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Magneto didn't notice the slow slipping of his powers, the subtle trickling away of focus, the dullness when he stretched his powers to their limits, for months. The Brotherhood's initial assault on the CIA compound to free Emma had been enough to distract the Americans from attempting to come after him, and the Russians had made a similar decision based only on their showing during the Cuban Missile Crisis. With Shaw dead there was no need to rip submarines from the ocean or even to fly with the precise control of magnetic waves he had managed in the wake of Shaw's death, and it was easy to grow just a touch complacent.
He would never be deaf to the waves that his mutation allowed him to manipulate again; the subtle waves that penetrated every layer of the earth and the sky were always in the back of his mind now, and yet...
The efforts he made to rip metal from the earth and settle it into the bones of a compound for the Brotherhood to call home were more difficult than he had expected. It went up piecemeal, over days rather than minutes.
Emma did not notice the failing, she had not been there for the final confrontation with Shaw, Azazel, Angel and Riptide had been in little condition to judge. Mystique, however, was the first to realize - even before he had put it into words.
"You're slipping."
"What?"
"Not pushing yourself enough." Like Charles had taught them. Neither of them had anything resembling Charles' psychic powers, and yet the thought hung uneasily between them.
Her perception unnerved him. Magneto was used to understanding her, of seeing where Charles' over protection had kept her from blossoming, and of thinking that he understood her better than she did. But she had noticed his weakness before he had seen it in himself. He was still dozens - maybe hundreds - of times more in tune with his mutation than he had been before he had met her, and yet he could not help but see that she had a point. He had peaked somewhere in the past.
"A war is coming, we need to be ready." The need to protect his kind, to keep them from ever being victims or lab rats was what drove him now; the sweetness of victory over Shaw should have been enough to keep his mind sharp; the rage at the Americans and Russians who had tried to stab them in the back should have kept his rage hard. He ran his hand over the cool metal of the helmet he wore near-constantly. "Somewhere between rage and serenity..."
"What?" Her pure-yellow eyes narrowed slightly, confused by the abrupt change in topic.
"Something your--" He cut himself off. They did not speak about Charles.
Mystique turned away, eyes downcast. "You were... we both were better with him at our side."
"Why do you think I asked him to join me?" He snapped at her, more angry than he should have been. He didn't want to guide and foster mutants without Charles by his side. He'd been a better man - a sharper man - with Charles there. With him he could move mountains.
She reached out and squeezed his hand, softly, and then curled up next to him and he slid an arm around her the way he'd seen Charles do when the two of them were curled up, alone in their childhood home. Red hair tucked against his shoulder, she molded into him. "I miss him, too."
Magneto had only know the man for a few months, and yet he had been deep enough in his mind so many times that he could feel the furrows Charles had worn there that had made communicating mind to mind so easy - cut off by his helmet. He wondered if it was like that for Mystique, too, or if the rules Charles had set for himself with her had saved her that ache at least.
"He should be at our side."
She shook her head. "He loves humans, loves their heterochromatic eyes, loves their music, just... loves them, even when they hate us he loves them."
It was something he could never understand. Months ago he had taken it for Charles being so naive as to think that every human would see them the way Moira did, but reflection on that made it truly impossible for him to believe that.
"I've seen what they can do: murder, torture, sadism, and worse. How can he look inside a single mind and love them?" All of that was in his own mind as well, he had long since given up on his own ability to not succumb to those same vices, but he was made to be that monster - the humans who hated them had no such excuse.
Mystique shrugged under his hand. "I don't know. He's been like that since before we met."
Charles. He had touched the minds in the CIA, on the ships out to sea in Cuba, Erik's mind, and yet he was still shocked by every betrayal. Naive fool. Yet he was the naive fool that could so easily pull him to the place between rage and serenity where his powers were strongest. Even the memory of Shaw's death, burned bright in his own mind - a bittersweet mixture of rage, revenge, and peace - could bring that peak back. The brightest memories of his childhood that Charles had brought back to the surface had somehow already started to fade.
It was... ironic, he supposed. It seemed Erik was nothing without his creator, and less than his full potential without the mind that had helped mold him further. Schmidt had unlocked his rage, but Charles had given him serenity, and now it was fading away.
"I have to go."
Mystique turned in his arms, somehow seeing his thoughts in his eyes - perhaps growing up with a psychic for a brother made you particularly apt at reading everything but the mind. "I'll take care of everything here."
And he knew she would; she truly was magnificent, but she wasn't the Xavier who had wormed into his head, and that was what he needed right now.
* * *
Due to his ability - there was very little in the world that could surprise Charles. People - human and mutant alike - broadcasted their intent, their internal conflict, and their aims so clearly that he heard them long before they acted without even putting conscious effort into it. However, he was surprised when the dark spot in his senses that hovered around his sister began the slow trip towards Westchester without her, and obviously without Azazel.
Interesting.
Erik was coming - or it was Magneto, he supposed. When Erik had made that decision to cut Charles from his mind completely he had become someone else in a way Charles hadn't expected.
It took more pushes and presses against the minds of Hank and the others to get them out of the house than he would have liked. He was not in the habit of leaving the school undefended, and yet -- a large part of him couldn't imagine allowing any of his children within a hundred miles of Magneto when he arrived. They were still caught up in their frustration and anger with Erik - with Magneto - that he was incapable of feeling. Their frustrated rage and anger that sometimes reflected around in Charles' mind was enough to let him know he was not alone, but too much for him to trust Alex or Hank or Sean to allow a parlay without a high chance for misunderstanding.
Charles wished he could have been in their study - perhaps sitting at that chess board, a cocktail waiting for Erik, that last chess game still set up every piece in place where they had left it the night before... the night before Cuba. It was a habit with them, leaving a night's game unfinished; for Charles it was the only influence he would use to keep Erik there another day - for Erik...
Charles had never been certain what Erik might have gotten from it. Erik wore his pain and his history on the tip of his mind, but those more subtle motivations were something that Charles had never plucked from him. Perhaps he should have.
Instead, he was in the first floor study, his study, attached to another small den that had been converted for his use, a different chess board hastily set up to mirror the one two floors up; black to move.
* * *
Magneto had no reason to doubt that Charles was expecting him. The grounds were completely abandoned, no noises of children at play, or even a few up late to avoid sleeping. The lights were out across the entire house, the only lights that were visible were in the kitchen - just a single light - and two rooms on the ground floor that were lit for someone awake late at night.
The front door wasn't even locked.
He let himself in, let himself wander for a few minutes, fingers running along the wood paneled walls as he made his way to the kitchen, looked out over the back of the house - satellite dish reflecting moonlight in the distance. The place he'd rested his head for barely two weeks was a comforting and familiar home.
It seemed Charles would not be coming to him. Magneto had almost expected he would, that he might hear his friend's footsteps behind him, his soft voice - smile audible no matter what he said.
No matter. Charles didn't know what to expect from him; he would let Charles pick the terrain if he wanted.
The first thing he noticed when he entered the room was the martini sitting lonely on the table just inside. He picked it up, the brief flirtation with the idea it was drugged was dismissed without a second thought. He couldn't help but smile, it was... so very Charles to act as though no time had passed, nothing to forgive, everything was fine; Magneto wished he could be so certain of that himself.
He swirled the drink in the glass, eyes sweeping over the room, books, a desk, everything luxurious and posh and rich - like Charles. A few more tentative steps and he saw his friend there, sitting so casually in front of a chessboard, leaning slightly on one arm, fingers touching against his lips, lips curled in a slight smile.
The chair he was in - however - was some garish monstrosity compared to the opulence of the rest of the room, modern and art deco and so decidedly un-Charles. The wheels were emblazoned with ridiculous 'X's that...
Wheels.
His eyes raked over the chair a second time, desperately wishing that he could find some hint that he had jumped to the wrong conclusion, but no. It was the very state of the art, likely Hank's design, but still inescapably a wheelchair.
"Charles, I..." The words were out before he could think them, his mouth closed as his mind played through every scenario he could imagine, looking for proof that somehow what he knew in his heart wasn't true No, my friend, you did this. No spite, no anger, just a statement of fact as he laid there in Magneto's arms. "... I..." Tears welled in his eyes as the weight of a fractured friendship grew unbearably heavy.
"My friend, please, not tonight." And he was smiling, smiling as though it was nothing and his friend had just been away and had stopped by for martinis and chess and fucking philosophy! And he was so unaccountably mad at Charles. Mad. Mad and... He buried his face in his hands, fingers splayed across his eyes so Charles wouldn't see and the tears fell even harder as he struggled to breathe, his ribs somehow crushing around his lungs. "I am just very glad to see you."
And that broke him. Charles didn't need to twist his fingers into his mind to break him the way Magneto knew he could. He did it so easily just with words.
Magneto closed the distance between them, not even realizing he'd moved until his hands were on Charles' knees and his helmet pressed against Charles' thigh, and he heard his friend hiss, maybe in pain, and he knew he shouldn't have touched him, should have pulled away now that he had, but he couldn't. let. go.
Charles reached down and touched him, thumb pressed against his skin at the back of his neck where the helmet couldn't reach, more fingers splayed over his shoulder. They stayed like that for minutes maybe, Magneto trying to come to terms with just how badly he had hurt his greatest friend, unable to. Charles' hand stroking him softly, fingers light on his back, not saying anything while his cried.
Then he heard Charles chuckle, that ridiculous, self-deprecating, oh-I'm-just-a-professor chuckle. "My friend, I hate to be such an ungrateful host since you have come all this way, but that helmet really is quiet painful for me."
He realized, far too belatedly, what a helmet designed to suppress telepathy must have done pressed against the skin of a telepath and he felt sick again. Somehow he couldn't help but keep hurting Charles over and over again. He grabbed the helmet, flung it away as hard as he could, shocked by the press of another mind so close to him, Charles... surrounding him, his friend's mind ghosting around his, gently, lighter than he was used to when Charles grabbed him and they spoke in each other's minds, but so comforting.
He didn't deserve it.
Charles just touched the back of his neck and rested his hand there, denying the thought - somehow - whether he'd heard it or not.
Erik laughed, bitterly. He'd come here hoping that Charles might help him find serenity, but now he wondered if he would ever feel it again, or if he could ever even deserve it again.
* * *
Charles found it frightfully difficult to not slide into Erik's mind as his head stayed in his lap, fingers touching Erik's back and teasing the ends of his hair. Erik's mind was always raw, always fractured open, but right now he was leaking everywhere and Charles found he just slightly longed for the deafness brought by the helmet because it was almost too much for him. Erik's self-loathing couldn't help but reawaken the emotions that Charles had to categorize and pack away months ago when he dealt with his own feelings about his paralyzed legs, and Charles struggled to keep those feelings down, so he could not burden Erik with that as well.
The ragged edges of his friends mind that were clawing against him might well rip open if Charles pressed too hard.
"I never meant to hurt you, Charles."
"I know." He did. That was one thing he always knew, helmet or not, that Erik never meant to hurt him. That did not mean the man was not a master at it.
He let his friend's emotions tumble around in his own head, not touching, not plucking at them to examine them more closely, just letting them roil around in that black sea. He had already resolved, months ago, long before Erik had decided to come see him, that if he ever did, Charles would listen, and offer what he could. Charles could not accept any invitation that Erik might offer, but he absolutely would not push him away.
Never.
* * *
"What can I do for you, my friend?" Charles finally asked when Erik had pried his head away, stood, and taken his place in the chair across from Charles. His eyes were no doubt still read from his tears, but Charles ignored that.
It was almost annoying - definitely annoying - how much Charles could upset his already tumultuous emotions, yet it did it as easily as breathing. Charles always shook almost everything he believed, and even that - on some days - Erik just wished and hoped that Charles' way would somehow be enough, but he had seen too many human monsters in his lifetime to believe it possible.
He tumbled what he wanted to say over in his head, wishing he could polish into something that made sense to say, but now that he was here, looking at Charles, seeing what he had done to him, it seemed disgusting and hollow to ask his friend to make him whole again.
He had no good answers. And yet Charles waited.
Erik took another sip of his drink, looking down at the chess board and slowly realizing that the setup was from their last match. How very sentimental, Charles.
The curve of his friend's lips said that Charles had definitely heard that, he tilted his head just a bit in silent acknowledgement of the assessment.
"I need your help, Charles," he said, finally. That was what he had come for and no matter what he was feeling he could not leave until he had at least heard his friend's answer.
Charles tensed instantly, the slight smile disappeared and was replaced with a hard line that seemed so foreign to Erik. His own mind shut down, walled off, he didn't need the helmet to snap his thoughts down and he saw how much the action hurt Charles, made him wince again.
"I have no right to ask, I know. Not after everything I have done to you, but I need your help."
His friend's face relaxed slightly, the tension he saw across the shoulders of the clean suit Charles wore eased. Charles closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Why don't you explain what you think you need from me. I ... would like to hear it from you."
"Killing Shaw did not bring me the serenity I might had hoped for." Truth be told, he had never considered 'after', not really.
Charles brought his fingers up to his head, and at first Erik expected the fingers to fall to his temple - but instead the man rubbed his forehead, as though brushing away a headache. The look on his face was difficult for Erik to read, but it was not the soft and peaceful smile he'd been wearing. "And?"
"All that's left is rage." After. He supposed he had always thought that he would be dead. Even with all of his powers, even without knowing that Shaw was a nearly unkillable mutant, Erik had just assumed when it was all over it would be the end for him. Maybe just that he would fade away, strings cut and purpose fulfilled; maybe that he would lie there bleeding out as Shaw towered over him, smiling wickedly. He had never expected to find the purpose that Charles had given him - that he and Charles had shared - guiding their new race.
"Oh, my friend... There has always been so much more to you than that rage. I wish you could see it in yourself as easily as I see it in you." Charles looked him over for a few moments, before reaching down to the wheels of his chair and coming over to Erik's side. "Come with me."
Always. He wished it was that simple. Erik thought they might go back outside to the satellite, but instead Charles took them to the kitchen. He hadn't noticed the first time - had just assumed it was to make the Xavier kitchen large enough for the mutants Charles would have collected in the last year - but it had been almost completely overhauled. Overhauled to suit Charles.
He watched, silent, as Charles puttered around the kitchen, preparing tea, the perfect solution to all problems. Charles was at ease with the dance, it seemed, moved around as though he did this every day, and Erik couldn't help but be slightly impressed as he leaned against the window and looked out over the grounds - there was a ramp down the stairs that led to the back. He shook his head, almost bemused.
"I know you do not care to have me in your mind, but it will be necessary if we are going to bring forward those memories again."
There was no easy response to that. Erik had not thought about those moments recently, the scream of Charles in his mind to not use Shaw's helmet and then the sudden silence. It's not that I don't trust you, Charles.
"I meant what I said. I did trust you."
"Did?"
"Do," he corrected almost instantly when Charles pushed. Charles hadn't even pushed hard, barely a touch. He trusted Charles, even to this day.
Erik does not need Charles' gift to see the question on his friend's face. Why?
There was no good way to say it, no good way to explain. "Charles... I'd lived with that moment for so long, known how I was going to kill the man who murdered my mother. You're not like that, Charles... I didn't want you to have to feel what I was going to do."
He watched Charles bow his head and run his hand over his forehead again, cupping his head in his palm, frustrated, maybe, but not angry. The teakettle on the stove started to whistle and Charles continued his slow dance to prepare his tea. "I suppose that is better than some of the other options I had considered."
Erik didn't know what to say.
Only a minute later he was at the table tea set there and Erik awkwardly poured himself a glass. They had far more frequently shared alcohol, not tea, but he understood why Charles might be hesitant tonight.
He was different in so many ways that Erik wasn't certain he could categorize. The casual scraping of his surface thoughts was gone, and he wondered if that was something that Charles had reserved only for him - it had to be, Erik knew that for Charles that was as natural as breathing. Then he realized he was keeping his friend from breathing and again he was frustrated with himself.
"Go ahead, Charles. Keeping a similar promise to your sister brought you nothing good." Charles really was horrible at reading people without his powers.
Of course, what he had said hurt Charles again, bright blue eyes downcast into his teacup. Still, that touch of Charles' mind came back and Erik was surprised how much he missed it, how much he missed Charles just understanding him.
"I will help you." Relief flooded through Erik. "I have a condition, however." Erik eyed him, wary. "Something I learned from you, my friend. You must promise me... that you will not use your new found serenity against my children."
His anger flared immediately, but Charles didn't shrink back from it. He'd been expecting it. "Charles, I..." Of course he wouldn't... but even as he thought it the doubt started to creep in. If he attacked humans, Charles would defend them, Charles' children would defend them.
* * *
Charles felt Erik turn the promise over in his head, could even feel him touching the edges of it for some way to wiggle out of what he knew would be the consequences of an acceptance. No matter what Erik thought, Charles had never been naive. Not when they had met, not years and years before they had met. Charles had been gifted with talents that manifested almost from birth, he was well aware of the fundamental darkness that humans were capable of, a darkness that had visited itself on Erik when he was young and vulnerable and afraid. Unlike Erik, Charles had also always been fundamentally aware of the goodness that lurked even in the darkest of minds. His naivety had always been a desire to believe that better nature might win out if given the opportunity.
He was always willing to give Erik that opportunity.
Erik did not fight him, did not fight his touch to stay close to his mind as he worked his way through the promise. He can even feel Erik thinking of how this knowledge that he had given him had strengthened Charles' hand when - if - their two ideologies collided.
He still held out the hope that this could end without Charles and Erik breaking entirely, that he could live in a world where his sister could be open with herself and find the acceptance that Charles had never been able to give her, so wrapped up in his own paranoia of losing her that he never let her out of her shell. Today would be the start of that, or an end.
"I promise."
At least for today, Erik believed that.
* * *
Everything had become so complicated. When Erik had been alone it was simple, his rage left him with more than enough power to control anything he needed; he had killed quickly and efficiently, his powers were extensive. Yet he'd seen how much farther he could go if he could keep his serenity - with Charles - and it was tantalizing and infuriating.
"I promise." He owed that much to Charles. They might be on opposite sides of many philosophical divides, but they were still mutants, on the same side in that. Charles might not have the same hatred for them, but they both knew that humans would sell them out at the first opportunity. If anything he needed his serenity to protect Charles and give them the space to be what Charles wanted for them.
"Good. I hope you will not mind me saying it, but I do not think Hank and the others would appreciate having you here at the moment, Erik. So we will have to settle for what we can manage tonight." Charles wheeled himself away, towards the back of the mansion, tea secured carefully and Erik had to stop himself from picking it up and carrying it for Charles. Whether intentional or not, Charles was projecting an air of someone who could more than take care of himself, and although he wondered how much was pride and how much was reality, he would let Charles have that.
Erik followed. He could only imagine what the three mutants who had stayed with Charles thought of him, nothing good. If anything they would likely think even worse of him now, seeing what his careless behavior had done to Charles. It was something he richly deserved.
The back of the mansion had a few rooms that had been clearly decked out as training rooms. Charles likely could no longer reach the bunker where Alex had trained - not without serious changes in the design - and it seemed likely this was the temporary solution.
"Have a seat."
Erik settled down, legs crossed; this was more like meditation than what he and Charles had done before - what felt like ages ago - with his friend touching his mind and bringing out the bright spots in his memory. Memories of his mother.
Charles wheeled up beside him, fingers lightly ghosting against Erik's temples. He knew Charles could have done this without the touch - likely could have done it without his tick of bringing his own fingers to his own temples - but he allowed the touch because... if he was honest with himself he would admit that Charles' casual violation of his mental privacy, and how willing he was to allow it, was a reminder of far more simple times.
"Go ahead."
Eyes closed, he let his own thoughts wander and he could feel Charles prodding in his head. The same memories that Charles had brought back to him came slowly - Hanukkah, the simple pleasures of just being with his mother... he felt something like peace for a moment, before the image was interrupted by an image of Shaw, coin boring into his brain. The memory ended abruptly, Charles' fingers flew from his temple and Erik felt a mix of cold rage and the press of metal against his head.
For a very brief moment he wondered if Charles had done that, tied those memories together somehow, and yet the pain he saw in his friend's face made that impossible.
"I'm sorry," Charles whispered. "The mind... is an incredible thing, and the connections it can make are nothing short of..."
Groovy, Erik's mind supplied. It was a word that Charles was more than a little fond of when it came to the infinite wonder of the world, but Erik didn't particularly care for it at that moment.
"It seems, perhaps the strength you took from those memories has become tied to... what you did with that strength."
He felt sick. He had been drawing strength from that moment, strength that Charles had settled into his mind when he had pulled Shaw's submarine out of the water. It was impossible, really, that Charles had tied that all together, his friend wasn't even in his mind at that moment. No, he'd perverted that moment completely without Charles' help.
"Can you try again?" He asked, desperate. He wondered if Charles could rip apart the tie he'd made - possibly - but at the same time... he wondered if perhaps he deserved it to stay tied that way.
He could feel Charles try again, searching for happy memories in his childhood that didn't burn quite so brightly as that one, uncomplicated moment. It took longer, but he finally found one, he and his mother, out shopping in town long before the rise of the Nazi's, tucking him in a warm scarf. Everything is good.
A gun shot, his mother reeled from the impact, grabbing her stomach and falling to the ground...
The memory ended abruptly again, Charles' hand shaking, gripping into the arm of his wheelchair like a claw, his other hand over his mouth as he seemed to be fighting nausea. "I have no explanation for that, my friend."
He did. His mother had used that phrase so many times as a boy, to calm him, as an expression of joy with life, everything was good, and... well it certainly had been no comfort when he had so, so desperately needed everything to be good. Erik moved so he was sitting on his knees now, high enough off the ground so he could rest his hand on Charles', wondering just how badly those images had hurt Charles to see.
It took a few moments, but his friend recovered, sliding his hand up to Erik's temple again. The casual flipping through his memories started again, images like a flickering movie projector that was moving too quickly for Erik to latch on to any of them. Sometimes the moment slowed, but still too fast for Erik to latch onto it, the moment was rejected and pushed away before he was certain why. Underneath it all he felt a low grade pleasantness, but nothing like the great joy and serenity he had in so short supply in his own mind. It mixed too freely with moments of intense pain, his father's death, their removal from their home, transport to the camps, everything.
The rifling in his mind was... terribly uncomfortable, and yet even though he knew Charles understood his history he could tell this was the first time his friend had perused it so deeply as well. Emotions that were not his own - echos of shame and upset - went hand in hand with the soft pleasantness and deep anger and upset from his own mind.
Finally the assault ended and he felt the tears streaming down his face and saw his own tears more than mirrored in Charles' face.
"Is this too much for you, my friend?" So soft and concerned. Charles was clearly moved by it as well, and Erik wondered how much of his own feelings Charles could feel.
"I should be asking you that, I think." He was a wreck, not just in that moment, but he had a very acute understanding of exactly how much his mind had been overwhelmed by a few moments of his life. Even the parts of his life that Shaw hadn't been able to touch the way Charles could so easily had Herr Doktor's fingerprints all over them.
He wondered if Charles could tear apart the connections he had made, and yet... he didn't want that. He had done this to his own mind and it was part of who he was, who he had become. If Charles had wanted to change him he had had more than enough time to do so. It was a little humbling to realize Charles could have done that at any moment.
"I am fine, Erik. More than a little shaken, but whole." Such an understatement. And Charles was not whole, Erik had taken that from him, too. "Please, it is bad enough without the constant background of your own self-recriminations. We both choose our paths with our eyes wide open, you more than warned me of your intentions."
It hadn't been his intent to get his friend shot.
But Charles didn't care - or he did care, but didn't blame him - and that knowledge did lift a weight off his shoulders. He his mind drifted, thinking about icy cold water and two arms wrapped around him, a voice in his mind telling him to be calm, that he wasn't alone. The feeling it gave him was warm, even with Shaw's escape, even with the icy cold water, even...
A flurry of shots rang out, deflecting casually from his hand, the last shot punctuated with a cry of pain as he turned and saw his friend fall to the ground.
Damn.
Charles face, next to him, was ghostly white.
"Erik." Charles shook his head, obviously trying to clear his mind, finally wheeling himself briefly so they could look eye to eye. "Erik, my friend, you cannot carry around all of this guilt and pain and rage. There is so much more to you than that, you can feel so much goodness that you've buried under pain. You... have so much that you wanted." But not Charles... "Please."
Charles reached out, took Erik's shoulders, and even though he was in no position to force the issue, Erik moved where Charles' hands directed him, so they could look nearly eye to eye with Charles slightly hunched and Erik kneeling in front of him.
"I forgive you. All of it."
* * *
Charles could admit, at least to himself, that it was never easy to be so forgiving, and that he might be more inclined towards giving Erik latitude that he couldn't have for others, but the look of pure relief on his friend's face made it all worthwhile. He did forgive Erik, not at first, not on the beach, not for leaving him, not for everything, but it had come, slowly. He'd released Raven of her obligation to him, of her duty to stay with someone who couldn't quite give her the entirety of the acceptance she craved, of course he couldn't stay mad at either of them.
And he could be shallow and admit that his forgiveness might have been made just a little easier because the man who needed it was beautiful and wild raw emotion in a way that Charles could never, ever allow himself to be.
And that he was just plain attractive.
He reached out and touched Erik's face, just a brief brush of fingers. Erik's eyes were closed but he leaned into the touch and stayed like that, with him. If he was honest with himself he was stealing for himself as much serenity as he could find in the moment, as well. By morning, one way or the other, Erik would be gone again for what was likely to be a very long time.
It was hard to accept how easy it was to let their differences come between them - and yet here they were, over a year after they had met with so little time spent together.
Charles would have given nearly anything to just...
Erik's lips pressed against his and his thoughts broke.
* * *
The forgiveness, the completely open and earnest forgiveness, was almost too much for Erik. Charles had given him something as close to serenity as he could probably manage anymore. Charles, who knew him better than anyone alive - maybe even himself; Charles, who seemed to be able to forgive him anything; Charles, who he had hurt so badly and yet couldn't help but keep caring for.
Charles, who was touching his face and making him feel... loved and accepted.
Every one of his nerves and feelings were raw, his whole history rifled through and laid bare and open, his thoughts frantic, his closest friend hurt and yet so forgiving.
Erik always knew that Charles was supposed to be by his side, and that it had somehow gone so horribly wrong hurt. There was no way he could give back to Charles everything that he had taken from him, and yet... he knew that he didn't mind, and that broke him, too.
He truly did not deserve it. Erik had no way to show what he wished he could tell Charles, he had nothing but rage and cool detachment. He reached out, touched his hand to Charles' knee, but he didn't notice - didn't feel it. It stung. He would need to leave soon - Charles had said as much - and...
That knowledge gave him the only nudge he needed. Charles would forgive him anything, it seemed, and he would never forgive himself if he didn't let his friend know how much that meant to him... even if it meant one more thing he needed forgiveness for.
Erik leaned forward, tilting his head to the side so he could meet Charles' downturned head. Charles' lips were soft and startled and pink and the soft gasp on them turned into a soft moan and Charles' fingers on his face instantly stretched out to hold him. His own hands ended up on Charles' chest, holding him loosely against his chair, feeling that clean, pressed suit under his hands and he squeezed just slightly, crumpling fabric under his hands.
Charles deepened the kiss - more than Erik had ever hoped for - pressing his lips even tighter before sliding his tongue against Erik's lips and Erik responded the way he always did to Charles: as though he was Erik's lifeline.
It was so painfully good, and yet all he could hear thrumming in the back of his mind was I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry and Erik broke away. "Charles?"
The litany didn't stop - got louder. "My friend, I'm sorry, I..."
Erik struggled to think of something, anything, Charles would have thought he needed to apologize for. "You've done nothing that needs forgiveness." Ever.
"I pushed you." And Charles made it sound like that was the most horrible thing in the world.
There was a moment of hurt betrayal that flashed through Erik until he realized - quite distinctly - that while it was certainly possible that Charles might have, in that moment, pushed him to do something rash, it could not change the fact that the kiss was something Erik had wanted for a long time, something he had desperately needed. Charles' touch in his mind had never been something subtle, he'd always known when Charles' mind touched his and he... really didn't think he had.
"Nothing I didn't already want." And because clearly there was nothing that would prove his point quite as clearly, he leaned in and kissed Charles again.
Their next kiss broke with Charles moaning and his fingers curled through his hair. "Erik..."
He slid down onto his knees, further, head resting where it had only a few hours before, just above Charles' knee. Charles' fingers threaded through his hair, stroking softly. There was so much wrong between them, but for that moment Erik felt something very close to an unshakable serenity.