They Said No Speaking On The Table (Say What When Our Loved Ones Aren't Here)

by Tzana

Summary:

Charles has to spend Christmas alone for the first time in years, but he is haunted by the memories of his childhood.

Notes:

• Inspired by Χριστούγεννα by Brando

Despite the Christmas theme, I tried to keep the focus on Charles's mental state. Erik, despite being mentioned and tagged, does not appear in anything remotely festive in respect of his religion.

This fic is inspired by the song Χριστούγεννα (Christmas) by Brando. The english translation of the lyrics can be found In this site.

Charles pushes his wheelchair through the snowed pavement and frozen streets. He feels his fingers going cold through his leather gloves, his face going numb as cold air blows on him. And he's surrounded by fucking Christmas lights.

Charles watches families run around in the cold, going from store to store. He almost thinks about calling Raven, but he changes his mind. He just gets inside the grocery store, ignores the festivities, and tries to buy enough food and booze to get him through the holidays.

It's why he can't stand Christmas. The lights, the snow, the laughing Santa and everyone smiling and telling others how happy they are. But Charles knows, he hears them complaining about buying gifts for people they don't care about, attending the parties for the food and alcohol, cringing at the idea of seeing their relatives. He hears people thinking about how they'll break up with their partner, and children worrying about coming out. All that lying, it's too much.

He fakes a charming smile at the cashier, hums a “you too” when she wishes him happy holidays, and rushes to his car. Hopefully, the groceries will last him, he'd rather die than come here again.

---

Charles cringes when he gets in the enormous mansion, the decorated and lifeless halls. He can hear the thoughts of some of the staff, their minds buzzing with excitement. He gave them all a paid day off for Christmas and, even though they were snowed in last night, they're excited to see their family, to have their wallets full and be able to spend the extra penny this year. Charles wishes he could share their joy. He doesn't dare to tap deeper, too worried his mood will darken theirs.

By the end of the day, he's alone with the Christmas decorations and ghosts of his childhood. He wanders around the house, too restless to just go to sleep, and cursing at his mutation and the eidetic memory it provides.

He wishes he could walk around the halls without hearing the screams and insults, feeling the punches. He wishes he couldn't smell the expensive wine and cigarettes in the living room. He wishes the memories didn't all flood back. But, as every year, they do. And this time, he has no distractions.

So, Charles sits on the small kitchen table reserved for the staff, cracking open a container with some soup, and lets it all flood in and flush away.

He always avoided talking about Christmas with his family. Even as a child, he'd just listen his classmates talk about their extravagant Christmas holidays and see the joyful images in their heads, not uttering a word. When asked, he'd just mutter the name of whatever place they might have visited, then say it was just nice. He didn't want to lie, and he couldn't get into details.

Say what? That he spent Christmas in his room? That in the table, Raven was arguing with Cain while Kurt was yelling at Charles for whatever reason he might have thought and his mother was just downing bottle after bottle? She'd always be the first to get up, to retreat to her room for a drunken slumber. The Markos would follow suit, bored, and Charles would stay with Raven, eating silently.

They never did anything else, at best they'd just change the background, have their twisted little ritual in a holiday home instead of the mansion. They never took photos, the Xavier photograph albums stop at his mother's wedding with Marko, barely a month after his father's death, just after Charles’s sixth birthday. Charles doesn't even consider touching these albums. They're just another gap his mother tried to fill with shiny Christmas decor and lights and wine.

Then, there's Oxford. The pubs and celebratory drinks, the drunken sex. From his first undergraduate year to his PhD, Charles would leave the old year balls deep in some nameless body and welcome the new one in the bathroom, vomiting cheap food and booze. He's more than thankful he left those traditions back in England when he got his teaching position in Columbia.

New York is where he really started celebrating, where dinners with Raven shifted from pitiful to pleasant, where the endless stream of liquor turned into a glass of wine with the food in front of the TV with a cheesy horror movie playing. Hank was the first to join them in their little party, nearly seven months after he got into his relationship with Raven. In a few years, Irene took Hank's place, and Erik claimed the empty gap by Charles's side, complaining about the genre being Christian propaganda and/or depicting disabled people as monsters until Charles had to physically stop him with enough kisses to earn him a slap with a pillow from Raven. As if she's paying attention to the movie and not Irene.

And now, Charles is alone again. Raven is in California with Irene's parents, Irene wanted to give birth near them. And Erik's in that stupid business trip in Pennsylvania. Charles can't bother either of them because he's a little gloom, but can't help but feel the sting of their betrayal.

With a sigh, Charles abandons his half finished “Christmas dinner” and gets the good bottle of wine he's been saving. Maybe the wine will save him now.

It's alright, Charles remembers dealing with loneliness all his life. He can deal with a few days. He hopes the wine can drown down the memories, but he doesn't share his mother's fortune.

As he drinks, the images become brighter, clearer. The dread, the pain, the isolation. His mother's instructions to not speak at the dinner table, as if he has anyone to talk to. The time, just when his mother's drinking got heavier, when he still had hope, where he sneaked out and to the town with her credit card, bought himself a toy car, wrapped it, put it under the tree and went to sleep praying his powers could work on him, that he could erase the last hours like letters in the sand when the tide picks up, that he could convince himself he didn't buy the toy.

He remembers that Christmas, a few months after he met Erik, when he was driving home from a late night in the lab. He remembers the music coming from the drunk driver's car, that dreadful Mariah Carey song, the impact of metal on metal as the cars collided, the pain then the numbness. He remembers the paramedics thinking about the injury, telling themselves he'll need a miracle to walk again or make it to the New Year.

He remembers waking up in the hospital to Raven's stifled sobs and Erik's rough hand on his. He remembers them promising they're not going anywhere, they're not leaving him alone. What a pile of bullshit. Charles knows Raven is just about to start her family, and Erik had postponed the trip far too many times already. But they should be in Charles’s old flat in Manhattan, watching Scream and eating greasy pizzas. His mother should have been the one to buy Charles that toy, he should remember their Christmas dinners and laugh instead of cringe.

He’s alone and miserable and the wine was stronger than anticipated, and it’s just not fucking fair! Is it too much to ask for the Christmas everyone else is having? Is it too much to still believe in miracles even though he has crow’s feet in his eyes and his hair is beginning to get thinner? Why can everyone else be happy in December? Why can’t Charles? Why do the lights have to illuminate the darkest corners in his mind, year after year? Why does Christmas have to hurt so fucking much?

---

The sun is just starting to rise when Erik manipulates the lock to open silently. He imagined Charles would be in a bedroom in the ground floor, but he senses the wheelchair in the living room and Charles’s watch underneath tree ornaments. He walks silently, stopping when he sees Charles sleeping curled up under the enormous Christmas tree, an empty bottle of wine by his side. Erik shifts the bag with the Chinese take out to one hand, then lowers himself to gently lift Charles up. He senses the springs of a bed a few doors over, he assumes the room Charles occupies, so he carries Charles there, the wheelchair following them through the decorated corridors. Erik lowers Charles in the bed, then carefully joins him. He’s been driving since the meeting ended, stopping only to get food, he is sure he’ll sleep until the new year the moment he closes his eyes.

Then, Charles stirs. He frowns before opening his eyes, slowly registering Erik. He smiles softly, giving Erik a quick kiss, tasting of wine.

“You came,” he whispers, strong arms around the other man. Erik just nods. “Is that Chinese? I found an awful movie, can you stay up to watch it with me?” he suggests, letting go only to push himself to a sitting position. Erik nods again and follows suit, despite both men knowing Erik will barely last through the second act. Mechanically, Charles hands over the paper boxes of food and puts on the movie, his head resting on Erik’s shoulder.

They eat and watch in silence, Erik busy keeping his eyes open and Charles deep in thought. Charles’s eyes spot the sun rising through the forest, it’s the morning after Christmas. He barely thinks before turning to Erik, their gazes meeting. Charles feels hot tears as he swallows a lump in his throat before asking.

“Tell me, do you feel lonely during the holidays?”