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“Your move, love”
It is said with lazy affection, spilling lovingly from dry, parched lips, and yet the words themselves seem bittersweet. The words are familiar; they have been spoken, in that exact same tone of voice many times before, though the last seems a lifetime of love, desire and agony ago.
How can such a simple thing, a four letter word, mean so much: Companion, opponent, friend, enemy, beloved.
Mine.
What were they to each other now? He wonders. After all these years: After war, pain and loss has sunk it´s teeth into both their bodies and left scars and torn tissue in its wake. He is not quite sure, and he dislikes this. It angers him. Knowledge is power, and he hates weakness within himself jus as much, if not more than he does in others. It is unacceptable. It is a human flaw, one he would like to think he is above.
None of these thoughts escape him in the form of words or even questions. Such things, when spoken, shows vulnerability, like a dog baring it´s throat. Why give others the means to harm so easily? Why give someone the ability to maim and wound with a mere sentence?
No, it is far safer to keep such thoughts to oneself, bound and locked behind walls of steel, where even his old friend cannot reach them.
There is a strange glow in the depths of Charles eyes as he smiles at him tonight, and it warms his heart to see that smile. It is such a precious, rare thing these days.
Charles reaches for a white bishop and moves it from the corner of the board. It steals his knight, but that is fine, for when his beloveds calloused fingers move from the piece back to the porcelain mug placed before him, he reaches out and plucks the white crystal figurine off the board, placing his own dark bishop in it´s place. There is no frown on Charles face as he loses the bishop to the edge of the dark oak table between them, where it joins its fallen comrades, he merely nods in acceptance and stares down at the board while wisps of steam rises from the surface of the teacup held carefully between his hands.
He enjoys chess with Charles; he finds it delightfully ironic. It is a parody of their own private war.
The white and black king, standing at each end of an infinite battleground, sending their pawns and knights into the chaos of it all. Sacrificing. Winning ground. Losing.
He contemplates this as Charles finally moves one of the pieces and sits back, waiting.
“More tea?"
Charles has moved his queen into the open, but he sees the trick for what it is, if he captures her he loses his own queen. An equal sacrifice. A queen for a queen
His thoughts wanders to Mystique but he halts them immediately, thoughts of her will only awaken thoughts of his cause and he has no desire to get into a discussion with Charles, that will leave them both exhausted and neither closer to convincing the other of what is right, so he merely shifts his cup closer to his former lover. He had suggested wine, but Charles had wanted to try a strange blend of tea he had been given by one of the younger female students. The brew was bitter, and dark, but strangely soothing, familiar even, and so he nods and allows the other man to pour him yet another cupful, appreciating the warmth which seeps into his fingers and skin as he holds the mug much like Charles does. He adds the slightest amount of milk and sugar, to offset the bitter taste, and folds his hands on the table as he lets his spoon stir the tea in lazy circles while he contemplates his next move.
It has begun raining outside. He turns his head to stare out into the night. The rain slides down the massive panorama windows in countless streams. The sound brings back so many memories of the past, spent in bed with Charles in his arms. He sees them, crystal clear in his mind - Midnight discussions, warm hands, the smell of sweat, heated kisses on alabaster skin..
“Erik..”
He shifts his gaze from the darkness that stretches across the school grounds outside to the pale grey eyes staring into his own, clouded by grief and sadness.
A sudden flare of the past, buried under his conscious mind, flickers and comes alive, a wish to reach out and protect Charles from everything: From the world and the filth which inhabits it. Even now, after so many years, he does not believe that his Charles belongs in the war. Charles feels too deeply, bears too much pain even when the weight is not his to shoulder. He wants nothing more than to spare Charles from the havoc of war, if not to bring him to his side, then to keep him safe somewhere where none may hurt the exquisite, vulnerable, yet strong being before him.
Why did they both have to be such stubborn old fools.
He reaches out with one glove-clad hand, slowly and elegantly, as is most of his movements, and traces his lovers features.
Nose, mouth, eyes.
He is no romantic, has never truly believed in roses and gifts, for nothing material could ever express true love, and yet he finds himself comparing Charles eyes to all the precious gems of the world.
“I never stopped loving you, old friend”
The words weigh down on Charles like sin. He watches as the clouded eyes close as if in prayer.
“Erik, please…”
He does not answer the quiet plea, he has no wish to. He has always been utterly selfish that way.
“My beloved Charles”
The chair creaks as he stands up and circles the table, chess board forgotten for now.
He pulls Charles wheelchair towards him, feels the metal in it resonate within his mind like a caress.
He bends down to kiss him, can already taste the bitter tea on Charles lips and smell the faint trace of wood and earth which seems to cling eternally to his lovers soft skin.
“No”
The word is spoken softly, but something in the other mans tone is urgent and firm. Charles grasps one of his hands in his own and holds it tight, staring into his eyes with an unreadable expression on his perfect features.
´What is wrong?´
He wants to ask, but the words refuse to leave his mouth as he stares at the hand clasped in Charles own.
Charles hand, a scholars hand calloused after years of writing, aged, and with the faintest white line around one finger where a gold ring once adorned the digit, stands in sudden contrast to his own - Delicate, feminine, hidden under soft white silk to cover up pale skin.
Something is wrong.
A strange sense of confusion washes over him, and suddenly he does not understand his own body. The long hair that sweeps down his back, the white dress covering a body unmarred by time with developing rounded curves in all the wrong places. His breath hitches as he draws in great gasps of air. Something alien and painful writhes in his chest. Something shatters behind him.
His head is impaled with icy needles from within, and a chaos of emotions drowns him. He falls to his knees next to his lover, in pain. He forces himself closer to Charles and buries his head in his lovers thigh, as if begging for forgiveness. A sob tears through his throat before he can stop it.
The professor reaches down and runs careful fingers over a thin shoulder. The body under his hands shudders.
“Rouge?”
She starts crying, she´s not quite sure for who, but she´s sorry; so sorry.