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All Charles could see was a gleaming coin – a Reichsmark – catching the soft blue light of the submarine. Behind it, Erik's face. Expressionless and colder than ever.
He knew, distantly, that he was screaming. But the mental sound went unheard, muffled by the helmet Erik had chosen to hide behind. Moira was there too, he was sure of it; he could hear her voice, thick with worry.
But his focus was elsewhere. Deep inside Shaw's rotting mind. Drowning in a tide of memories and festering emotions that weren't his own. The man's soul was a ruin, hollowed out by cruelty. No light survived in the cracks. And now, that darkness was bleeding into Charles.
He longed for Erik's bright, sharp, and warm mind. The mind he had loved from the very first moment he touched it. But it was shut to him now, armored and inaccessible.
Charles trembled uncontrollably. But the fear wasn't his own. It was Shaw's. The terror of a man who knew he was about to die, who was clawing at the last shreds of will to survive. And even though that man was a monster, Charles felt it all. The desperation. The raw, human ache to live.
Still, he couldn't let go.
Even as Shaw's consciousness clawed at him, revolting and foul, Charles held on. Because if he let go – if he broke contact – Erik would've died. And Charles couldn't let that happen. Not to him.
Then the coin began to move, slicing through air, toward his head – Shaw's head. Charles could no longer tell the difference. His breath, his heartbeat, weren't his own. The rage, the fear, the vengeance. All of it blurred.
He was Charles. And he was Sebastian Shaw.
Then Charles again. And Shaw.
Erik's face was twisted in rage, stripped of every softness Charles had once found solace in. He didn't look like the man Charles loved. Not at all. This wasn't Erik. This was something else. A weapon. A hollow shell.
That was the last thing he saw before the pain split his skull open.
It took him a second too long to understand. The coin was pushing through bone and flesh. A red trail streamed from his – Shaw's – forehead, down his nose. Erik was slowly counting.
Eins.
Zwei.
Drei.
The coin carved through Shaw's head, inch by excruciating inch. And Charles felt it all.
There was satisfaction in Erik's cold, unreadable eyes. Shaw's consciousness struggled to cling to life, screeching with pain and stark terror. Even now, even at the end, he fought.
Charles hated it. Hated the way humans died, with so much pain, so much resistance. Even monsters like Shaw refused to let go. And Charles, helplessly entwined in his mind, had to witness it all.
When had Erik become this man? This cold-hearted murderer?
Charles screamed himself hoarse, his voice breaking inside his skull. Shaw's agony filled the space between his thoughts. But the man's body couldn't move, since Charles held it still.
Then everything stopped.
Silence. Except for Charles' ragged breathing and the thunder of his own heart.
The coin slid free from the back of Shaw's skull with a sickening, wet whisper. It hit the floor, faintly gleaming, smeared in crimson.
Charles felt Shaw's consciousness blow away like ash in the wind.
He doubled over and vomited.
Then came the rush, the salt air on his face, the cacophony of minds from the ships, the screams of his friends as the missiles rose into the sky. The thud of fists. Gunfire. A scream. Sand in his mouth, scouring his cheeks raw.
Pain.
Pain.
Pain.
Pain.
Soft, familiar hands on his body. Steel-grey eyes. The sky bluer than ever. Someone speaking – was it him? Someone crying. Raven. Moira. The bitter tang of sulfur.
Erik was gone. Raven too.
And he couldn't feel his legs.
He couldn't feel his legs.
He couldn't feel his legs.
He couldn't–
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Knuckles on wood. A door, pounding. Echoing through the empty halls of the mansion.
Charles woke with a gasp, cold and sharp. The dream clung to him like seawater in his lungs. His heart was pounding, frantic against bone. Someone was hammering at his door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
He glanced at the clock. Two-thirty in the morning.
For a moment, he considered waiting for one of the boys to handle it. But a quick mental sweep told him they were all still deeply asleep, blissfully unaware. So, groggily, he shifted into his chair and wheeled down the dark hallway toward the front door.
When he reached the threshold, his hand hovered over the handle. No one ever came at that hour. Not anymore. And certainly not unannounced.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
He exhaled heavily and pulled the door open. Then froze.
Magneto – Erik – stood on the other side.
He looked leaner than Charles remembered, hollowed out. Deep shadows bruised the skin under his eyes. His clothes were torn, stained with dried blood and soot. Bare hands, scraped raw. He was shivering beneath the tatters of his cape, now soaked through from the rain that had been falling all night. The helmet lay discarded at his feet.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Erik's voice, low and rough, broke the silence. "I didn't know where else to go."
Everything in Charles screamed to slam the door in his face. Two years ago, Erik had made his choice; he had left Charles bleeding in the sand – taken his sister, his leg, and his wretched heart – and hadn't looked back once. And now he was here? Asking for shelter, like nothing had happened?
The dream – the memories – of that fateful day in Cuba still flickered behind his eyes, the pain still lingering like a weight on his heart.
"I–" Erik faltered, his voice catching as if he was about to burst into tears. He looked away, tightening his jaw. "Please. I have nowhere else to go."
And Charles hated himself in that moment. Because it only took one look into those storm-grey eyes, and his resolve collapsed. Just like last time. He couldn't turn his back on him. Not when Erik stood here like this – battered, broken, looking more like a ghost. Half-dead.
Charles closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, then reached out mentally to Hank.
Out loud, he said instead, "You're hurt."
"I've been worse," Erik replied. There was no bravado in it. Only exhaustion.
Charles' grip tightened on the edge of the door. He should shut it. He should. But instead, he opened it wider.
Erik hesitated, as if he didn't quite believe what was happening. Or maybe he feared Charles might change his mind. Then, slowly, unsteadily, he stepped inside. He winced as the light hit his face. Blood had dried at his temple. His shirt hung in shreds, revealing purple bruises and a deep, angry wound along his ribs.
"Jesus, Erik," Charles muttered.
Right then, Hank came hurrying down the stairs, still half-asleep but alert enough to recognize who stood in the foyer. He stopped dead, his spine straightening, every muscle in his body going tense. His eyes narrowed into slits. Rage flared in his mind, bright, hot, and red.
"Charles, what–?" he snapped, making no attempt to hide his fury.
Please, Hank, Charles whispered into his mind, weariness coating every word. Just… take him to the infirmary. And give him a room. One far from ours.
Hank's face twisted in disbelief. But Charles, he's–
He's wounded. And he's one of us, Charles cut in sharply. I won't turn my back on him. Not until he's well enough to stand on his own. Then I'll gladly kick him out.
Hank hesitated, lips parted in protest. But then he sighed bitterly and gave a curt nod.
Thank you, Charles said quietly.
Erik, who had stood silently during the exchange, now looked between them. His gaze lingered on Charles, then dropped briefly to the chair. He said nothing, as Hank gestured to follow him. And Erik silently complied.
The moment the door closed behind them, the mansion fell silent again.
Charles remained in the foyer, alone. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to stop the tears. But the pain blooming behind his lids couldn't drown out the weight in his chest. Shock and sorrow twisted around his heart like a vine of thorns.
~❦~
Erik had been given a room in the east wing of the mansion – far from everyone else – and there he was left alone. No one visited him, except Hank, who came once a day to tend his wounds and deliver his meals. Sean and Alex kept their distance; Erik hadn't seen them once. And from the pointed silence Hank offered whenever Erik asked, it was clear they weren't pleased to have him under the same roof.
And then there was Charles.
He hadn't come once. Not even a glimpse. No matter how hard Erik tried to reach out with his mind, there was only silence. A vast, aching quiet. It had never been like this before. Being near Charles had always meant feeling him. His presence was ambient, woven into the very air around him. Even at rest, Charles' thoughts brushed against everyone's minds.
Now, there was… nothing.
Erik wanted – no, needed – to talk to him. To apologize. To fall on his knees and beg for forgiveness if that's what it took. But Charles never came. And every attempt to glean anything from Hank had been met with an uncomfortable silence and a downcast look.
The only thing Hank had told him was the medical reality of Charles' spinal cord injury. The damage. And the consequences.
That night, Erik lay on the unfamiliar bed in the dim guest room, staring up at the ceiling with tear-streaked cheeks and a heart that felt like it was rotting inside his chest.
He had nothing left.
No family to protect.
No cause to fight for.
No people to lead.
No one to love.
And no one left to love him back.
The Brotherhood had turned on him; Emma Frost now leading what was left of it. Their betrayal had nearly killed him. If not for sheer luck and instinct, he wouldn't have escaped the assassination attempt.
Raven had already been gone for over a year, drifting through the world in search of herself, unreachable.
And Charles… Charles had been lost long before that. Lost the moment Erik chose to walk away on that cursed beach, leaving behind the only person who had ever loved him without condition, without fear.
And now?
Now, there was nothing he could do. No speech, no apology, no act of redemption would ever be enough. Charles had made his feelings clear. He wanted nothing more to do with Erik. But Erik couldn't move on. He didn't know how.
He'd forgotten what it felt like to be this hollow. That kind of emptiness that gnawed at him like a worm in his chest – quiet and relentless. A formless ache that had once followed him across the world during his long hunt for Shaw, back when rage and vengeance were all he had. When he carried the memory of his mother's last breath like a weapon, clutched tight in trembling fists.
But even then, he'd had purpose. A mission. A reason to keep breathing.
Now there was nothing. Only silence.
As he wandered the dim, echoing hallways of the mansion, he couldn't help but remember. The laughter that used to ring through the walls. The chaos of mismatched footsteps and youthful energy as Charles led their ragtag team of misfits through exercises that always fell apart in the most absurd ways.
He missed Sean's screeching and his boundless enthusiasm. Raven's laughter and stupid jokes. Alex's rare, crooked smiles. Hank's flustered blushes. But most of all, he missed Charles. Charles, thriving in the center of it all, radiant and patient, endlessly kind, effortlessly slipping into the role of mentor and leader.
He missed the warmth of those days. And he hated how much he'd needed it. Because even then, he'd known he didn't deserve it.
And now, he'd lost them. His… family.
Never in his life had Erik cried as much as he had since returning to the Xavier mansion. And not quiet tears, but gut-wrenching, soul-emptying sobs. There was no shame left to hold his grief together, nothing to keep his heart from fracturing into a thousand irreparable shards.
And he knew no one would be willing to gather the pieces.
That was fine. That was fair. It was what he deserved.
His fingers, still trembling, found the edge of the library doorway. The same threshold he and Charles had crossed a hundred times before. The place where they'd once spent quiet evenings talking, debating, dreaming. The chessboard still sat by the hearth, their last game unfinished, pieces frozen in time.
His body still throbbed with pain from his wounds, but it was nothing compared to the weight in his chest. That was worse. That was constant pressure that sleep couldn't ease, that crying couldn't empty, that screaming couldn't silence.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into the stillness, voice cracking. "I never meant to hurt you, Charles. I never meant to hurt you…"
But he had.
He'd been blind and arrogant. He thought he could chase his vision of justice and leave behind the people who mattered. He thought his cause would carry him forward, but all it had done was strip him bare. He'd believed in a future carved from pain, built on fear and power. And in doing so, he had erased everything good in his life.
He should have stayed. Should have compromised. Should have tried harder to find a way forward together.
Instead, he let that damned beach become the graveyard of everything he loved.
And now Charles wouldn't let him in. Not even into the smallest corner of his presence. And Erik couldn't blame him, because – after what he'd done to him – Charles had every right to shut him out.
He swallowed hard. His throat burned. His tears had long since dried, leaving behind only the brittle tension in his chest, like a porcelain plate just moments from shattering. One wrong breath, and he'd crack.
He thought of the way Charles used to look at him – bright-eyed, fascinated, like Erik was someone worth knowing. Worth believing in. Someone good. Someone beautiful. That gaze had been the first thing to make Erik doubt his path. The first light that had pierced the thick walls he'd built around himself.
And he'd thrown it away. He'd chosen vengeance over hope. Anger over love. Shaw over Charles.
And now, all he had was a quiet room, a scarred body, and a mind full of ghosts.
He didn't even know why he was still here. This house wasn't his anymore. It wasn't a home, it was a liminal space. A crossing point. Temporary. He had nowhere left to go.
And more and more, he found himself wondering: if he had nothing left then who was he? If there was nowhere he could return to – nowhere he could call home what was left of him at all?
He buried his face in his hands, chest heaving with a soundless sob. "I just want to come home," he whispered.
But he didn't know where home was anymore. Not without Charles.
~❦~
For two years, Charles had wondered what Erik was doing – where he was, how he was – and whether he missed him even half as much as Charles did.
He knew he should have hated him for what he'd done. And maybe, deep down, some part of him did. But more than anything, Charles lived in the constant torment of trying to repress how much he missed him, and the bitter truth that, even if he tried, he couldn't stop loving him.
Sometimes, in the dark silence of night, when the world was still and his thoughts had nowhere to hide, he wondered if Erik even knew what he'd truly taken from him.
And it wasn't his legs. That had been an accident, one Charles had forgiven long ago. What haunted him, what never stopped hurting, was the betrayal. The memory of it burned behind his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to shut it out.
It was after Cuba that Charles had realized how much of himself he'd been willing to give up for Erik, despite having known him only a few short months; he had even helped him kill a man, gone against every principle he stood for, just for Erik's sake. It was in that sterile, lonely hospital room that the truth finally settled in: it had never been the same for Erik. Erik had chosen power over him.
And it wasn't that Charles didn't understand Erik's pain. He did, more than anyone. But he had trusted him. With everything: his mind, his past, his powers, his values… his heart. Erik had used him, then walked away when Charles was no longer useful.
And now he was back, broken and bleeding, ready to use him again. And of course, Charles let him in. Because no matter what Erik had done, he couldn't bear the thought of him suffering alone. He couldn't stop loving him – not even now, not even after everything.
But he kept his distance and shuttered his mind. He couldn't even bear to face him, not when that day in Cuba still hunted him in his nightmares. Not when he looked at Erik and saw the same man who had killed him without hesitation. Because yes, that coin had passed through another man's skull, but it had also passed through Charles'. It had taken a part of him with it, and left behind a void.
That was what happened to him as a telepath when he intertwined his mind with someone who was dying. A part of his soul died with them.
And that time, it had been Erik's fault. The same man who had sworn to love and protect him for the rest of his life.
Charles knew – even with all the space the Xavier estate allowed – he couldn't avoid Erik forever. Sooner or later, their paths would've crossed, and the flood of emotion would've spilled over the barriers he'd worked so hard to build.
Still, he kept his distance. But in the end, it was never enough.
The first time, they passed one another in the library – one entering as the other left. No greeting. Charles turned away quickly when he saw Erik hesitate, as if about to speak.
The second time, Charles saw him from his study window, wandering the garden like a lost soul. The ghost of himself, lost in the shadows and unable to return home. A surge of pity rose in his chest, but he crushed it. Erik didn't deserve his pity. Not anymore.
The third time, Charles was wheeling toward the kitchen, lost in thought. He didn't notice Erik was already inside until he crossed the threshold, and froze.
Erik stood at the counter, rummaging through cupboards. The kettle on the stove began to whistle. Without turning around, he lifted a hand, summoned it with ease, and poured steaming water into a mug.
It was nothing Charles hadn't seen before; Erik often used his powers for mundane tasks, especially in the kitchen. But something in that moment made Charles' whole body stiffened. Flashes from his nightmares – memories, damn it! – rushed forward. He tried to force them back, but they wouldn't go.
Panicked, he turned to leave, but his hands were trembling too much. He lost control of the wheels and slammed into the doorjamb with a loud crack.
His throat tightened, breath shallow, chest caving in with panic. His heart thrashed wildly, with that same blind frenziness that had overtaken him on the beach, when he first had realized he couldn't feel his legs.
It was then that Erik turned around, and, for the surprise, dropped the kettle to the ground with a loud clang.
"Charles…" he breathed out, stepping forward. "Are you alright? Should I call someone?"
He looked genuinely concerned, but all Charles could see was the hand moving toward him, triggering a full-blown fit. He began to mumble, shaking his head with force. It almost hurt.
"No, no, no, no, no–"
Erik called his name again, louder now, panic rising in his voice. He reached toward him again. Charles recoiled. Erik froze, face twisted with pain. And then he stepped back – once, twice, three times.
Four.
"I'm– I'm sorry," he whispered, voice shaking. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
Oh, but Charles already was.
He couldn't stop trembling, breath coming in shallow bursts, fingers clenched around the armrests of his chair like they were the only things anchoring him to the world. He hated this, the way his body betrayed him, how it cowered beneath the weight of memories and fear he couldn't control.
"I didn't mean to," Erik said again, softer this time.
"I know you didn't," Charles rasped. His voice felt foreign, cracked and small, like it came from a far away place.
A heavy silence settled between them.
Erik hadn't moved; pain sat raw on his face, carved into every line. Charles couldn't stand to look at it, so he closed his eyes. It didn't help. His mind, treacherous as ever, conjured Erik's face and laid it over the memory of Cuba – the inhuman look he had while he'd pushed the coin through their heads. He felt trapped all over again. In Shaw's mind. In his own body.
He forced his eyes open. "I see you use your powers," he murmured, voice unsteady. "And all I can think about is what it felt like to be in the mind of a dying man." A breath. "I can still feel my skull being split open."
Erik opened his mouth to speak, but Charles cut him off with a cold glare.
"And then I was on the sand," he continued, relentlessly. "Paralyzed. I couldn't feel my legs, Erik. I couldn't–" His voice broke. "And there was so much pain. So much fear."
Erik flinched. His whole frame sagged, guilt folding him inward, settling across his shoulders like a weight too long carried.
"I trusted you," Charles spat, the words burning in his throat like venom now that the dam inside his heart had collapsed. "With everything. And you just… used me. And threw me away like some broken toy once I was no longer useful."
He ran a shaking hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. "I know you didn't mean to scare me," he said. "But I am afraid of you, Erik."
That hit harder than anything else. Erik looked as though Charles had reached inside his chest and crushed his heart in his fist.
"Charles," he choked, tears sliding freely down his cheeks. "I– I don't know how to fix it. I want to. I need to."
Charles looked down at his hands, still trembling. "And what if it's too late for that?"
Erik stepped forward, instinctively, but Charles flinched. It was barely a twitch, enough for Erik to stop dead.
"Don't," Charles said softly, shaking his head. "Please. Just... don't."
The silence between them thickened, bitter as smoke. Suffocating. Charles' heart pounded so loudly in his ears it made him lightheaded, and if not for the chair beneath him, he might have collapsed.
Never in his life had he done anything harder than this. He didn't even know where the courage had come from, to look Erik in the eye and finally say what he'd kept buried for so long.
"I want to forgive you," Charles whispered. "God, I want to. But I don't know if I can."
Erik's mouth opened, then closed.
And Charles didn't wait. He turned the chair and wheeled out of the room, the echo of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, Erik's silence chasing after him like a shadow that never let go.
~❦~
Erik stood shattered in the kitchen. Charles was gone.
He hadn't expected forgiveness – he knew he didn't deserve it – but… Charles had been afraid of him. The only person who had never feared him now flinched at his presence.At his powers.
Erik had always known he was a monster. But once, long ago, Charles had shown him there could be more to him. Charles had believed it. He'd fought with everything he had to make Erik believe it too.
Now, even Charles didn't believe it anymore. And if Charles couldn't believe it, how could Erik?
He had had countless nightmares after Cuba, dreams where Charles turned his back on him, where he hated him, where he took revenge. But none of them compared to this. Nothing had ever broken him like Charles' words.
The last fragile flicker of hope Erik had kept alive in his heart fluttered, and died. It bled out of him like a wound torn open. And he understood, at last, that he'd forfeited the right to hope the day he turned his back on Charles in Cuba. The day he walked away from the only person who had truly known him and still loved him.
He wanted to leave again. To run far, far away before he caused more harm.
But this time, his legs wouldn't move. They were tired of running. Tired of chasing ghosts: first Shaw and revenge, then the illusion of utopia, now a shapeless hope for peace.
Running had been his only answer.
No more. It was time to stay. To let peace into his life, to build something real. To fight for what was right.
If there was even a sliver of a chance, he would give all of himself to it. For the trust he'd broken. For the love he'd never stopped feeling. He owed Charles that much, even if Charles would've never looked at him the same way again, never held him again. Even if all he could offer now was atonement.
Gazing up at the ceiling, he swore: he would earn the right to stand beside Charles again. To be worthy of him.
And from that day on, he put himself to work.
Charles didn't speak to him again. Not at first. Nor did Alex or Sean.
But Erik didn't give up. He kept going, doing chores around the house, cooking for everyone, always offering help. He forced himself to be open, patient, and kind. He longed to rebuild the trust he'd shattered, and ultimately, regain their affection. To make himself part of the family again.
Sooner than he'd expected, the boys began to warm to him, though wariness lingered. They asked for his help during training, turned to him with small problems, pulled him into their banter and silly games.
He joined in, eager, grateful. Desperate to prove he belonged.
Charles… Charles avoided him when he could. And when he couldn't, he kept his words brief and polite. Empty.
One afternoon, Erik sat in the conservatory, bathed in soft light and surrounded by green vines that trailed across the glass walls. A book lay forgotten in his lap, his eyes unfocused, lost in thought for what could have been hours. A warm beam of sunlight rested on his face, and – for the first time in what felt like forever – he felt at peace .
Then, he sensed the familiar hum of Charles' wheelchair entering the room. His powers registered it before his conscious mind did. Erik sat up straighter and closed the book.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly as Charles came into view. "I'll go."
Charles blinked, clearly caught off guard. He didn't flinch, just stared at him, puzzled. Suddenly self-conscious, Erik shifted to stand.
"No, no. Stay," Charles murmured. "I didn't know you were here."
He turned his chair slightly, as if to leave, but didn't move further.
Erik didn't have time to think. The words came unbidden, and the moment they left his mouth, he cringed.
"Stay."
Charles froze, his back still to him. But he didn't wheel away. He simply sat there, waiting.
Panic flared. Now it was his move. Erik had to say something… something that mattered. But he didn't know how to begin. Then again, he hadn't known back then either. And that had already cost him everything once.
"I– I stayed," he began, then grimaced. Lame. "I mean… I'll stay. I'm not going to press you. I won't ask for anything. I just want you to know… I'm not going anywhere. Not this time."
For a long moment, Charles said nothing, but Erik saw his shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath.
Before the silence could close in again, Erik continued. "I know you don't believe me. That I won't run. And I don't blame you. I should've stayed the first time. I should've fought – for you, for us, for everything we were building. But I… I was afraid."
Charles' hands tightened on the wheels of his chair. The silence that followed was different now – still heavy, but not quite so sharp.
"I don't hate you, Erik," Charles said at last. His voice was soft, uncertain.
Erik hadn't realized how much he needed to hear those words until then. A wave of quiet relief washed over him, lifting something from his chest he hadn't known was there.
"But I don't know if I trust you," Charles added quickly, "not yet. Still, I… I don't want to hate you."
He turned his head slightly but didn't quite meet Erik's eyes. A tired smile tugged at his lips, jaw tense.
Erik nodded, his breath catching. "That's enough," he said. "It's more than I deserve."
Charles finally met his gaze. There was pain in his gaze, undeniable, etched deep. But there was something else too. Not forgiveness, not even love, but a flicker of the past. A recognition of something that might still be salvaged.
He was more open than he'd been since Cuba. And Erik saw the chance, a second opportunity to do right. And there was nothing Erik could do to stop the hope that filled his chest.
"Alright then," Charles said, more to himself than to Erik. "We'll see where this goes."
~❦~
Later that evening, Erik knocked softly on the door to Charles' study, two mugs in hand and a hesitant smile on his lips. Even the anxiety churning in his stomach couldn't dislodge the warmth in his expression.
When Charles let him in, he used his powers gently to ease the door open.
"Chamomile," he said quietly as he stepped inside.
Charles glanced at the mug for a moment, then reached out to accept it. Their fingers brushed briefly, but Charles didn't recoil. Instead, he offered a faint smile and murmured, "Thank you."
Erik lingered a second longer, watching him take a small sip. Then, with a soft smile of his own, he turned toward the door.
"Good night, Charles," he said.
"Good night, Erik," came the reply. Just as quiet, just as tentative.
Nothing was fixed yet. But it was a start. And Erik would make the best of it.
He had made a promise, after all.