muted light of the tent. 

There's a moment of hesitation at first, as the tent’s occupants attempt to identify the intruder, and then a voice calls out, “M'Lord!” and the title spreads through the tent’s close quarters. As his eyes adjust from the brightness of the day outside, the shapes of his men, his formal escort of the day before, emerge. They snap to a semblance of attention, those seated scrambling to stand even as he waves them to rest. They look bored, restless, but other than that, fairly well. 

The tent floor is unlined, sparsely sprouted with grass that’s gradually giving way under the churn of feet, and he can see little in the way of what they might have used to pad or warm their sleep. But there are much worse ways to pass a night, and such conditions certainly shouldn’t have troubled the hardened warriors Logan had selected. The most offensive thing in the space is the strong stench coming from the bucket in a corner.

He gets this all in a quick glance, holding off on further assessment: he has a task to complete. Acknowledging their bows with a tilt of his head, he passes through the group, seeking his commander, and finds him leaned up against the tent’s central pillar. 

“Logan---what on earth?--”

The man’s left eye is a bloodied, bruised mess. A split in the skin near his temple oozes blood, most of it drying or tacky; and besides the purple bruises raging like a storm across his face, the white of the injured eye is inflamed with the red of burst blood vessels.

With evident difficulty, he attempts to stand, pushing off the pole to support himself as Charles rushes forward to stop him.

“Stay down, please!” 

He settles a bit as Logan somewhat complies, not so much lowering himself as collapsing back into the pole. Logan’s eyes, both the bruised and the normal, are active, taking Charles in as though seeking assurance that he remains unharmed. The last time the other man saw him, Charles realizes, he was dragged off by Lehnsherr’s guards to uncertain fate. He senses Logan struggling with the desire to question him about what’s occurred--prevented, Charles suspects, partly because as Charles’ subordinate it’s not his place to ask. But more, perhaps, because no matter the answer there’s not a thing he can do about it. While Logan’s not up to questioning, however, Charles certainly is.

“What happened to you? Who did this?” 

“It’s nothin’. Probably had it coming.” 

Logan’s brusque reply prompts an imperious eyebrow, which yields a few more words of explanation: "Got a little worked up is all.” 

It’s bullshit and they both know it.

The two stare stubbornly at each other, at a standoff. While Logan is fiercely loyal, and would never withhold something of strategic use or relevance, obdurate man that he is, Charles thinks with mixed emotion, he would certainly keep something back if he felt in doing so he was protecting Charles.

Charles examines Logan’s face carefully, the desire to know warring with external pressures. At first glance his injury seems to be mostly superficial, but his hunched posture and stiff movement suggest damage that extends beyond his face. And yet he may not have much time here, who knows how long the guards’ patience will last? Logan’s looking back at him like he knows it, too.

Reluctantly, he lets it go, but not without shooting Logan a warning glance to signal that they will discuss it later.

“I need someone who can take a message.” He can’t send Logan, now. Were he in shape to make the journey, his injuries would attract unnecessary attention—though the choice of his commander would have been suspicious, regardless, for such a trivial task.  

"Alex."

"Alex. Which one is he?” Charles asks, scanning the assembled group.

“Over there,” Logan offers. “Far side. Blond kid, skinny.”

Charles looks over and catches sight of the youth that Logan means. He’s younger than most of the men and seems somewhat scrawny, not strong enough to have joined the honour guard, but perhaps that's why Logan selected him: he is unlikely to be seen as a threat by any of Lehnsherr’s men guarding the gates. Then, once he’s in, he will pass through the city relatively unnoticed.

He nods and briefly claps a hand on Logan’s shoulder in thanks, communicating in the wordless language that is their shorthand both the reassurance of a commanding officer and the support and gratitude of a friend, and goes to find Alex. 

As he passes near it, the flap at the tent’s entrance flutters—doubtless a signal from one of his guards telling him to hurry up. Drawing close to the membrane, he calls out in his most regal tone, “I’m not yet finished,” and hopes it will appease them for a few more moments. 

He stops before the young man Logan had pointed out.

“Alex.” 

“Sir! Your Highness.” He ducks his head, as though slightly awed at being addressed, and only Charles’ firm hand on his shoulder keeps him from jumping to his feet. He looks a bit peaked. Charles crouches down to speak to him which will serve better to hide what passes between them, even from the rest of the tent.

“Have you all been fed?” he asks first. It’s something Logan certainly would have concealed, should the answer be negative.

“Yes, your Grace—I mean, your Highness—” 

“Good.” Charles says, cutting off any further attempts at formalities. “Now, listen to me. I’m sending you on a mission of the utmost importance. I need to know that you can follow my instructions exactly.”

Alex nods, his eyes widening at the seriousness of the task with which he is to be entrusted.

“I need you to go into town. I’m sending you under the guise of retrieving some items from the keep, which you’ll do as well, but more importantly I need you to arrange to have this message passed on. There’s a person in the village, Roz, white hair. You’ll find them in the Blacksmith’s forge. It’s vital that you deliver this to them."

He slides the paper, the letter written in Lehnsherr’s tent, free from his sleeve. “They’ll know where to send it.”

The letter is for his children. Despite the promise of their safety he'd extracted from Lehnsherr their position remains precarious; worse, if he can't find a way to let Raven know what has happened. Before she took the children to safety Charles impressed on her that should she not hear from him within two month’s time, she was to assume the worst: that the negotiations had failed and he was dead, and was to flee with the children out of the reach of the assassins would likely follow. Lehnsherr will have spies in and around Normandy, and now that they've come to an agreement would likely read Raven’s flight as a sign of Charles' treachery—that he was moving his children to safety before striking back. He's not sure that he fully trusts Lehnsherr's promise, but fleeing again now is the surest way to get them all killed. Thus: the letter. Phrased tersely, it instructs Raven to remain in place. It's not exactly treason, but taken in the wrong hands, it could easily, perhaps willfully, be misunderstood, and so demands utmost secrecy.

Charles reaches into the folds of his tunic and draws out Sebastian’s seal, which also he presses into Alex’s hands. Since he couldn’t risk signing it, the letter will require another form of authentication.

"Hold this separate and send it with the letter,” he instructs.  “If anyone sees it before then, tell them it is for the guards at my chamber, to allow passage. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”  The look in Alex’s eyes, which resolves from uncertainty into determination, affirms for Charles that Logan suggested the right man. “I will guard it with my life.” 

This most important task secured, Charles takes a moment to consider something else. 

“Alex,” he says, hesitating only slightly, “what happened to the commander?”

There’s a reluctant pause, as the other almost squirms under his gaze.

“They were provoking him....saying things about you, Your Highness, about your character.” He looks embarrassed and this, if anything, confirms Charles’ suspicion that Alex is a new recruit. Embarrassment and shyness don’t last long in the company of warriors. 

Charles looks back at him expectantly, silently prompting him to continue.

 “That is...about you and Lehnsherr...and the things you might be getting up to...together…” 

Ah. 

While Alex hadn’t managed to finish the sentence, the redness in his cheeks makes his meaning unmistakable.

Even knowing the tenor of what was most likely said, Charles is too weary to bother to muster up embarrassment or indignation. Especially not when it’s so close to the truth. 

“I see,” he says, realizing he has one important task left to fulfill. And then: “Don't forget your commission. Lives beyond mine rest in your hands.”

Once Alex gives his solemn confirmation, Charles rises and makes his way to the front of the tent; waits until he has the group’s attention. 

“I thank you all for your service and loyalty,” he begins, pitching his voice to carry, so all of his men can hear. The faces of the hardened warriors looking back at him are defeated, set with grim expectation in place of hope. The fact that he’s addressing them at all is indicative of how far they’ve fallen. When the battles were still raging their orders were conducted through Logan, a matter of practicality that also allowed those of them (of whom he’s sure there are many, even here among Logan’s chosen) who respected him only as Shaw’s consort the pretense that Charles was not in charge. 

“I’m working to secure your release, but in the meantime, I’m sure you all want to know where things stand.” He swallows, clears his throat. “An accord has been reached. Erik Lehnsherr has promised to honour the treaty and guarantee the lives of the citizens. Your families should be safe.” He hesitates on the final words, not quite wanting to speak them into being; as though this moment, insignificant though it is, marks the point of no return. “And to seal the bargain...I am to marry him.” 

The news should be comforting. The marriage will afford the Saxons another layer of protection; much more than they had before. And yet there’s much resentment towards the Danes over the violence they have wrought, the Saxon lives they’ve taken, and the air is clouded with mixed feelings. This union, advantageous though it may prove to be, forever ties the Saxons to their enemies in the final sign of their defeat. 

While Charles surveys the assembled men, there’s one area of the tent he can’t bring himself to look, to the one man who won’t find much comfort in the knowledge that any outrages done onto Charles will be overwritten, any stains on his honour restored by marriage. He doesn’t want to meet Logan’s gaze, for fear of what he’ll find there. Anger, maybe. Accusation; pity. Or perhaps, most painful of all, the loss of something that never could have been. 

The fabric near the tent opening flutters again, this time with more impatience. Somewhat relieved at the chance to duck out from under those eyes, both seen and unseen, he moves back through the flap to scold his overhasty guard.

“Yes, what is it?” he demands, falling back on imperious, “I told you--” ...I’d be a few minutes. The words die in his throat as he almost bumps into the man waiting outside the tent. 

It’s not one of his minders. For a split second he entertains the absurd notion that he’s nearly walked into a bear; until he looks up and realizes it’s a large man wearing a bear cloak, the man’s barrel chest before him covered in the cloak’s thick fur. His gaze travels further up to a heavy brow, banded by widows’ peaks. Masses of unkempt hair sprout from the man’s head, separated only by several braids, dotted throughout, which are threaded with what seem to be teeth. It takes him a moment, overwhelmed by the man’s presence, to realize he’s seen him before. This morning, talking to Lehnsherr. Angry. 

“Your Highness.”

The title on the bear-man’s lips is not sardonic like it is on Lehnsherr’s, or histrionically obsequious like Azazel’s. Nor skittish as on Alex’s. But hard, flat, and raw, as though he’s chewing the words and spitting them out. While preserving the physical distance between them, he looks Charles over in a way that feels as intimate and violating as unwanted touch.

“Lehnsherr may be willing to forgive,” the man says, “he’s long scorned our ways. But I know it was you who robbed us of our rightful spoils.” 

Spoils. The word sends a chill up Charles’ spine, knowing he’s not talking of treasured objects.

“You’re a pretty little bitch, aren’t you?” the man continues. Despite vitriol of the words, he maintains an impassive, solemn countenance, his expression fixed except for his mouth, which now twists up into a sneer. “Pretty enough that he spared you. But if I were Lehnsherr I would have stuck my cock in you and gutted you while I was still inside you. Then fucked you until your screams died away.”

The afternoon light barely reaches the shaded side of the tent, and darkens farther in the man’s gaze, seeming almost to vanish into it. His yellow eyes glitter, burning like the dense centres of coals in a brazier. And swallowing all the light.

…

..

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----

And 5000 years later, here’s an update. Hopefully the next one will not be so long.

To anyone still hanging around, thanks so much for reading and for putting up with my shameless misappropriation of history for personal edification!  Apparently this fic now has shades of Xavierine, which is akasanata and gerec’s fault!

[fifiliphaser]

love and tumble (Cherik ficlets): 3

[AO3 Version]

1 | 2 | 3 | TBC

A collection of ficlets, based on the prompt list from this post.  Focused on Cherik, with possible appearances of other characters and/or ships. Various AUs, as well as canon compliant stories. There will be information about every story in the notes at the beginning: the setting, rating, characters, etc. Stories are proof-read, but not beta-ed, so I’d be grateful for any and all comments.

3. “Please, don’t walk out of that door.” (Post-XMFC, Pre-XMDoFP)

Rating: T Post-X-Men: First Class, Pre-X-Men: Days of Future Past; (kind of) canon compliant. Angst, nightmares, isolation.

“Your move.” A sad smile adorns Charles’s face as he says that, as though he knows that their game is already over and it’s not him who’s winning.

There’s only one lamp lit up in the study, bathing it with frail light, which does very little to dispel the darkness of the evening. Long shadows, cast by the furniture too lavish for Erik’s liking, enwind the room, falling over Charles’s face and obscuring it right above his nose. Because of the contrast, the skin of his chin seems even paler than usual, while his eyes are darker, scarcely visible in the gloom.

Something’s off about the eerie atmosphere that has set in the study; something almost otherworldly. It fills Erik with an irrational sense of dread which he can’t quite place. Normally, their evening chess matches—as competitive and heated as they can get—are rather pleasant encounters, ones that Erik finds himself enjoying much more than he probably should. Forming any kind of attachment is dangerous, the more intimate one even more so, he knows that, and yet he keeps coming here every evening.

With a quick flick of his hand, Erik moves the black queen, seeing as the game is coming to its inevitable conclusion. It sparks up a curious twinge of sadness in Erik’s chest, even though he should feel elated at scoring against Charles once more, and in quite an impressive fashion to that. Yet, when he looks up at Charles, the telepath’s face resembling more the one of a corpse rather than a living, breathing person, he knows that something is wrong.

The question is at the tip of his tongue, but when he opens his lips, something else comes out.

“You know I have to do this.” Erik’s voice is firm, and he surprises himself with how cold he sounds. “He’s too dangerous, for all of us.”

It’s as if his mouth is speaking on its own accord. For a moment, he has no idea whom he’s referring to, the man’s identity buried deep in his memories, until he recalls a conversation he had with Charles once upon a time, what feels like a lifetime ago.

It’s Schmidt that he means. He is the one he has to kill.

“Death won’t bring you peace,” Charles says resignedly, and Erik is taken aback by how small the man’s voice is.

Charles’s liveliness, something that Erik both despises and adores, is gone, replaced with unsetting dejectedness which worries Erik more than he’d care to admit. His mind doesn’t brush against Charles’s usually warm presence—there is only cold emptiness.

“You were right.” Charles makes a move, his knight falling straight into the trap that Erik set up for him a few rounds ago. It leaves Erik with one more move and that will be it. “They killed every last one of us.” Charles’s voice is emotionless, his gaze, uncharacteristically distant, trained on the board. His calm demeanor is a stark contrast to the image he paints with his words, which only serves to further confuse Erik. “I was so stupid not to listen to you.” The telepath leans back into his armchair, his hands falling limply into his lap. He’s still not looking at Erik when he adds, “You won.”

It’s wrong. Charles wouldn’t ever admit anything like that, not even if it became painfully clear that Erik was right after all. Ever an idealist, the telepath tends to cling to his beliefs no matter what, a virtue that Erik finds equally as admirable as it is foolish. In the end, however, he would rather fight fiercely with Charles about mutant issues till the end of their lives than see the younger man so hopeless.

“Are you happy now?” Charles asks him, pulling him out of his thoughts.

This time, their gazes meet and what Erik sees in those piercingly blue eyes makes his blood freeze. There’s so much pain there, hurt, and defeat, the dark circles underneath making it look all the more haunting, and Erik has no idea what to do. It isn’t until now that he realizes he would do anything to bring life back to the man before him. Anything, even if it leads to his own demise. The strength of that conviction is overwhelming, though it doesn’t surprise Erik, as though part of him has always knew about it.

Apparently unaware of Erik’s musing, Charles rises from his seat, clearly about to take his leave, in spite of the fact that Erik hasn’t declared checkmate yet. As soon as he turns around, however, stepping around the armchair towards the door, Erik notices that Charles’s sweater is torn on his lower back, something dark staining the ripped edges of the fabric. Only after taking a bit closer look does Erik realize that the dark substance is still seeping through, thick and maroon, and it can���t be anything else other than blood.

The deep gash, which Charles seems strangely unconcerned with, strikes Erik as weirdly familiar, although he doesn’t know why and how the telepath could even sustain such an injury. Despite that, Erik’s chest constricts painfully, even though it's not him who’s injured, his breathing growing shallow, as he reaches towards the leaving man.

“Charles, stay,” he orders through his abruptly tight throat, his desperation well hidden behind the sharp-sounding words.

Charles freezes midstep, remaining motionless for so long that Erik almost stands up himself. Before he can do so, however, the telepath slowly looks back, his face enveloped in darkness.

“You’ve already left,” he points out calmly, but his statement seems to pierce through Erik’s heart like a newly sharpened knife. “Now it’s my turn.”

“No, Charles.” This time, Erik does stand up, refusing to accept Charles’s words. “No. Stay.” He seizes the hinges of the door, making sure that it can’t be opened, and takes a decisive step in Charles’s direction.

Standing a bit closer to the telepath, Erik can see the man’s lips curl into a sad smile, but as rueful a gesture as it is, the gaze of the beautifully blue eyes remains distant. Charles only shakes his head resignedly, and the coldness of his voice is uncharacteristically cutting as he says, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“Stay.” Erik is relentless, stepping even closer to his companion. He knows that there might be a way of stopping Charles, though he’s not sure if he’s ready for it. It takes an insane amount of strength for Erik to show his vulnerability as he sputters the one word he’s dreaded speaking so much in the past, “Please.”

However, despite Erik’s efforts, Charles just looks away and continues his saunter to the door.

“Goodbye, old friend,” he throws over his shoulder carelessly, his voice devoid of any emotion, while his hand wraps around the handle.

Although Erik still has a grip on the hinges, Charles seems to be able to open the door without nearly any effort, with the bright, almost blinding light seeping through the ever-growing crack.

“Charles!” Erik hears himself scream, a desperate edge to his voice. “Charles, please!” Despite the strong need to come closer to his friend, Erik feels as though he’s frozen, unable to move his feet even an inch. “Please, please, stop! Charles!”

As much as the thought of pleading terrified him before, he finds himself now repeating his pleas like a prayer, the one long-forgotten, and yet the one he knows by heart. However, regardless of how many times Erik says Charles’s name and how much he begs, the telepath appears to be unaffected, ready to take a step into the overwhelming brightness.

“Please, don’t walk out of that door!” Erik tries one more time, but all his pleads are in vain.

It’s too late—the light swallows Charles and impossibly flares up even more brightly, so much so that overarching whiteness becomes the only thing Erik can still see. Surrounded by that light, he feels the fear running in his veins, the utter sense of hopelessness practically paralyzing.

He’s afraid that he’ll never leave that suffocating place, floating among the blinding brightness forever.

And then he wakes up with a start. Opening his eyes, he realizes that he’s still surrounded by the white walls, overwhelmed by the empty feeling in his chest.

Erik sits up carefully, his gaze boring into the wall in front of him. His cell is just as small and as stifling as it’s been this whole time. It’s surreal that he’s already spent a couple of years here—he’s not sure if he remembers how the outside world even looks like, how it feels to breathe fresh air. He hasn’t seen the sun in so long, he’s probably impossibly pale, but it’s hard to tell in the bright cell.

He hasn’t seen him for so long.

The dream has taken him aback, reopening old wounds that he thought he had left behind. Those beautiful blue eyes that he probably won’t see ever again, so dull and lifeless…

Erik doesn’t cry. He shed all of his tears a long time ago. Instead, he simply sits there, motionless, staring at the white walls for hours on end, wondering when the hole in his chest has filled with acid.

* * * * *

The next one will be very fluffy, I promise!