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December 13, 1958
The ringing of the phone woke him from sleep.
It wasn't the first time it had happened, nor would it be the last.
Charles blinked a few times before realizing that it wasn't his alarm, but, in fact, the rotary device sitting on his desk. And then he realized that he wasn't in bed, but had yet again fallen asleep with his head in a book (or laying atop one, rather).
“Hello? Charles Xavier speaking,” he said, voice deeper thanks to having been asleep.
“Well, well, well, if it isn't the little golden boy himself. You mean to tell me you don't have a servant there to answer the phone for you? My, how the times have changed.”
Charles sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, though he didn't draw the phone away from his ear. Instead, he listened to his step-brother's breath that was currently treading across the phone line, presumably from thousands of miles away. God knew where Cain Marko was at nowadays.
Most definitely not the same place he was last year. Charles knew that much. His step-brother never stayed in one place too long.
“Still living off of 'mummy and daddy's' money?” he spat out, doing his worst impression of a British accent. “You are, aren't you? Can't live without those fancy little perfectly tailored trousers, can you? Little Charles always looking so prim and proper because that's how mummy said you should dress. You do know that she hated you, right?”
Charles sat silent, still; it was going to be one of those conversations.
“She actually liked it when I beat you, did you know that, Charles? She liked it because it would shut you up for a week or two, especially that time I choked you so hard you couldn't speak for a week. You should've heard her, mumbling about how she didn't have to hear that damned annoying little prat's voice going on and on about how much he loved her and how well he did in school because he was just so smart and a genius. She thanked me, you know.”
Cain laughed—a loud, manic sounding, broken hitch of a thing and continued on.
“You deserved every bit of it, you do know that, don't you Charles? And I would do it all over again too. I would break every fucking bone in your body. And I think I would damn well enjoy it too. Watch that scared little look in your eyes every time I took a swing at you. Relish in the way you'd cower in the corner, begging me—begging me—to 'please not hurt' you! 'Oh, please, Cain, I'm so sorry! Please, Cain, don't hurt me! Oh God, Cain, it hurts! Please stop!' And then when you'd just give up, because you'd know I wasn't listening to you, and you'd cry and cry until the last punch when I finally knocked your pathetic ass out! Oh, those were the days, weren't they, Charles?”
“.....”
“Oh, did I hit a nerve there, Charlie? Bring back some memories into that repressively spectacular mind of yours? Oh, what, didn't think I could use words so extensive? Because of course, repressively spectacular is too big of a phrase for my tiny little brain to handle! You weren't the only intelligent one in the house, but no, you couldn't stand it if someone knew something you didn't, could you?” His voice was loud as he was screaming into the phone now, tone venomous and harsh as ever.
“Cain--” Charles voice was soft, faint; though Cain had no trouble hearing it.
“Don't 'Cain' me, Charlie boy! Always so condescending, you little bratty know-it-all! Ha, bet you didn't know that daddy dearest—not my father, of course, but the Brian Xavier—you were aware that he offed himself, right?”
“Please, Cain--”
“Couldn't stand to be around your mother and you anymore, least, that's what father said anyway...” his voice trailed off. “'Course, you were always aware of just about everything with all that fucking mind-reading you did!” he shouted, voice cracking as it always did when Charles' powers were brought up. “Always reaching your little tendrils of nosiness in and digging around! Must have gotten a kick out of that, huh? Well, as you already know, I got a kick out of beating the shit out of you! Those were probably the best times I had at that goddamned house.” He went silent again, his breathing slowing down, not as rapid and fast paced as it was before.
Charles could tell he was on the verge of passing out, but he kept the phone to his ear, head hanging as he listened.
“Good-fucking-night, Charlie boy. Sleep tight and I hope to God the nightmares come to claim you. And if they don't, you know I will.”
It was the last thing Charles heard before the dial tone buzzed into the receiver. He gently set it back in its cradle, rearranging its tangled cord before he finally gave up and put his head in his hands. He clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle the sob—Raven didn't need to hear him crying. Besides, the tears that were falling weren't for himself anyway.
*****X****X*****
December 13, 1962
He sat there in the study, sipping on the last bit of scotch that had been sitting lonelier than he at the bottom of the bottle. There was no need for a glass tonight for he knew what was coming.
Everyone else was asleep, that he was sure of. But he wasn't.
Charles glanced at the clock and knew it would be any minute now. Hell, there were only ten minutes left before midnight; the call was sure to some soon.
The shrill ringing of the phone pierced through the stone-still mansion, the halls quiet at the late night hour. He picked it up quickly, without a second thought because he didn't want to wake anyone. He could've easily set it back down, hung it up though, but he didn't. No, he did the same thing he always did. He answered.
“Hel-” The sound of Cain's sobs cut him off before he could even finish his greeting.
“God, Charles, I'm so sorry! I am, please tell me you know that! Please?” the older man begged, sounding desperate and broken. “I know-” he cleared his throat, but it still quivered when he spoke. “--I know that I hurt you, Charles. I know how bad it was for you, and even though I knew it, I still did what I did, and I am. I'm sorry, Charles.” His voice was a whisper now, the man's misery still hanging hesitantly in the air.
“I know,” Charles said, old, forgotten pain hitting him square in the chest. “I know,” he repeated, voice so soft and soothing that it hurt to hear. So calming and understanding...
“How can you forgive me so easily?” The older man was sobbing again. “I could've killed you—God, I could've killed you! And yet, you aren't mad? Why don't you hate me? Why, Charles?” He sounded almost hysterical, and the younger brunette did his best to calm him.
“Because you're only human, Cain. And humans make mistakes.” Charles voice was still so gentle, more so than it should have been, and he knew it. But he just couldn't help it. Fighting fire with fire never truly worked, did it?
“Oh, God...” There was more sobs on the other end of the line—loud, torturous ones—and Charles listened, murmuring over and over that, “It was alright.”
But things were never just alright—his numerous and confounding nightmares reminded him of that on a weekly, if not daily basis, depending of course, upon how bad that particular day was.
“Please don't hate me, Charles. Please, I'm sorry. I really truly am sorry...”
Once again, Charles was met with a dial tone before he could say anymore.
*****X****X*****
December 13, 1963
He'd fallen asleep in his chair again, and as Charles stared at the clock, he saw that it was only 8:30 PM. He truly was getting old. Felt like it anyway.
He ran a hand through his hair and used the other to rub the sleep from his eyes. He glanced out the window, snow flurries fluttering out and about, some melting on the glass itself. It was quite beautiful, honestly. It reminded him of days that had passed a decade or so before. Days that were long forgotten.
Days he needn't remember.
The phone rang, and his train of thought quickly vanished. He cleared his throat and answered the phone, already having a good idea as to who it was.
“Hello, Cain.” There was no hate in his tone, not even a trace. As hard as he'd tried when he was younger, he never could. He'd seen his step-brother's mind, and knew ultimately, that forgiveness and understanding was the only answer. He hoped maybe one day things would be different between them.
“It was your fault, Charles! Your fault! You were the reason why he died!” the shout came across the line, and Charles didn't even flinch. He stared straight ahead, soaking it all in.
“You killed him, Charles!” His step-brother was breathing heavy now, and Charles couldn't help but imagine how red the man's face was getting. With all the anger that he carried, surely one day he was going to give himself a heart attack. “If he hadn't of went back in after you, if he had just saved me and only me—then he'd still be here, and I wouldn't be stuck with you! I should kill you...It wouldn't be too hard anyway. Now that you're a cripple an' all.”
The words stung, just as they did every time. Just as they had for the last twelve years. But Charles took a breath, and continued to listen.
The older man grunted out a laugh on the other end. “You deserve that too. If it were up to me, you wouldn't be able to move at all. No, because you'd be dead. You would be the one in the ground, not him!”
“I'm sorry, Cain. I really, truly am,” Charles said, surprised he'd even been allowed those few words.
“Sorry? You're sorry? If you're so fucking sorry, then why don't you go back and change it! You can be the one that died in that damned lab, and then he can be alive... Him, not you,” the other man spat out, sounding on the verge of a crying jag.
“I'm afraid I can't do that, Cain. If I could...I would,” and he let out a sharp breath of air, all the feelings and emotions that had been building inside of him for the last eight months readying to come out. All these years, Cain had been the one doing the talking. Charles decided that this time, it would be his.
“That's bullshit and—”
“No, Cain, it's not,” there was a bite to Charles' tone now, and he could feel all the anger and hate he felt towards himself coming to a head. “If I could, I would change everything, Cain. I would go back, and I would change the fact that he used to hurt you; hurt you so badly that you felt the need to take your pain and anger out on me. If I could, I would go back, and I would make him love you. Love you like a son instead of detesting you like a piece of rubbish that he could just crumble up and throw away. Because, you know I could have. So believe me when I say that if I could return to that time, I would, and you would not be the drunken, hateful, regretful, spiteful person that you are. You would not be consumed by pain and anger and hate. You would be whole instead of the fragmented and shattered man that you now are.
Good night, Cain.”
And with that, he hung up, slamming the phone down onto its perch. He pretended not hear the muffled, “Are you alright, Professor?” that filtered through the thick, mahogany doors. Instead, he reached for the scotch he kept in his desk, unscrewing the lid and taking a sip, forgoing the nuisance of retrieving a glass for himself.
The bottle was all he needed tonight.
*****X****X*****
December 14, 1964
The air was terribly frigid, being that it was on the verge of winter and Westchester had quite the chilly winters at that.
But there Charles was, bundled up in his thick, black wool coat, with a blanket over his legs because the children wouldn't let him out the door before he promised to keep it on. He did, of course, if only to appease their worried minds.
He stared at the headstones, not having much to say until he heard the footsteps crunch on the frozen grass behind him.
“You didn't call last night.” His words were almost lost on the howling wind, but the other man's response let him know that they had been heard.
“That's because I was on a plane. On my way here.”
Charles didn't yet turn around, gaze still fixed on the 'S' of his mother's name. “And what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” He was doing his best to keep out of his step-brother's mind, but when the other man's thoughts were just so horribly loud, the task was quite hard.
“I'm sorry, Charles.” Cain paused for a moment, coming to step next to the paralyzed man. Charles' gaze slowly traveled from the gravestones to the older man's eyes, the most sincere look he'd ever seen now present in them. “After all these years, I felt that it would be better if I finally told you in person. Instead of...over a phone.”
“That's rather grown up of you. As you're so fond of saying, my, how the times have changed.” Charles had indulged a bit on a bottle of brandy before he'd ventured out, and the ability to control his tongue was becoming something of a trying effort. He stared at the salt-and-pepper haired man before casting his gaze out on the lake that sat just beyond the family's burial plot.
“I'm getting married, Charles.”
Charles was quick to respond. “Congratulations, Cain. She must be quite the woman to put up with the likes of you. No offense.”
“I-I deserved that,” Cain spoke after a moment, eyes falling to the three gravestones that lay in front of them.
Charles shook his head. “No, no, you didn't. I'm sorry, Cain. That was very rude of me. I apologize.” His tone was sincere, firm, eyes true and telling. “Honestly, congratulations. That's terrific news.”
Cain nodded, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his brown coat. “I-uh,” he paused, trying to find the right words.
Charles looked up at him and studied the man. Cain was six years older than he, though the age difference appeared more than that due to the hardened lines that stretched across the older man's face. Cain hadn't exactly had an easy life, that much Charles knew. And even though they might have resided in the same large mansion that sat behind them, Charles knew that having money didn't equal happiness.
Or love.
“Charles,” and upon hearing his name, he looked his step-brother in the eyes. “Thank you.”
Charles quirked his lips upward in a confused smile. “For what?”
Cain sighed and let his gaze drift away once more. “For always answering.”