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Erik’s palms ache from gripping the wrench, the metal slick beneath his gloves. He could use his gifts for this work, of course, but there are certain tasks he prefers to tackle with his own two hands. The roof of the outpost has been patched, for now, but the storm has already undone weeks of careful work. If they’re not prudent, it will undo weeks more.
He sighs, sagging briefly against the wall of the tower as he wipes rainwater from his eyes. The island’s infrastructure is fragile. No amount of architectural genius among his mutants can make up for the fact that they’ve had to make do with scraps. He gathers his tools back into his bag, tossing it to the ground before jumping off himself.
He lands with a splash of mud, rain trailing in thick rivulets down his face. The soaked earth clings to his boots as he stoops to retrieve the bag, his fingers fumbling against the wet fabric. He reaches for the headlamp clipped to his belt, nearly dropping it when it slips through his grip. The light sputters to life, casting a dim beam against the grey sheets of rain.
There was very little daylight to begin with, and what remains fades more and more by the minute. The sun will be long gone by the time Erik makes it to the next outpost. He will need to hurry before the rain worsens, before the trail between the two lookout stations becomes impassable.
No one would judge him for calling it a night. In fact, some would even insist upon it.
For a moment, he lets himself entertain the idea. Clean, dry clothes. A stiff drink. Charles, he’s sure, would be up for a game of chess, even at this hour.
Lightning flashes and he squashes the thought. There's more work to be done. Always more work.
The trail narrows into a slick, uneven path, water pooling at his feet as the rain comes down harder. Erik’s bag shifts on his hip with every step, the soaked strap digging into his shoulder. Again, thoughts of turning back tempt him. A warm drink. Warmer laughter.
You’ve done enough for today. Come home, Erik. The quiet hum in his mind could nearly be mistaken for Charles’ own voice, if not for the softness of it. Though their relationship has thawed into something resembling what it once was—something comfortable—Charles still does not quite speak to Erik the way he once did, all those years ago. Erik regrets that he’ll never be on the receiving end of that naive gentleness again.
Still, any gentleness would be more than Erik deserves. The rain needles at his skin, sharp and relentless. He clenches his jaw and pushes forward.
The storm intensifies, the wind slicing through the trees with a mournful howl. Erik adjusts the bag's strap on his shoulder, squinting into the rain as the trail bends sharply ahead. The beam of his headlamp struggles against the gloom, catching on the edges of slick branches and jagged rocks.
A distant rumble of thunder rolls through the sky, low and threatening. The hair on the back of Erik’s neck stands up and he has no time to register the warning before a blinding flash splits the air. The deafening crack of lightning sends a jolt of pure adrenaline through him as it strikes, far too close for comfort.
Erik’s instincts take over. He leaps backwards, flying through the air before landing several feet back. The acrid smell of burnt wood fills his nose. The tree—a towering oak just ahead on the trail—splinters under the weight of its shattered branches, its trunk fractured and smoking. The top half crashes to the ground with a thunderous roar, blocking Erik’s path entirely.
Erik’s heart pounds, each beat a hammer against his ribs. Mud cakes his gloves, his knees, his face.
Are you all right?
Ah. There’s no mistaking the rich, multi-layered sound of Charles—the real Charles—in his head. Erik’s imagination couldn’t replicate it if he tried. He stands up, wiping the mud from his gloves. The question hangs in his mind like the static charge in the air. His eyes scan the felled tree, the jagged edges of the trunk steaming faintly in the rain.
Erik? Answer me. Are you injured?
“I’m fine,” he answers, out loud. His voice comes out sharper than intended, though the volume is suffocated by the heavy sound of rain. He steadies himself, forcing his breathing to slow. “A tree came down. That’s all.”
There’s a pause. Charles does not withdraw from Erik’s mind. Erik feels him in the space between his thoughts—waiting for permission to press closer.
“What?” Erik asks, exasperated.
The storm is worsening, Charles observes, a faint thread of worry curling through the words. One might consider that a suggestion from mother nature.
Erik grimaces. He stoops to inspect the wreckage that lays across the trail, tugging at one of the smaller branches to test its weight. The mud beneath his boots shifts dangerously, sucking at his soles with every step. “The northeastern outpost still needs repairs,” he replies, his jaw tight. “If I wait until morning, the damage will only get worse.”
And if you get hurt? Charles counters, his tone soft but unyielding. Who will do the repairs then?
Erik lets the branches fall back into the mud with a splatter. He looks to the sky, squinting.
Erik…?
The rain lashes at his face. He closes his eyes, pictures a radio—Charles’ voice coming through the speakers.
Erik!
He turns down the volume.
Charles sits in the quiet of his quarters, a single, flickering lamp casting a warm circle of light against the storm-darkened room. The book in his hands lies open but unread, his attention drifting elsewhere, pulled by the faint sensation of Erik’s presence at the edge of his mind.
Charles would be proud that Erik is applying the techniques he taught him, if he weren't so irritated by the prospect of being ignored. He gnaws on the inside of his lip. At least Erik’s left the bloody helmet at home this time. The damn thing would be little more than a lightning rod in this weather.
He does his best to skirt around the edges of Erik’s mind, gleaning what he can from the surface. His friend doesn’t appreciate interference, and Charles has no desire to overstep his boundaries. Not anymore. Still, he cannot pretend that he doesn’t worry; the storms are the fiercest they’ve been all season, and Erik’s stubborn determination is as immutable as ever. He can feel it even now, a distant pulse of willpower driving Erik forward as he flies through the cold and the rain towards his destination.
Charles exhales slowly, pressing his thumb against the edge of the page as his mind wanders again and again to Erik. The faint, indignant hum of resistance lingers like static on an old radio.
He understands it—truly, he does. Erik has always thrived on resistance; against the world, against Charles, against himself. It’s part of what makes him who he is, what makes him so—
Charles swallows, turning his attention back to the book in his lap. The words blur together, meaningless. He closes the leather cover with a snap. There’s no sense in trying to read while he’s in this state. No sense, either, in indulging such thoughts. Not tonight.
The storm rattles the windowpanes, the wind howling like some primal beast. Charles feels it now, the sharp edge of Erik’s exhaustion slicing through his focus. Shielding himself from Charles’ telepathy still doesn't come easy to him. Charles withdraws from Erik's mind sheepishly before Erik’s distraction leads to his injury.
Even without the helmet, Erik excels at keeping Charles at arm’s length when he chooses to—an unspoken boundary, a reminder of the impassable distance between them. Charles’ telepathy is still a sensitive subject.
It's not you, he had said, once. The day Charles arrived on Genosha. Or—not a lack of trust, that is.
At Erik's bidding, Charles had entered his mind night after night. Taught him how to protect his thoughts, shield himself. Erik has no mutation that would allow him to block telepathy entirely, but there were still things he could do to establish some mental boundaries—to get more comfortable with being subject to Charles’ gifts.
Charles remembers, acutely, the first time he felt another telepath in his head. How intrusive it was; how vulnerable he felt. He never wanted Erik to feel that way.
It's about power. The having of it; the not-having. I have no control around you, Charles. You understand, don't you?
He wonders—not for the first time—if Erik truly believes in this careful distance they’ve crafted. This imbalance of power that he insists upon. Charles’ gaze drifts towards the door, towards the chessboard sitting patiently on the small table in the adjoining room. The pieces remain untouched from their last game, frozen in a temporary stalemate after Erik’s responsibilities had pulled him away several days ago.
Charles closes his eyes and sighs. “Stubborn,” he murmurs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Surely Erik must know by now that Charles has no control around him, either.
The rain pounds harder, and Charles allows himself a single, unguarded thought, a wish sent out into the night like a prayer: Come home, Erik.
The first light of dawn cuts through what remains of the cloud cover, casting long, pale streaks of yellow across the horizon. Genosha begins to stir, the muted hum of activity drifting through the windows of Charles’ small apartment. Despite the restless night, he’s already awake, seated at the small table near the door where the chessboard remains.
He’s barely touched his tea, the thin column of steam quickly petering out in the cool morning air. His focus is drawn far beyond the game board—past the table, past the rain-speckled louvers. The skies have cleared, his mind hasn’t.
Charles glances at the clock again and again. Erik should have returned by now. The rest of the repairs team have been back since last night, since Erik returned them to their homes at the first sign of truly inclement weather.
Charles knows that Erik’s dedication to Genosha isn’t just about idealism or necessity. It’s penance, too.
Erik is making his amends.
His concern is interrupted by the distant sound of boots on gravel, the familiar cadence announcing Erik’s reappearance long before he makes his way to Charles’ door. There’s a strange mix of relief and irritation when Charles spots him through the slats in his window. Though the heavy rains stopped hours ago, Erik is still soaked to the skin, thick streaks of mud coating his shirt and pants. There’s a bloody scrape along his cheekbone that hadn’t been there yesterday. The bags beneath his eyes are deep and purple.
Charles watches through the window as Erik deposits his bag by the door with a heavy sigh, removing his gloves and running a hand through his damp hair before attempting to brush some of the dirt from his clothes. His movements are slower than usual, his exhaustion evident in the droop of his shoulders.
Charles watches him tidy himself for a moment before he reaches for the door handle. “You’re late,” he says, opening the door and causing Erik to jump.
After the initial surprise, the faintest flicker of amusement softens the hard lines around Erik’s eyes and mouth. “I didn’t realize I was expected.”
“You usually are.”
Erik’s lips press into a thin line as he spots the chessboard, his gaze dropping to the abandoned pieces. He studies their arrangement for a moment before he kicks off his mud-caked boots and walks inside, pulling out the chair opposite Charles’ and gingerly taking a seat. He breathes a heavy sigh. “The northeastern outpost is patched,” he says. “Barely. It won’t hold if there’s another storm like that one. Not until I can get my hands on some better equipment.”
Charles hums, his fingers brushing the edge of his teacup. “So, you’ve been working all night.”
“Yes. Most of yesterday.” Erik slouches back in his chair awkwardly. He picks at the dirt beneath his fingernails, avoiding Charles’ eyes. Charles feels momentarily like a character in a television drama—the jilted, nagging wife.
He hesitates, carefully choosing his next words. “You could have come back sooner,” he says softly, measuring Erik’s reaction. “The repairs could have waited.”
Erik’s jaw tightens, his fingers curling into fists on the table. “No, they couldn’t have.”
The tension between them stretches taut, and for a moment, Charles considers twisting it further. But then he leans forward, his voice dropping into something gentler instead. “Well,” he says, offering a smile. “I’m glad you’re home now.” He reaches out, his hand hovering briefly before coming to rest over Erik’s clenched fist. “Fancy something to eat? Or drink?”
Erik’s eyes snap to Charles’, sharp and unreadable. For a long moment, he says nothing, and Charles finds himself holding his breath under that piercing gaze.
Finally, Erik exhales, the fight draining from his shoulders as he breathes out a low chuckle. “I admit I came here with an ulterior motive,” he says, glancing down at his dirt-streaked clothes. “I’d like to clean up first, if it’s all the same to you.”
Charles raises an eyebrow.
Erik laughs. “I was hoping I might use your shower, that's all. Mine has been in disarray since the storms began, unfortunately.”
“Oh. Well— by all means,” Charles says, gesturing towards the bathroom. “You know where everything is.” The apartment had been Erik’s before he insisted Charles take it. There were only so many on the ground-floor.
Charles watches Erik shuck off his jacket and head toward the bathroom. He closes the door behind himself and Charles releases a long-held breath.
He lifts his teacup, staring into the cold dregs before setting it aside. The tension in the room lingers even in Erik’s absence, coiled like a spring beneath Charles’ ribs. His fingers skim the edge of a knight, absently toying with the piece as his mind wanders. Even with the lingering apprehension that remains between the pair of them, there is no question that things have been much better lately. Better than the lonely soul sitting alone at that cafe could ever have imagined, all those months ago. This place has been so good for them both.
The water begins to run, the hiss of the shower drifting through the apartment along with no small amount of steam. A faint smile pulls at the corner of Charles’ mouth. There were certain luxuries a man could never pass up, even one so self-punishing as Erik. Charles sneaks a glance toward the bathroom, trying not to think in any specificity about what image of bliss might lie behind that door. In a moment, Erik will emerge fully clothed and no less rigid than when he entered—though hopefully a little cleaner, a little less worn-down.
The sound of water stops, and a few moments later, the bathroom door creaks open. Erik steps out, a towel draped over his shoulders and damp hair curling slightly against his temples. He’s changed into a spare pair of trousers and an undershirt, a set he must have stowed away in his bag. The faint shadow of fatigue remains etched into the lines of his face, but there’s a healthy flush to his cheeks again, at least.
“I apologize for imposing on you further,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “I'm afraid I neglected to pack another shirt.”
“Help yourself,” Charles says, gesturing towards a small cabinet in the adjoining room. Erik stoops to rifle through Charles’ collection of sweaters and Charles indulges himself, raking his eyes over his body, the breadth of his shoulders.
“Thank you,” Erik says, picking out a deep purple turtleneck and tugging it over his head. “I’ll wash and return it by tomorrow.”
“There’s no rush,” Charles insists. He’s sure Erik notices the way his eyes sweep over his chest, his arms. “You ought to keep it— the color suits you.”
Erik stares at him for a long second before his lips split into a grin. “If you insist.”
“Will you be headed home straight away, then?” Charles frowns. “I imagine you’d like to get some rest.”
“Not if you’d prefer my company,” Erik answers, his eyes twinkling. “I don’t want to leave you thinking that I’m only interested in your hot water.”
Charles gestures toward the empty chair. “Then join me,” he says, his tone light. “I’d hate to leave our game unfinished.”
“My turn?” Erik returns to his seat opposite Charles. He studies the chessboard in silence, his fingers hovering over his remaining pieces. “You’ve been patient,” he finally remarks, the faintest hint of humor in his voice. “Most people would’ve declared victory by now.”
“Most people don’t play with you,” Charles quips. “I know better than to claim a premature win.”
Erik hums thoughtfully, twisting a pawn between his fingers before sliding it forward one space. “A wise choice,” he says, leaning back in his chair. His gaze flicks to Charles, sharp and assessing, though full of humor. “I’ve been accused of playing the long game before.”
Charles lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I believe that's an understatement.”
Erik raises a brow. “Long game’s the only one I know.” His voice is low and warm. Still, there’s a guarded quality to it that Charles doesn’t miss.
They play for several minutes in companionable silence. Charles is delighted to take the upper hand almost immediately. The delight wears off when it becomes apparent that Erik is hardly a fair competitor. Within a few minutes, Charles has captured Erik’s last remaining bishop. He's down to a pawn and a knight, alongside his king, who's been backed into a corner. Charles looks up to scan Erik’s face.
“I suppose it was too much to hope you’d miss that,” Erik says.
“Oh, come on—” Charles grins. “Have you no faith in me?”
Erik drags a hand down his face. “I have exactly enough faith in you.” He scans the board. Charles has eight pieces to Erik's three, and a decent night’s sleep to boot. “This just isn’t my day, I’m afraid.”
Charles squints at him. “You’re exhausted,” he observes. “You've been working since Tuesday?”
Erik nods.
Charles crosses his arms. “Go home and rest. Please. I feel terrible keeping you for so long.”
“I’m alright.” Erik waves a dismissive hand. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
“Erik.” Charles cocks his head.
Erik glares back. “What?”
“When was the last time you slept?” Charles asks bluntly.
“It’s been a few days,” Erik admits.
“Seriously?”
“A tree branch blew through the window. The bed’s a mess—” Erik makes a vague gesture, “glass everywhere.”
“Good God. Is there anything left in your apartment that hasn't been destroyed?”
Erik's laugh is dry. “I was going to go back and deal with everything, after this.”
“Just sleep here,” Charles says, shaking his head. “The bed’s made, everything’s been washed, well—not today, I suppose—but quite recently.”
“Charles,” Erik starts.
“I can get you a new pillowcase, if—”
“Charles.”
“I won’t insist upon it,” Charles says, with an air of finality. “But the offer is there. You look…” he frowns.
Erik's frown deepens. “What?”
Charles' eyebrows knit together in concern. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you really do look like you could use some sleep.”
Erik's entire body seems to sag into the chair. “It hasn’t come easy, lately,” he admits after a long pause. He leans forward, face in his hands. “It's the dreams. It’s been like this for months. The last few days have just—”
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
Erik snorts. “What good would that have done?”
“Well, I could have helped,” Charles says. “If I’d known.”
“Please. I’d rather not give you anything else to worry about.”
“No, really—” Charles taps his fingers against his temple. “I could help. I used to—” Charles starts. His face falls. “I used to do it for Raven, actually.”
Erik’s mouth snaps shut. Charles can guess what he’s thinking—that it’s still too soon—that they aren't ready to talk about her, yet.
“When she was a little girl,” Charles says, quietly. “She used to get these nightmares—”
“I don’t want you in my nightmares.”
“I have no interest in entering them, believe me.” Charles holds his hands up. “I can get a sense of the type of feeling without having to look inside. Then I can… guide your mind to focus on other things. That’s all.”
Erik looks unconvinced, but—to his credit—he doesn’t turn Charles down outright. This, more than anything, speaks to how desperate he must be for a good night’s sleep. “You wouldn’t be messing around with my memories, would you?”
His voice gives away his resignation. Charles grins. This victory is far sweeter than any game of chess. “Absolutely not,” he promises. “I swear it.”
“Good.” Erik nods. He curls and uncurls his fingers. “If— if you’re offering, then. I suppose I could—”
“Excellent,” Charles says, unable to hide his glee. “I was so hoping you’d say yes.” He pushes back from the table as Erik awkwardly makes to stand up. “You know how much I appreciate helping those I care about.”
Erik’s expression grows slightly pained. He knows. Perhaps a bit too well.
In the bedroom, Erik shucks off the borrowed sweater. “The pants are clean,” he stutters, pausing as he pulls back the covers.
Charles wouldn’t care if Erik were crawling between his sheets covered head-to-toe in mud. He rolls himself over to the side of the bed. “I suppose you'd prefer some privacy?” he asks. “I can wait in the other room while you fall asleep.”
Erik freezes. Charles watches his throat bob. “It… might be a while,” he admits, the words barely audible. “I don’t—”
Charles’ chest tightens. He reaches out, his hand hovering briefly before coming to rest over Erik’s fist, clenched in the bedsheets. “Then let me stay. Please.”
Erik nods.
Charles does his best to make himself inconspicuous, rotating his chair so he isn’t facing Erik head-on. He draws the slats of the window closed, casting the bed—and Erik—into shadow.
“Thank you,” Erik whispers, even as he feels Charles reach out telepathically. Their minds brush together as Charles dips into his thoughts, dragging a thick blanket of relaxation over Erik’s psyche.
Charles feels Erik’s faint resistance, his internal struggle as he forces himself to relax against the intruder in his mind. Charles smiles. “Of course, my friend.”
It isn't long before Erik softens to his presence. Not long after that before Charles senses him struggling to stay awake.
“I'm trying to help you, you know.” He leans forward, whispering in Erik's ear.
Erik's lips quirk up into a drowsy half-smile. “Can't let you win so easily,” he mumbles, already nodding off.
Once Erik's breathing slows, Charles leans forward, resting his elbows on the bed and his head in his hand. He inspects Erik’s sleeping face. Not quite relaxed—Charles thinks that some of those wrinkles between the eyes are rather permanent—but certainly softer than usual. He reaches out and brushes his thumb over the frown lines that frame Erik’s lips. He twitches, but does not wake.
No amount of touching could wake him now—not while Charles sits sentinel at his bedside. Charles had promised that he would wake Erik after no more than three hours. He has already resolved to break that promise. Erik will not wake until his mind is adequately rested by Charles’ standards, however long that may take.
Charles dances his fingers along Erik’s arm as he explores the boundaries of Erik's sleeping mind. True to his word, he does not dip inside Erik’s dreams, only skirts around the edges. Even like this, their mental proximity is a balm to Charles’ nerves.
He hadn’t realized they’d become so ragged. Hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d felt truly connected to Erik —to anyone— like this. There is no feeling that could compare.
Minutes pass. Perhaps hours. Charles sits quietly, basking in the colorful glow of Erik’s mind as he brushes his fingers through the hair on Erik’s forearm. Eventually—
There.
A thin, dark ribbon of fear. Rage.
It swirls and condenses in Erik’s psyche, clouding and staining the pure landscape of his dreams like drops of ink on a still-wet painting.
Charles moves in immediately, sweeping the darkness away with broad brushstrokes. He dilutes Erik’s troubled thoughts with feelings of tranquility until there is no trace of malice left. No trace of guilt.
The negative feelings aren’t gone‚ not exactly—but they won't taint Erik’s dreams today.
When he is certain the deed has been done, Charles moves his fingers from his temple, reaching across the bed for Erik’s face. He traces the shiny pink skin around the scrape on Erik’s cheekbone, draws a stray lock of hair behind his ears. It’s grown out—longer than Charles had ever seen it. It suits him, Charles thinks, as do the streaks of grey that dust his temples, growing whiter by the day.
At least Charles will never have to wonder when he’d have ended up a silver fox himself. He’d be lucky if he could pull the look off half as well as Erik does.
He double-checks that Erik will not wake before leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to his wrist, another to his knuckles. He settles his head in the crook of his arm and tangles their fingers together, watching Erik’s chest rise and fall as the colorful beginnings of sunset slip through the cracks in the window and dance across the room.
When Erik wakes, the sun is long-gone. He must have slept for ten hours or more.
It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. It is not entirely dark—thin streaks of moonlight spill in between the slats of the window.
Erik rolls over, brushing against a warm, solid weight. At his side, Charles is snoring softly, his chair wheeled to the bedside, head and arms slouched against the mattress. Erik's irritation at not being woken sooner evaporates instantly.
Strips of moonlight kiss Charles' face. The sunkenness of his eyes and the space beneath his cheekbones are cast in soft shadows, his brows and eyelashes strikingly dark.
He looks beautiful.
Erik slips from the bed, careful not to disturb Charles as he admires him. He bends down, slipping an arm beneath his legs, lifting him gently and tipping him back softly into his arms.
“Morning already?” Charles mumbles. His head lolls against Erik's shoulder as he rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. His cheeks look soft and warm, gently creased by the wrinkled blanket he had been laying on.
“No,” Erik says, depositing him in the center of the bed.
“There's space for two,” Charles mutters, reaching forward and arranging the blankets over his legs.
Erik is already pulling back the covers and climbing in alongside him. “I know. Slide over a bit.”
They fit together like puzzle pieces, the positioning of their limbs instinctive, even after all these years. He wraps an arm around Charles’ shoulders, Charles’ hand splays against his ribs. His chin rests on Charles’ scalp.
“Did you sleep well?” Charles’ mouth brushes against his neck.
“I had the most pleasant dream.” Erik can't help the smile that tugs at his lips. “An old friend, come to my aid.”
Charles has already fallen back asleep, his soft breaths warm across the skin of Erik's throat.
Erik draws the blankets up and around their entangled bodies. Sleep has indeed done him well—his headache is gone, and there's less tension in his shoulders, at least. Still, he will need more than one ill-timed nap to make anything but a dent in the debt he owes his body. An abundance of energy is perhaps too much to have hoped for.
The Erik of a few years ago would have thrown that headlamp back on, regardless—ventured back out into the night without hesitation. But Charles shifts in his sleep, his body a warm, comforting weight against Erik’s side, and the Erik of the present finds himself pleasantly torn.
Perhaps things really could wait until tomorrow. After all, no one had come looking for him, yet. He's earned the rest.
Now that's a thought. It feels so strange and abrupt that, for a moment, Erik questions whether it truly originated from within his own mind.
He looks down at Charles, sound asleep. The soft sound of frog and insect-song is all that fills the answering silence.
Erik wraps his arm around Charles’ shoulders and holds him closer. So what if he's gone meddling in Erik's thoughts again? For once, Erik finds he doesn't much care.