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“You’re not trusting me just yet,” Charles points out, quite out of the blue. He doesn’t look offended, simply—heartbroken, slightly. Those eyes of his are too wide and too round as he assesses Erik from the other side of the table.
Erik returns his gaze with an arch of his eyebrow, an act largely missed by the helmet shadowing his face.
“You asked me to trust you,” he points out, recalling their conversation from a week ago. “What is my presence here, if not honoring that?”
Charles folds his hands, still carrying that expression. Erik’s unnerved by it, but mostly—could he stop staring at Erik like that, like he’s done something wrong?
“You trust the truth,” Charles says. “You trust in what Moira has shown you. You trust that I believe in this. You don’t trust me. Why else would you keep that helmet on?”
It’s almost offensive, the way he accuses Erik of not trusting him. Erik’s tried for as long as he can remember to talk himself out of trusting Charles. There was always something about him that engaged Erik relentlessly, the way he talked like everything was possible. The same way he’s always done so. And Erik’s grown to be comfortable with the solitude; there is no heart in him anymore to keep believing in utopias.
“It’s true I keep the helmet on,” Erik says back, sitting up straighter. “It’s not a lack of trust.”
“What else could it be?”
Even that; his ability for his emotions to rise up in front of Erik, it’s all so easy to absorb. He doesn’t have it in him anymore. If he lets his barrier go, he knows he's bound to get wrapped up in Charles again. It's so much easier to keep him at a distance, even though Erik knows neither of them have the willpower to stay away from the other too long.
He would have to see how long he'd last, then.
Erik grins a little, albeit humorlessly, noting the way it makes Charles flinch a bit. Sometimes he needed a lesson on being told no, of not having everything as soon as he asks for it. Ironic of him to say, of course, as he’s never been one to say no to Charles.
“You can draw your conclusions,” Erik tells him, impassive, and—alright. There’s a certain satisfaction at not giving in immediately, to not get swept up by Charles as soon as they reunite. If only because it leaves him wanting more, if only because it’s so satisfying to see Charles wanting more. “I am not about to spell it out for you. You’ll be fine, Charles. I’ve worn this helmet before.”
“Yes, but not when we’re… on the same side,” Charles explains. Something in his features gives Erik a feeling that he can hear himself being needy. “If we are to carry this plan, we ought to have a solid foundation between us.”
“And that, we do,” Erik shrugs. “We always do. Do you not trust me? Am I only trustworthy when you can have some sort of control over me?”
“That’s not—”
“Not what you meant? I understand. It is, however, the way it’s interpreted.”
Charles sighs, exasperated, and ah—
He’s missed him. In this sort of childish, dumb way of pissing him off—Erik’s missed that.
“Give it time, will you?” Erik continues, all too glad for the upper hand in the conversation. This is giving him some sparks inside him again, after being away for so long in his own solitude. He hadn't realized how alone he had been in Island M until Charles showed up again. “You were always the more patient one between the two of us.”
“I suppose so,” Charles replies, but it's noticeable he'd rather have the conversation steer in his favor. “I… hope we get to a place where you can feel free to take it off.”
“All in due time,” he says. It’s funny, either way.
If Charles knew the reasons he’s not taking it off, well, he would not let him live at all.
—
“She thinks of you as difficult, did you know?” Charles starts conversationally, the same way one might say Hot today, isn’t it? He pours him tea as he transfers to the seat next to Erik. “Moira, I mean. Every time she talks to you, I can feel the way she just can’t wait for it to be over.”
Erik brings the cup to his lips, trying to not let a smile take over. It’s not a secret that he dislikes Moira MacTaggert. At one point, one should let go of grudges—but few people have been through what Erik has been with Moira. Some resentment lasts forever. Would he be a bigger person and carry on with the plan, for the greater good? Of course. Would he inwardly frown every time the good doctor made an appearance? Of course.
“That makes two of us, then,” Erik replies, leaning back, toying with the little tea bag inside his cup. “All for the greater good of mutantkind.”
Charles chuckles, grabbing his own cup. There are a lot of notebooks that Charles brought with him, fulfilling earlier promises he made to Erik about discussing genetic mutation and seemingly endless probabilities. And isn’t it all so reminiscing? Hasn’t he done this before, sat down with Charles to talk about genetics like there was a whole world waiting for them?
“Yes, well, it’s rather entertaining.”
“Ah, so you’re not here to convince me Moira is to be trusted and to play nice?”
“My darling, if it was that easy to change your mind, the last few decades would not have happened to us,” he says, patting his thigh. Helmet or not helmet, it didn’t change the fact that sometimes Charles was so unreadable: he had no clue whether he was doing this intentionally to provoke a reaction or simply falling into old habits. “No, I’m not going to do that. I get along with both of you. That’s enough for me.”
“I am rather sure you have done more than ‘getting along’ with us,” Erik remarks. If he’s going to call him darling, Erik’s earned this one comment. “Don’t play so coy, Charles. It doesn’t fit you.”
Charles shrugs, still smiling. “Guilty as charged. Just sounds so bold to say it.”
Is this his strategy? First the plan to save mutantkind, second trying to get back together with Erik?
“Unless you are currently sleeping with Moira again, I don’t see why it would be so.”
Oh, Erik said exactly what Charles wanted him to say. Charles doesn’t deny or confirm that he’s seeing Moira, which does strike a nerve with him, but he’s above being baited over such an easy line. At his age. If Charles wanted to do something, Erik would have him come out and say it.
“All in all,” Charles continues, almost like he knows that Erik is secretly unnerved, “It works, as I have so much material from her to go over. I felt like I was, if not an expert, at least very well educated in mutant manners. I’m afraid our good doctor has got me beaten.”
Erik picks up one of the books, all written by Moira, apparently expanding on everything they thought they knew. Many lifetimes will do that to you, it seems. He’s still deciding whether he’s jealous of such abundant knowledge fostered in such a specific way, or if he pities her: is any person who lives that long truly, ever at peace?
“You wish us to go through these together?” Erik asks, opening the notebook, flattening it. It’s worn out, but her handwriting is a little messy, like she was in a hurry writing all of this down. “Is it not easier for us to go through it with Moira herself?”
Charles smiles at him. “May I redirect you to the whole 'she finds you difficult' conversation?”
“Always so considerate,” Erik says, finally amused. “Still.”
“Oh, if I’m to be more honest—I always find that I can speak freely when I am with you.”
His lips twitch again. “For old time’s sake, then.”
He wishes they were at a bar, at least. If they were truly appealing to nostalgia.
“For old time’s sake,” Charles raises his cup up and Erik clinks it with his own. “Let’s not waste any time.”
It’s comfortable. He’s solid, he’s warm next to Erik. The conversations are fairly different now that they no longer talk about probability, rather something that exists, that they can improve on.
So comfortable, Erik might even want to take off the helmet.
-
“He's the only one who can help us,” Charles says, remarkably calm. “I don't like this either.”
Erik huffs. He throws his cape over his shoulders, walking out of the aircraft with Charles behind him. Once Charles puts himself next to him, he squints. In the distance, he can see Bar Sinister. He wants to close his fist and kill everyone in that small corner.
“You should count yourself fortunate that I am willing to hear you out, Charles,” Erik says as they begin to walk. “Do you realize, if any other person had asked me to do this, I would have killed them for this suggestion?”
“I am very well aware of this,” Charles answers, an impassive expression on his face. Ah, Erik recognizes that look: he's focused on one goal. “Erik, if this works out… if we get Sinister to do this…”
He trails off, but the implications are things he and Erik have discussed tirelessly in the week: the newfound limits—or lack thereof—of Cerebro. The curiosity eats up at Erik, the possibility to turn what they previously had known to be something to find others like them into something that could record them. Something that could make them immortal. It bubbles up inside him, a feeling he doesn’t dare name just yet.
“We’ll have to see once we get to it,” is all he offers in return. He’s not going to entertain that thought just yet. He’s not going to entertain anything.
By this point, he needs Charles to deliver results, not promises.
It turns out that the visit went better than expected. Some minor hiccups here and there, Erik perhaps slamming one of those disgusting clones to a wall, but nothing big. The only big thing that comes out of it is that Sinister agrees to Charles’ petition, and Charles uses his telepathy in a way he hadn’t seen before.
“I’ll call that a successful mission,” Charles says coolly as he floats out with Erik. “One step closer.”
“A perfect record of all mutants,” Erik says, trying it out, still not quite believing it. “A way to keep their souls alive.”
“No one will ever die,” he sounds so confident. “Not as long as we can avoid it. It’s the start of something beautiful, Erik.”
“It is,” but—didn’t Moira advise them against this? “Why do you think Moira didn’t want this?”
Charles stops a little before reaching the jet. Whatever he’s about to admit, it seems to weigh him.
“I have to admit I can’t see her,” he states. He seems to be considering his next words. “She only opens up her mind when she wants to, and I can see everything she wants me to. It’s the absence of thoughts, really, that brings things to my attention. There is so much she doesn’t tell. She’s unreadable. She can tell me I can’t do something, but she won’t elaborate on why I can’t.”
“And you don’t like that,” Erik notes, which in itself is funny, somewhat—at this moment, Erik, too, is unreadable to Charles. Charles doesn’t seem to complain about it anymore, but he’s not annoyed—at least, not in the same way he seems to be at Moira’s secrecy. “I believed the good doctor was in your good graces, too.”
“She is. Moira isn’t an enemy, Erik, she’s an ally. At this point in my life, I just—” he clenches his fist. His hand seems to want to reach out and put it over Charles’, but he stops. “I don’t think I can trust as easily as before. This is all of mutantkind we’re talking about, no? I cannot afford to work on half-truths and half-baked promises.”
Something slots in place for Erik. He knew, of course, that Charles believed in this cause—he wouldn’t have agreed to do anything if his belief in Charles had wavered whatsoever. So many past alliances between them had ended up as quickly as it had started, though, knowing they had all been temporary truces or working towards the solution of one situation.
These meetings, these plans they carry out by themselves, it has a sense of strong foundation that Erik had been craving all along.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Erik says. He doesn’t bring up the way Charles is, somehow, implicitly trusting in him—despite the secrecy. “We’re too old for games.”
“We’re too old for games, we’ve lost too many of us, and we’ve used so much time,” Charles sighs. “But we’re going somewhere. For the first time in a while, I feel like I am aiming at something.”
He turns the idea in his head. It’s true. Erik is handling the physicalities of everything; loving to work with his hands more, modifying Cerebro as Charles talks about everything he’s learned, toying with possible ideas of what mutantkind coming together might be like. The places they’d need. The spaces they’d have to create.
It should be overwhelming, making it impossible to know where to start. And yet…
Against his better judgement, and his growing need to not call this hope, Erik smiles. “Lucky for you, my friend, we can keep going.”
He hadn’t realized how much he had missed Charles’ smile in this conversation until it came back.
“We can,” Charles says. He looks up at him. “Erik, I don’t think I’ve said this yet, but if you hadn’t come with me… if you hadn’t accepted to join us… I don’t know what I’d be doing right now. I gather I’d be all the more lost. I am sorry I’m making you do so much. And for dragging you here. But I am glad you are here, more than I could express.”
“We have each other,” Erik replies. There’s a gentleness to his tone that he can’t hold back now. He opens the door to the aircraft now with a wave of his hand. “As long as we continue that, I dare to say—” he pauses, words catching up. But they have been together for a while now. It would be silly to pretend he has to hide his feelings. “I dare to say nothing is impossible.”
Charles’ smile lights up even more.
-
“Doctor,” Erik greets her.
What was it Charles said? Moira finds him unpleasant. Or, rather, she finds him difficult. He smiles, not entirely humorous, but intrigued.
“Erik,” she says. He doesn’t like the way she says it—she hasn’t earned that name. He doesn’t say more than he should, though. He waits for her to continue. When Erik doesn’t add anything, Moira ends up talking. “I know about what you did with Charles. You went to Bar Sinister, against my wishes. I told you not to do it.”
“And we aren’t children, Doctor. I’m sure whatever happens, Charles and I will be able to handle it.”
Moira paces—the way she’s carrying herself is almost as if she’s craving for a cigarette or to chew her fingernails. Erik waits for her to continue, willing his own defensiveness to go down. He finds it is more effective now, instead of rising up, to simply let people talk themselves in circles. To attack when it’s sure and not any moment before.
“I’m not patronizing you,” Moira states at last. “I know you have reasons to distrust me. I’m not asking you to trust me. I need you to trust that I mean well for this cause, and I have done every single thing I can for it. I don’t know how many chances I have—it’s why I give you two advice. I’m trying to help. Please, if you’re not going to trust in me—then in the faith I have for mutantkind.”
Even as the edge of desperation creeps into her voice, Erik can’t seem to find something to sympathize for. He can sympathize with her in different ways, he supposes: that glint of her eyes that gives away how tired she is. It must be excruciating, to live and live and keep living knowing the ending that inevitably will catch up to her.
Still, it rubs him the wrong way, the way she’s trying to control them without outright saying so.
“Trust is earned, Doctor,” Erik replies simply. “This lecture will not undo everything we already did. We can listen to your advice, but you do not control us, I assure you.”
She sighs. “It’d be easier if I could.” Running a hand through her hair, she adds, “It’s all risky. Charles, I fear…”
She drifts off, staring at the sky. Erik doesn’t like that—doesn’t like that it perks his curiosity, doesn’t enjoy that naming him will make Erik shift back into focus. He stands up straighter.
“What do you fear, Moira?”
“He’s turning into someone I don’t recognize,” she says. She turns her head to him. “I know you both better than you could ever hope to know each other. And I think—this truth—this reality… I think it’s breaking him. I don’t know what he’s turning into.”
She pauses. Then, as if assigning homework to a child: “Watch him. God knows why he trusts you, but he does. Don’t let it go to waste.”
He doesn’t offer her a reply.
She walks away from him, not leaving room for an argument—not as if Erik craved one. He turns around slowly, watching her go, the fight slowly leaving his body.
Watch him.
-
It’s easy to live with Charles.
Erik’s probably one of the few people on Earth who know what it’s like to have Charles so close that their routines could intertwine. After his talk with Moira, the thought walks around Erik’s brain: he’s turning into someone I don’t recognize. He takes a look at him, sitting on his chair, book on his lap and a steaming mug next to him.
It’s easy. Moira might not recognize who he’s turning into, but Erik is not unnerved by it. In fact, he almost laments that Moira doesn’t see it the way he does—Charles is turning into who he was always meant to be. He’s seizing the world under his own terms, he’s once again thinking three steps ahead, he’s offering mercy to those who are worthy and not to anyone who steps in his way. Not so freely. Not letting people take and take from him.
Ah, he’d dare say he’s more enchanted now than before.
He removes the helmet and leaves it on the table, something he usually does way later, and his hands begin traveling to the clasps on his suit as he removes the cape next. His gloves come off, as do his boots.
Charles looks up immediately. “Erik,” he says, startled, turning his head to him. “You are back.”
Erik runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it out. Why, so many years wearing this helmet, and he’s yet to figure out a way to wear it that does not mess up his hair. Or perhaps he should cut his hair?
He glances at Charles. The twitches of his eyebrow, so minimal but so present, gives it away that he is receiving those thoughts—after all, Erik’s been projecting at him. Nothing more, nothing else—simple projection to let him know it’s off now, perhaps for good. Perhaps for as long as they were alone together.
A beat passes ever-so-slightly.
Then, Charles smiles at him—it takes over his face, charming as usual.
“Please do not cut your hair,” Charles answers, tentative, yet confident. “It’s one of your best traits, Erik, and I would hate to see it gone.”
“Vain one, aren’t you?” Erik shakes his head, “Have I not got anything else?”
Charles appears to think about it. “Remarkable body, the one you have.”
“Oh, you are absolutely impossible.”
Erik sits down on the sofa, laughing, grabbing one of the many volumes Charles is studying. They have burned through half of Moira’s writing by now, opening their minds up. Erik’s never started to feel so… alive. Like the world is his once more.
Slowly, Charles veers his chair towards the sofa, and Erik waits for him to transfer next to him. He had thought perhaps the rest of the evening would have gone the same way the other nights have, quiet and lovely dinner, discussions, perhaps chess. It’s clear the night is heading somewhere else.
It’s not something Erik would argue against.
Charles’ hands cradle his face gently. His fingertips trace his hairline, the lines on his face, the gentle gestures melting Erik with ease. “I hoped you’d come around to this again. I didn’t want to let myself believe it.”
Erik’s fingers wrap around the hand touching him, bringing it to his lips. He presses a kiss against them. It should be scary how easy it is to fall back into old habits, but perhaps the real truth is that he’s never fallen out of them: simply kept them at bay.
He can feel himself being pulled further into an embrace. The other arm wraps around Erik, bringing him closer.
“Why wouldn’t you let yourself believe it?” Erik asks. “This is the only way it ever goes for us. I simply assumed it was a matter of time.”
“Oh, Erik,” Charles answers softly. Briefly, Erik is washed over with a wave of uncertainty, slipping in every crack inside his head. But it’s not his own—he can recognize the emotions as foreign. It’s Charles. The world was changing at such a rapid pace, everything he’s previously known as true had shattered so easily—and he had already lost Erik; had barely gained him back. How would he make such an assumption? “Don’t you see? I can’t risk you, not after everything we’ve learned.”
Ah, because Erik is his companion, a rock, stability. The uncertainty is replaced with an overwhelming protectiveness—if they could persevere, if they could actually make a backup for every mutant, Charles would make sure Erik’s was kept as safely as possible. If there is a timeline where he won’t lose him, it’s going to be this one.
Both of Charles’ hands cup his face now. “I need you to understand that I can’t lose you. Not after everything we’ve discovered. I’m not doing this without you.”
“I am here,” Erik answers, trying to find a way to match these emotions, because what had been so sure and steady to Erik had actually been such a huge scare for Charles. He finds the corners of Charles’ mind, tries to share all of his own emotions as a safety blanket. “You won’t have to do it alone.”
He leans in to kiss him, closing his eyes, so easy to lose himself to the feeling of Charles’ mouth against his own. What Erik had expected to be soft and slow quickly turns a lot more passionate than he had expected. Charles kisses him as if he doesn’t quite believe it, his hand moving to grasp his suit as if he could tear it apart with just his hand.
“Spandex,” Charles mutters, breaking the kiss. “I never grew fond of it. So impractical.”
Erik laughs as Charles impatiently begins to press kisses to his jaw, down his neck. He clutches him, shuddering when he sucks a spot on his neck. He chokes out, “Oh, but it always gets you staring.”
It’s good for that, at least, Charles continues inside his head, even more impatient than before.
He does take mercy on Charles, undoing his costume with his powers. The belt unbuckles, everything falls apart as easily as possible. It gets Charles grinning again, before he leans back in to capture his lips. He's distracted by his tongue going past them, and before he knows it, Charles' hand cups his cock through the fabric, rubbing.
Erik thrusts his hips up. Without Charles telling him to, he immediately floats the lube to them, to which Charles has to break the kiss in surprise.
“Oh, efficient,” he says, taking it in his hand and separating himself from Erik to uncap it. He takes Charles in—slightly flushed, a lot more confident than he had been before. Erik loves him. Perhaps he always will. “I've always loved that about you.”
As he pulls his waistband down, Erik grits out, “At least there was something more than my looks.”
Charles laughs. His hand wraps around his cock now, hard, rubbing slow circles on the head. Erik throws his head back, groaning, but Charles' other hand travels up. He tangles his hand on his hair, pulls him down, and drags him for another kiss.
When his lower lip is bitten, Erik can't help the moan slipping out. Charles slides his hand down slowly, his thumb grazing his balls every time it reaches the base, but he doesn't want to ask him to go faster.
If he knows Charles at all—and he does— he would only do so when he felt like it. Charles breaks the kiss to laugh. “You know me so well.”
Erik bites his own lip, muffling the moan when he feels the slit being teased. His finger continues to tease around under the head, making his toes curl, relishing when his grip grows stronger and he continues the earlier movements—slow, but stronger.
It's always been like this: like Charles simply loves having Erik on the palm of his hand. Erik, in turn, loves being there. He knows this. He knows all of this so, so well.
His hips begin thrusting up faster, chasing the friction, the momentum. Eventually, as always, Charles gives in: he begins jerking him faster, squeezing gently, driving Erik over the edge the only way he knows. The way that works best.
It's always like drowning in Charles, these moments, where the pleasure blinds him and everything is blurry—everything except Charles' telepathy, Charles' mind in his own, Charles' feelings and thoughts about how good it was and how he loves seeing him like this, everything that serves as a solid base to lie on. To rest.
To recover.
He hears Charles' soft laughter somewhere and registers kisses being peppered across his face, gently, as if he could break from that.
He opens his eyes and finds Charles again, staring at him with all that usual love and adoration. Erik makes an effort to lean in and kiss him softly, to try and explain how he does love him so much—and, of course, will love whoever he becomes.
“I hear you thinking about that one a lot tonight,” Charles says, playing with his hair. Erik might fall asleep with just that. “Tell me about that, later, after we shower.”
“Sounds good,” Erik hums. He finally finds his voice. “Charles, I… I never doubted you. I believe this is where we are meant to be.”
“As I do.” He smiles at him again, fondly. And then he looks down at the mess he's made out of his costume and possibly their sofa. “I will get you cleaned. And then perhaps we can go to bed?”
“When do we have dinner?”
“Oh, I'm sure you'll feel good to cook after a nap.”
Erik considers this as Charles leaves. A nap after a long conversation with Charles does sound good, and he suspects he will have an extremely pleasant nap. He can almost feel Charles' warmth against his body, the way he fits under Erik's chin, everything.
Oh, it'll be good.
“It appears I am powerless against that argument,” Erik smiles, getting a little decent as Charles comes back.
Once he's cleaned up, they make their way to Charles' bedroom—finally stopping their pretense that they enjoy sleeping separately.
Erik's helmet remains on the table, the same place he took it off. It probably will be there for a long time.