Archive of Our Own

At long last, after two days of travel, the mundane human way, through buses and commercial airplanes and taxis, Erik has made his way to the old Westchester mansion, now school. He sits besides Charles once more, in his office, their hands held tightly together between them, coffee, tea and pastries forgotten on the table.

Erik, without his helmet while in Charles’ presence for the first time in more than forty years, finds himself overjoyed at the way their minds brush together. He also feels quite terribly exhausted, not just from the travel, but also from the, what did they use to call it? The mind meld between him and Charles some minutes before.

At his side, Charles scowls. He always said it was inaccurate to call it that.

“You never liked Star Trek,” he reproaches.

“You and Raven did,” he shrugs. “Besides, the actor was quite handsome.”

“Hm, that he was. I always preferred Mister Spock, myself.”

“Is that the one with the ears?”

Charles rolls his eyes, smiling.

“Yes, Erik, Spock is ‘the one with the ears’, as you say.”

“You understood what I meant,” he shrugs.

«Well, yes,» Charles starts and Erik interrupts the thought before it’s fully formed:

“And not just because you can read my mind. Go, ask any of the children you’ve got running around the house. Tell them, the Star Trek alien, the one with the ears, every one of them will know what you’re talking about.”

Charles laughs. “Oh, Erik, I don’t think the children care about Star Trek much these days. There’s plenty of other things on television for them, now.”

“Oh, you get what I mean.”

It’s nice, having this with Charles again. Silly, pointless arguments for the sake of it. After so many decades where the disagreements between them felt like unending, inescapable chasms, this, being able to argue about a TV show, it feels like a balm to soothe Erik’s aches.

“You really are quite tired, my friend.” Charles looks at him again with his head tilted, a hint of concern in his eyes.

“It’s been a long trip,” he admits, because there’s no point not to; Charles already knows, and he is tired.

“Would you like to rest for a while? There’s a couple hours until lunch.”

The idea of a soft bed flows to Erik’s mind at the mention of rest, and when Charles talks about lunch Erik feels a full kitchen, hears the laughter of children, smells home cooked meals. It’s wonderful, this, feeling Charles in his head again. He hadn’t known he’d missed it, hadn’t realized.

“I can, if you’ve got work to do,” he says, thinking about Charles’ desk, about the fact that it’s the middle of the day, that he arrived announced and unplanned and that Charles has responsibilities, plenty of them. “But I would like to stay with you, my friend.”

He says it because it’s the truth. He says it because he’s certain Charles already knows, can read it within his mind as easily as he reads Erik’s face.

“I do have a class to teach this afternoon, and a meeting,” the thought meeting notes passes briefly by Erik’s head, alongside the impression of Charles’ desk and unfinished. “But you can stay here for the time being. We can have lunch, and then find somewhere for you to rest.” «Does that sound okay?»

«It does,» Erik nods. “Thank you,” he says. “But you can get back to work,” he lets go of one of Charles’ hands and gestures towards the desk. “Prepare for your meeting, do your paperwork or whatever it is that I interrupted. I can stay quiet and let you work.”

I don’t want to leave, is the thought he doesn’t voice. I want to see you, I want to stay close, I want to keep an eye on you. He doesn’t project but he knows Charles can glean the thoughts all the same; the idea if not the exact words. Being in the same room as you is enough. I’ve missed this, I missed you.

He gets the feeling of agreement back from Charles. He doesn’t want Erik to leave either. He, too, missed him.

“In a minute, perhaps,” nods Charles. “I still have a muffin to try, and you haven’t finished your bagel.”

He’s finished his coffee already, and what’s left of Charles’ tea has certainly gone cold some time ago, but he reaches for his bagel again and hands Charles the muffin and they finish both, sitting side by side, still holding on to each other with their free hands, hand in hand.

After, bagel and muffin both finished, Charles wheels back to his desk to get back to work. Erik puts the leftover tart back in its box and the box back in the bakery bag with the donuts. He then takes both his mug and Charles’ cup to rinse in the bathroom attached to Charles’ office, even though Charles insists it’s not necessary, that he can just leave it for him to deal with later. Erik doesn’t listen, tells him to mind his paperwork and Charles projects his eye roll and the feeling of fondness directly into Erik’s mind, since he has his back turned towards him.

Erik lays down on the couch, then, one leg over the armrest and the other off the couch entirely, his foot firmly on the ground, because Charles would hate it if Erik got his boots on his furniture. He pillows his head on his arms and relaxes with a sigh against the armrest. The ceiling of Charles’ office is familiar as much as it is not; Erik knows the look of these ceilings intimately, and the feeling of the metals in the structure of the mansion, the pipes and the rest of it too; but at the same time there’s a relatively new coat of paint, uneven in a way that makes Erik think some of the children probably were the ones who painted it. There’s a faded scorch mark on a wall, at about eye level for someone a head or two shorter than Erik. Where once Charles had carpet and rugs covering most of the floors—and Erik remembers the way he used to walk around with bare feet, flexing his toes into the feeling of a soft rug beneath him—there’s now only bare floors, smooth, clean and clear of obstacles for ease of wheeling.

And then there’s Charles himself. Erik tilts his head to watch him, the way he sits on his chair, back straight, leaning slightly forward, eyes on the papers before him, pen in hand and tapping it lightly against the desk. Charles, with his cream shirt and frumpy blue cardigan, with his reading glasses perched elegantly on the bridge of his nose. Charles, old, forty-some years older than when Erik first met him, and still, somehow still, just as captivating.

There is something about Charles, or maybe there is something about Erik that makes him so incapable of averting his eyes, of keeping away. But there is something about Charles, certainly, about the way he’s so radiant, the way even now, seventy years old, he’s the most captivating person Erik has ever met, the most— the most beautiful, in a way that is not simply about his physical appearance. Although that too, Erik will readily admit; Charles has always been gorgeous, when he was thirty and when they were in their fifties and now, in their seventies. Even in the few childhood photos he’s seen, Charles was a cute kid, and as a teenager too, tall and lanky in a way that made him look like he’d trip on his own feet, he looked charming in those pictures too.

Charles smiles then. «Thank you, my friend,» he says, and Erik smiles too.

«Ignore me, do your work,» he replies.

«It’s always been hard to ignore you of all people, Erik,» Charles laughs and Erik sees flashes of memories, he sees himself over the years, time and time again, the way Charles’ eyes linger on him when Erik is turned, looking the other way; and he feels within the memories, like a physical weight, the way Charles struggles to look away, not to think about Erik. He sees himself at thirty-two, half drowned before Charles dove in after him the first time they met; weeks later, Erik sitting on a couch next to Raven, glaring intently at the TV while she laughs; Erik standing firm, some years later, cape flaming behind him and helmet firmly on his head as he swipes a hand and sends half a dozen cops flying against a wall; Erik, older, wearing a long dark coat and the helmet, standing before the Brotherhood mid-speech; Erik, time and time again images of Erik when he didn’t notice Charles looking at him over the decades, quick flashes of memories of Erik from the side, the back, Erik looking elsewhere, Erik from the corner of Charles’ eye. And every single one of these, every memory that flashes through his mind, comes with a wave of feelings so intrinsically linked to them that for a moment Erik wonders if Charles feels this every time he looks at Erik’s face. There’s a feeling, so deep, an immeasurable ocean of longing, so profound it’s almost choking, and even still, every glance Erik sees of himself through Charles’ eyes he feels one single thought, in Charles’ own voice, beautiful, beautiful, he is so beautiful.

Time and time again, memory after memory, for more than forty years, and Erik catches only a glimpse of it, only these handful of flashes of memories Charles chooses to share, only a fraction of what it must’ve all been.

It’s overwhelming. Not Charles’ presence in his mind, or even the memories themselves, but rather the knowledge. Knowing Charles has been looking at him in this way for so long, knowing Charles has been feeling this, has been thinking him beautiful the entire time they’ve known each other, so much so that he can’t even recall memories of Erik without the thought slipping in with them... It’s overwhelming.

Erik drops his feet to the floor and stands, he crosses the office in a moment to stand besides Charles and, hesitating only briefly, grasps at Charles’ shoulder. Charles turns his wheelchair away from the desk to face him and reaches up to clasp Erik’s hand in one of his.

In an instant Erik moves, and he feels Charles’ «No, don't—», but he’s already kneeling, both knees firmly on the ground before Charles. His free hand clutches briefly at Charles’ knee for balance, before he latches on to his arm instead, somewhere where Charles can feel his touch. Charles holds his hand in both of his own, now like this, with Erik kneeling, eye-to-eye. Erik tilts forward, into Charles, and Charles does too.

Then carefully, slowly, so very softly, he leans his forehead against Charles’, closes his eyes and takes a deep, slow breath. He feels Charles sigh, too, and his hands squeeze Erik’s, and at the edges of his mind he gets the impression of peace and contentment and Erik can’t help but agree, feeling the same.

They meet in the middle like this, Erik realizes. Both of them leaning forwards into each other’s spaces, their foreheads meeting, quite literally, in the middle between them. It’s a stupid thought to have, honestly, but Erik feels ridiculous laughter bubble up within him, bordering on hysterical. Not quite outwards; he does no more than chuckle, but the feeling is there and Charles, certainly overhearing the thought and feelings that follow it, laughs with him.

Then, Erik winces.

“I did try to tell you not to kneel,” Charles says, fond but with a hint of concern behind it.

“Suppose I’m not as young as I used to be,” Erik admits.

He pulls away from Charles and grabs onto the desk to help himself upwards. Charles reaches a hand to his side to help stabilize him, which Erik appreciates. His knees both creak when he stands, and the right one aches in a way he knows will bother him for a few hours, at least.

«Not everything about being older is so great after all,» he thinks, and Charles laughs.

“Not everything, no.”

“But many things are.”

“On that we agree, my friend.” They both smile at each other again. “But please, Erik, take a seat. Rest your legs and don’t strain your knees any further.”

“No need to fret, Charles, I am fine,” he says, but does as told all the same.

He returns to the sofa with barely more than a wince of pain and lies back down. Charles frowns at him, concerned, but after a moment he goes back to his work all the same.

Eventually, he nods off. He only realizes he fell asleep when he awakens to a hand on his shoulder and Charles’ presence in his mind, lightly encouraging him towards consciousness. He opens his eyes to find Charles above him and oh, it’s been a long time since he woke up like this.

«It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you so peaceful, my friend,» Charles thinks, and he asks, “Had a good nap?”

“Yes.” «I didn’t mean to fall asleep.»

«I’m glad you did. You needed rest.» “It’s lunchtime, if you’re interested.”

“Of course.” He sits up. “What are we having?”

“I think chicken, today. I let the kitchens know we’d need an extra kosher meal today.”

Erik raises his eyebrows, surprised.

“You have students who keep kosher?”

“Only two at the moment, yes. One recent graduate kept halal, too, and we have a vegetarian student right now. Plus a handful of various food allergies, and even more very strong preferences who refuse to eat certain things; you know how it is with children.”

Erik nods, although not entirely sure he does know. Then his brain catches on to something else and he frowns.

“You’ve got kitchen staff?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Yes, for ages, that. As the school grew we quickly realized we couldn’t do everything ourselves, and we needed to hire more than just teachers. Cooks and kitchen staff, for one. A gardener, for another. The children, of course, still have their chores; keeping their rooms clean is entirely up to them, as is their laundry, and there’s a rotating schedule for them to help out cleaning the classrooms and common areas, as well as helping in the kitchen and gardens or other repair jobs around the school. You noticed the ceiling earlier,” he gestures upwards at the slightly shabby paint job.

“Huh.” Erik had, honestly, never thought of that. In retrospect, yes, he supposes running a school, a boarding school especially, would require quite a lot of help and people. “Humans?” he asks, and for once the question is simply a curiosity.

“At first, yes. I contacted the old cook, back from when I was a child. She and the gardener both came back when I asked. These days there’s a mix. The head cook is human, but her little brother was a student for a while; she brought him to us herself, looking to get him away from their parents. Of course we took him in, and when I saw she needed help as well I offered a place among the kitchen staff. Joan, the gardener, has some level of control over soil. They’re not terribly powerful, and have no interest in becoming so, but it helps them dig easily and they’ve got quite a feeling for good spots to plant new seeds. I am not sure, actually, if that last thing is part of their mutation as well, or if they’re just well learned about plants.”

Erik laughs at that, the last remains of sleep finally fading away.

Charles smiles at him. “Ready for lunch, then?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like to eat here?”

Erik tilts his head. “As opposed to?”

“Well, there’s the dining room, but we usually leave the children to have lunch by themselves. We keep an ear out for trouble, of course, but lunch is a more relaxed affair. We do eat dinner together, or at least most of the staff usually joins. And breakfast, well. Not everyone is all that awake in the mornings, it can get chaotic some days. Do you remember the east parlor room?”

Erik nods, although he doesn’t and Charles explains.

“Across the old dining room, although we never used it back then. It’s been turned into something of a staff’s lounge, and we often eat there. Or, like I said, we can eat here in my office, which I also tend to do. Or even out in the gardens, since it is quite a nice day out.”

“Well...” he started, thinking. «Do you think it’d be a good idea for me to eat with the rest of your staff?»

«You have a point,» Charles agrees. “Perhaps not right now. I’ll let them know you’re a guest in the afternoon and we can see about dinner.”

It warms something within Erik, that assumption. That they will have dinner together, too. That Erik is invited and that he wants to stay (he does, he wants to stay, he wants to stay with Charles, he wants to stay, he wants to stay and never leave).

Charles looks delighted at that thought, and his joy dances along the edges of Erik’s mind. Erik, too, feels quite joyful.

“I shall go grab our lunch, then,” Charles says. “You wait here, make yourself comfortable at the table.”

“Should I help?”

He shakes his head. “I’ll have someone grab the second tray, if need be.”

As Charles wheels out of his office Erik stands and makes his way to the table. It’s an old, rounded thing in the shape of an oval that could comfortably seat six people. There are a couple of extra chairs by the wall, however, matching the ones by the table, so Erik guesses that, on occasion, up to eight people can fit around it. It’s situated just by the windows, behind the seating area where Erik took his nap, and Charles was right: it really is a nice day out. Sunny and breezy, not a cloud in the sky; truly a beautiful spring day. He takes a seat next to the empty spot where Charles’ wheelchair would fit, and settles in to wait.

This part of the school is quiet, all things considered. Near the front of the mansion, next to the library and... whatever it is that is there now, in a room that used to be a formal sitting room, back when Erik used to be around. Nonetheless, whatever that room is used for now, it’s been quiet. Most of the classrooms, Erik knows, are on the west wing, with only a handful on the east wing too. The east wing houses the kitchens and dining areas, as well as the recreational spaces, for students and, from what Charles said, also for teachers and staff. The second and third floors used to be mostly bedrooms, and he’d guess that hasn’t changed. Some of the larger rooms, parlors and sitting rooms and whatever else rich people call their big, useless rooms, those may be study rooms for the children, or another area to hang out. In the basement, if Erik remembers correctly, the original basement, there were most of the utility rooms, as well as storage and... maybe laundry? He recalls a wine cellar too, but he doubts Charles would’ve kept it when he turned the mansion into a school. And below that, he knows, are the X-Men headquarters: labs and the Danger Room and medical facilities and Cerebro and who knows what else has been added in the past decades.

Lost in his thoughts as he is, Erik doesn’t notice Charles approaching in his return until he opens the door. In an instant Erik reaches out and easily lifts the metal tray off his lap, levitating it up to the table carefully, mindful not to spill anything. Behind Charles there’s someone else, a young man Erik doesn’t know, carrying a second tray and two glasses.

“Thank you, my friend,” Charles says, easily yielding his tray to Erik.

Erik nods and makes a gesture at the other man, offering to lift his tray as well. The man watches their exchange carefully with wide eyes, and he hesitates only briefly before grabbing the glasses off the tray and nodding his permission at Erik. So Erik levitates that tray as well, brings it to the table, and the young man walks the rest of the way and sets down the glasses for them.

“Will you be needing anything else, Professor?” he asks Charles.

“No, thank you Thomas.”

“Of course.” He nods, and then he nods at Erik too before departing.

Charles grabs a pitcher of water as well and joins Erik at the table.

“Here, this one is yours,” he pushes one of the trays towards Erik and grabs the other one for himself. The food, at least, looks almost identical, but in Charles’ tray there sits a little plastic cup with a single pill. “Blood pressure medication,” he explains, feeling Erik’s curiosity. “Hank and Doctor Sanders both are quite bothersome about it, and when they get something in their mind they can be terribly annoying together.”

Erik pours them both water and inspects their meal. It is, indeed, chicken, like Charles said. Grilled, with a side of roasted vegetables and a salad. The only visible difference between both their plates is the salad: while Charles’ includes cheese and a creamy dressing, Erik’s doesn’t and has an oil and balsamic vinegar dressing instead.

Pleasantly surprised, Erik digs in. Lunch is pleasantly relaxed, with easy conversation, good food, and Charles at his side; truly, it is the most enjoyable meal Erik has had in decades.

«I missed sharing meals with you too, my friend.»

Erik chews, swallows, and raises his glass. “Here’s hoping for many more?”

And oh, the way Charles’ mind overflows with joy is delightful, like his feelings simply can’t stay put and can’t help but brushing against Erik, slipping into him when they realize he’s left his metaphorical doors wide open to them. Like they, too, want to share this moment with Erik, like Charles does, and like they want to share Charles’ joy with him by... bringing Charles’ joy to him.

«Please, yes.» “To many, many more,” Charles agrees, clicking his glass to Erik’s for a toast.

After their meal Erik insists on helping Charles return their dishes to the kitchen. A glance at the time tells him classes have probably started again and they aren’t likely to meet many people walking the mansion, and he gets a vague sense of agreement from Charles at the thought. So Charles holds the door open for him and guides the way, the empty water pitcher on his lap, and Erik carries both trays, one in his hands and the other levitating in front of him.

The kitchen is not the same one Erik remembers, and Charles’ knowledge easily supplements his own; they’d used the family kitchen back then, while this is the main kitchen, quite a ways bigger, that had always been manned by staff and then sat unused for a long time. There’s a flurry of movement and activity when they arrive: two people carrying dirty dishes to and from, someone else washing dishes at speeds that make Erik wonder what their mutation might be, and how it helps them be that quick when washing dishes—he feels Charles’ amusement at the thought—, another person serving a few more plates and storing the leftovers on a tupperware. There’s barely a glance spared their way; although an eye or two catches on to the tray floating before Erik and flicks back at him. But then they return to whatever they’re doing without a word. So Erik moves both the trays to the counter where a few dozen other trays sit—although most of those are plastic—and then grabs their dirty dishes and takes them to the person washing them.

“Thanks, man,” they say, barely looking away from their work, soapy bubbles reaching up past their elbows and scrubbing at a speed that simply can’t be human. Erik is almost certain of it. Charles, once again, just laughs in his head.

“Have you eaten already, Martha?” Charles asks the woman in charge of the leftovers.

“Not yet, Professor. You know the rule, kitchen staff don’t eat until the kitchen is back in order.”

“I disagree very much with that rule.”

The woman laughs. “Yeah, well, you’ve never worked a kitchen, Professor. Besides, you said yourself, it’s my kitchen and they’re my staff. I promise I keep them well fed.”

“She does!”

“Isn’t your food growing cold,” Charles asks with a gesture to the waiting plates on the counter.

“You know it isn’t. And I ain’t having this argument again, Professor. Here you go, refilled water pitcher, now out of my kitchen with you.”

Charles grabs it with an easy laugh. “But—”

“Nope, don’t wanna hear it. Get out before I start threatening to hold on to your dessert.”

There’s an easy air of amusement in the kitchen, like this is a recurring conversation. The rest of the kitchen staff are all smiling or laughing, and the woman threatening Charles, who Erik guesses must be the head chef—«she is»—doesn’t bother trying to hide her smile either. Charles, too, is smiling, even as he accepts defeat and heads towards the door. Erik follows behind him and they make their way back to Charles’ office.

“Is that common?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Oh, it’s been known to happen” he says airily. “That’s Martha, the head chef. Quite a fierce woman, with very strong opinions about how to run a kitchen, and she’s not afraid to withhold dessert from anyone. Do you know, she once kept Logan from having any chocolate pudding?”

That startles a laugh out of Erik, and he laughs even more when Charles shares the memory of Logan’s outraged face with him. He’s still laughing as they reach the office and he opens the door for them, gesturing for Charles to go in first. Charles smiles, charmed, and Erik follows him inside, feeling quite satisfied with himself. He settles himself on a chair across from Charles’ desk.

“So, you've got your meetings now?”

Charles glances at the clock. “In about half an hour, yes. Would you like to be shown to a room?” «Of your own,» his mind adds, although Erik isn’t sure if Charles meant to project that thought to him.

He considers this, and finally says: “Well, I very much doubt I will be sleeping anymore.”

“Of course,” Charles nods. “In that case, you can always browse the library, or...” he trails off.

«Or?» he asks.

«I have some books in my personal library that may also interest you.»

«I would like that,» Erik agrees, thinking briefly of his own, few little books back in Genosha.

“Excellent.” Charles wheels himself around the desk. “In that case, why don’t you grab your bag, and I’ll show you the way to my room.”

Erik stands and grabs his backpack from where it’s been left beside the sofa and, oh, they forgot about the donuts he brought for the students.

«I’ll take them to the kitchen after my meetings,» Charles assures him as they make their way to the elevator.

Charles has moved into the master bedroom. Erik remembers which one used to be his, forty years ago, and he’d been shown the one that had been his childhood room as well. The master bedroom, back then, had been locked and unused, so this is Erik’s first time seeing it. It is, truly, enormous.

It makes something old and deep within Erik ache. An immeasurable feeling, a mix of rage and envy and a burning hot righteousness or something at the injustice of it all. Life’s not fair. Erik knows this, Erik has known this for as long as he has known anything. And no one ever said life was fair either, no one promised it would be. Erik has a long history being a victim of injustice, unfairness, prejudice; worse so than most, he’d say. He got so tired of being feared for things he couldn’t control he decided to install fear in ways completely under his influence instead, that were direct results of his choices and actions.

But also, Erik is an old man now. He has lived a long life. He has made it this far despite everything stacked against him, despite what they made him and what he made himself, too. And this anger, this anger is old, too. It’s old and it’s long since been felt and acknowledged. In this very same house—mansion—even. For as long as he’s known Charles these feelings have resurfaced time and time again in relation to him. But, and this is important too, he knows that growing up in this mansion wasn’t all sunshine and roses either.

There are people who say not to compare tragedies, not to compare a “who’s had it worse”, and those people, in Erik’s opinion, are cowards who aren’t ready to acknowledge the realities of lives and situations worse than their own. So Erik will say easily that he’s had it worse than Charles, and Charles would certainly agree, although he is one of those people who says not to compare situations like that. All this to say: Erik knows that Charles, too, suffered in his childhood, although in a way that is almost incomparable (almost but not: Erik’s was worse) to Erik’s. And Erik is perfectly aware that people are horrible enough to create suffering even within golden cages.

So the rage, as soon as it rises within him, it also fades. Because he can acknowledge these thoughts and feelings and let them go. And so he closes his eyes, takes a moment to take deep, even breaths, and then opens them again, ready to actually take a look at the space.

To the left of the door there’s an oak table big enough for four people and a bar against the wall; Erik sees a mini fridge, a selection of snacks, a box of Charles’ favorite chocolates and a locked cabinet where he stores the alcohol. To the right there’s a sitting area; a couch and an armchair, a little table that holds a chessboard and a handful of magazines and, just a bit to the side, a fireplace on the wall. On that same side of the room but the opposite corner there’s Charles’ personal library; bookshelves cover the walls up to the ceiling, although only the lower shelves are stacked with books; anything higher than Erik’s chest there’s nicknacks and figurines, a shelf covered entirely with snow globes, some folders, piles of old newspapers and magazines, and framed pictures. Along the wall opposite to the door there’s the windows, long, tall windows with the same curtains as in Charles’ office. And on the corner to the left and opposite to the door there’s the bed; lower than expected, but probably easier for Charles’ to get in and out of it with his wheelchair, wide enough to comfortably fit three people, with ornate wooden side tables at both sides, a plush cream comforter and a variety of pillows. On the left wall between the bed and the table there’s two doors, which Erik would guess lead to the bathroom and... a walk-in closet? Considering there’s no visible wardrobe elsewhere it seems like a safe bet.

If there’s one obvious benefit to a room as ridiculously large as this one is that it’s spacious enough for Charles to easily navigate with his chair. There’s plenty of room between the table and bar for Charles to maneuver around, and the same thing can be said about everywhere else. There’s enough space between the separate areas of the room to fit a couple extra beds, too, if maybe not as big as the first one. 

Right then, as if (probably) feeling that Erik’s cursory look around has come to an end, Charles speaks up.

“Feel free to– anything. Make yourself at home.” «I mean it, Erik,» he adds after a moment’s pause. “Take the bed if you want to sleep. Or, of course, any book from the shelves. And you can look around.”

“Thank you, my friend. I think I will become acquainted with your books.”

“An excellent choice, I know there’s some you will quite enjoy.” He looks at his watch. “I need to go now. I’ll let you know when I’m finished and we can play a game of chess, what do you say?”

“I look forward to it.”

“Excellent.” Charles turns to leave and then pauses at the door. “And Erik?”

“Yes?”

«You can reach me if you need to, all right?»

«Thank you, Charles.»

After Charles leaves Erik leisurely makes his way towards the little library and pursues the bookshelves. There are not as many political titles or ones related to mutant issues as Erik would expect from Charles’ library, but he supposes those must be either in his office or in the main library downstairs. No, instead there’s a handful of bibliographies, historical books, and even more fiction. The non-fiction varies from chronicles to periodism to testimonials, and three full shelves and most of a fourth one with various religious texts; Jewish, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Hindu, and those are just the ones Erik recognises at first glance. The fiction seems to be mostly historical fiction, or period pieces. Some romances and just about every book that’s ever been deemed ‘a classic’. Not just in English either. Titles in Spanish, French and German abound, and half a dozen other languages are also sprinkled around. The organization seems to be by theme, and then alphabetical according to the author’s name and then title, and all in all Erik spends quite some time browsing the shelves, picking up tomes, glancing at them, maybe flipping a few pages and putting them back in place. Most are nice, hardcover editions. There’s many Erik would guess are quite expensive, and they’re all in very good condition. That much was to be expected; Charles is certainly a person who takes care of his books.

In the end he returns to the religious texts’ shelves. The ones about Judaism alone take up almost a full shelf, and a rather hefty volume on the evolution of Hebrew and Yiddish over the centuries catches his eye. He makes his way to the sofa with it and finds himself quite interested in the text. Erik’s own Hebrew was poor even as a child but, while he may be decades out of practice, he certainly remembers enough Yiddish from his childhood. It is a shame, admittedly, that he hasn’t spoken it in so long. He should; he would like to. He finds himself mouthing along as he reads, Yiddish and Hebrew words alike, mouth shaping the sounds in ways that feel old and half-forgotten.

How long has it been since he last spoke his parents’ tongue? He feels the weight of decades on his tongue as he traces the words around his mouth, and the weight of generations before him at his back, looking down on him, now, in his seventies and speaking Yiddish for the first time in... He doesn’t remember. He can’t remember the last time he spoke it. Was it with his mother? Surely he spoke it afterwards. Did he?

He remembers, quite suddenly, an old memory. It’s faded and obscured; in a way he doesn’t actually recall the memory so much as he remembers remembering it when he was a child. He sat in his childhood home, in the kitchen, and around him were his mother and his bobe. They were arguing about something in fast-paced Yiddish and Erik must have been five or six years old then, but he was struggling to understand. And then his mother noticed whatever look he had on his face and turned on his bobe, something about not arguing in front of him. And then she had remarked, angry as she had been, that he couldn’t understand regardless, because his parents didn’t bother enough to teach him the language. Erik doesn’t remember what happened next, how the conversation ended, but he does remember two things. He remembers his bobe, sometime after that, sitting him down on the kitchen table and painstakingly teaching him the letters in an alphabet he’d only ever heard before. And he remembers overhearing a hushed conversation between his parents, a few years later, where they worryingly discussed his education and their fear of sending him to school where he might be heard speaking in Yiddish by ‘the wrong kind of people’, or something along those lines.

He thinks about these memories looking at the book in his lap for a long time. He doesn’t even realize he’s gotten lost in the reading and his thoughts until he feels a faint presence at the edges of his mind. The psychic equivalent of feeling someone’s eyes on you. So he does the psychic equivalent of looking up and turns his attention towards Charles. Charles takes that as an invitation to prod further inside and Erik gets the impression he didn’t want to startle him. It’s kind of him. Charles is often kind.

«I am wrapping up here now,» says Charles, and Erik looks at his watch, surprised to find more than three hours have passed. «And I was thinking of joining you for a game of chess, if you’d be amenable?»

«I’d like nothing more, my friend.»

«Excellent. I’ll be up shortly.»

Erik turns his attention back to the book until then, and puts it down when Charles arrives some ten minutes later. He wheels his way towards Erik and asks his thoughts on the book.

“It is very interesting. I never gave much thought to the way languages change. But it’s fascinating to see the way it did change and evolve, and how those changes are so clearly linked with specific points in time of our history. Well, it gave me a lot to think about, especially— Especially about our most recent history. After the holocaust and... And the loss of language that came with such a massive loss of life.”

He watches as Charles transfers himself to the armchair across from him with practiced ease.

He shakes his head, willing thoughts on the book and his own history away. “But that’s not something to think about now. Tell me, you had a class?”

“Oh, I had the same thoughts when I first read it,” Charles says, but easily moves on. “And yes, on Fridays I teach the ‘Ethics and Mutant Philosophy’ class for the senior students.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, well.” He ducks his head.

“No, no, tell me about it,” Erik insists.

“While we play,” he gestures to the chess board and Erik is quick to set it up with a mere thought. “Black or white?”

“Your choice.”

“You’re playing white today, then.”

“Traditional?”

“Don’t you want to make it more fun?” Charles asks, and Erik laughs.

“Oh, Charles, I’d be delighted to. Tell me about your class, then,” he urges.

‘Fun chess’ as Charles calls it, or ‘psychic warfare chess’ as Beast once put it, is as follows: they play a game of chess. They play a game of chess while keeping constant conversation. They play a game of chess while keeping constant conversation and constantly trying to cheat. Charles, for his part, keeps a steady eye on Erik’s mind, reading his thoughts for strategy and what he’s planning and what traps he’s trying to set. Erik, then, works hard on thinking plans and strategies that he isn’t going to use to throw Charles off his scent, while trying to keep his actual plans hidden behind layers and layers of other thoughts. Charles, knowing this, uses the thoughts he reads from Erik to try to deduce what his actual strategy might be. And meanwhile, Erik makes his best efforts to distract Charles away from the board, and to keep his thoughts hidden away from him, to move pieces around the board in his benefit, using his powers. If Charles catches him in the act he calls him out and Erik has to move them back. If he doesn’t he has to suck it up and pretend not to notice they’ve been moved. Charles is not allowed to dig deeper into Erik’s mind than his surface thoughts, so it’s up to Erik to keep his actual strategies and cheating attempts hidden. All this while keeping up conversation and trying to distract each other through mundane means.

It is an extremely fun game they came up with when they were slightly drunk once, so long ago. When Beast—Hank—watched them play on one occasion, and asked what, exactly, was going on, he was horrified and fascinated at their explanation. He called it ‘psychic warfare chess’ in the awed tone of someone unable to look away from an explosion.

So Charles starts to talk, and Erik makes his opening move, and the game begins.

“It’s an ethics class, and a bit of a philosophy class too, although the name has changed over the years and the curriculum even more so. These days we have an actual modern ethics and philosophy graduate teaching the class. I only join them once a week, like I said, and there’s often a rotation of other staff joining to share their thoughts as well. We like to provide them with a well rounded education, give them many points of view and philosophies and let them explore their thoughts in a safe space like a classroom. Aiden, the teacher, tells me it’s the best strategy for what we wanted to accomplish with the class.”

“And what was that?” Erik asks, genuinely interested.

“The goal? To give them a safe space to explore and discover their own thoughts and opinions on the matter, I suppose. I didn’t want the children to have to encounter all that for the first time out in the real world outside the school. To have to make these discoveries, learn these lessons, out there like we did. Like... Well, you remember.”

And yes, Erik does.

“That is... I’m glad the children have that here.”

“Yes, I am too. And you know, Erik,” he smiles, a smug little thing with a twinkle in his eye that spells trouble. “You would be a great guest lecturer in the class.”

Erik chokes on a breath, sputters. His mouth hangs open for a moment before he shuts it close with a click.

“You... You want to put me in front of your students to talk about ethics and mutant philosophy,” he repeats, stunned.

“Yes, of course. You have a different perspective on many things, and would benefit the students greatly to hear from your own mouth rather than second hand. You and the Brotherhood have often been a topic of discussion during class, you know.”

“Charles. You are telling me you want me to stand in one of your classrooms and radicalize your students. You do realize this, don’t you?”

“You don’t have to put it like that.”

“You aren’t denying it, either.”

“Well, you aren’t exactly wrong. But I am not asking you to radicalize anyone, either. They already know, at least broadly, the Brotherhood’s history and stances, and yours. They have heard their professors’ positions in that regard, mine included, but all of us are here and haven’t joined you in the Brotherhood or Genosha for a reason. It would be beneficial and highly educational if they could hear your thoughts on the matter. You could explain your positions and your reasoning, and they would get to hear it from someone with as many decades of experience as me in these matters, instead of other people trying to argue similar points for the sake of debate or trying to put themselves in your shoes.”

Erik considers this, mulls it over.

“Do you actually teach them about the Brotherhood and our ideologies?”

“Of course. It may be an ethics and philosophy class, Erik, but these children are mutants and these things directly affect them as much as you and me. And, like it or not, we have both become two poles of the mutant community in this country, of the continued fight for mutant rights.”

He thinks about this, too.

“I don’t think your other professors would like me teaching this class much,” he finally says.

“Probably not,” Charles agrees. “But you let me deal with that. Just consider the idea and let me know what you think; I can arrange it and figure out the details.”

Erik nods. He will think about it, that much is certain. He moves a pawn, projecting the idea of taking Charles’ rook while trying to ‘subtly’ think (very loudly and entirely for Charles’ benefit) about setting up a trap for his bishop and making sure to keep his actual intentions well hidden. He will consider teaching the class when his brain isn’t quite so busy as it is at the moment.

Charles smiles, almost certainly catching the thought.

“For that matter, you could also teach modern mutant history as well, talk about Genosha. How it became what it is now, running a country.”

“I don’t run a country,” he argues.

“Close enough.”

“It isn’t and you know it. You’re trying to distract me, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Charles puts on his best innocent expression. Erik knows him too well to believe it, but that, too, is part of the game.

Erik shakes his head. He asks instead, “You had a meeting, too, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Charles doesn’t elaborate, but a faint whiff of frustration seeps into the edges of Erik’s mind. He raises an eyebrow and projects questioning. Charles sighs.

“Hank,” he explains. “He expressed some... concerns. When I told him you were here.”

Erik smiles. “Yeah?” Charles looks like he wasn’t expecting Erik's amusement. “It is to be expected,” he says.

“Well, yes. But honestly, he needn’t worry so much.”

“It’s good that he does,” argues Erik. “I’m glad you have him around to worry about you. That he’s been here all this time.” There are plenty of thoughts to add to that, plenty of ways he could have phrased it differently, and Charles’ probably overhears a few, but Erik tries not to dwell on them.

“I— Yes. Yes, me too. I didn’t expect...”

Erik shrugs. “He has been here for forty years, at your side. If anyone gets to voice an opinion it should be him. And it’s because he cares about you.”

Charles looks at him for a moment like he’s an interesting puzzle he’s only just figured has more pieces than he’d first thought. Erik supposes this is part of the whole ‘continue learning about each other’ thing. He hadn’t even realized before he said it, but he realizes it is true: he is glad that Beast—Hank, he should think of him by his name—was there for Charles. And it is only expected he’d be skeptical, at best, about Erik’s presence now. But hopefully they can have a conversation soon and Erik will attempt to dissuade his concerns.

“So, what did he say?”

“The same thing you just thought; he’d like to talk to you.”

“That’s good.”

“Indeed.” Charles looks down at the board and frowns. «You moved my knight.»

«You have no proof.»

He rolls his eyes. “Tell me, how was your journey here?”

“Long. I hate planes,” Erik complains, and proceeds to tell Charles about his past two days.

“You should visit New York,” is what Charles says after he’s recounted his trip, meaning New York City proper.

“We should go together. Do you know if that old deli in Brooklyn is still there? The one with the matzo ball soup you liked.”

“I wouldn’t know, I haven’t frequented the city in a long time.”

“More reason to come now.”

“I’m not sure, Erik.”

“Why not?”

Charles hesitates. “I can’t go everywhere easily like I used to,” he sighs. “Not with the chair. I wouldn’t want you to—”

“Forget about me,” Erik interrupts. “Forget about it, don’t worry about me. Just. If you want to go, I want to go with you. And New York may not be the most accessible of cities, which— fucking sucks. But... If you want to, I could. I could help?” he makes a vague gesture with his hands and projects his meaning. Projects helping Charles, lifting or pushing his chair, with his powers, with his hands, both, either.

“If... I suppose we could, then,” Charles says, slowly. “Not on a weekend.”

“Of course not. Less people and hopefully less tourists during the week.”

“Exactly. Not Monday, I have some things. But Tuesday, maybe?”

“Whenever you can.” Erik has nothing to do and no plans whatsoever, so it’s all the same to him.

«Plans to stay?»

He looks up, surprised.

“Yes. If you’ll allow it, yes.”

“I thought we’d already established this before lunch.”

“Nothing specific.”

“In that case. Erik, I would like you to stay. Here.”

“I would like nothing more.”

“Permanently, if that’s possible for you.”

“Yes.”

“The Brotherhood? Genosha?”

“They don’t need me. I can visit, call. Although, I’ll get someone to teleport me next time.”

Charles’ laugh is accompanied with a relieved feeling at the edges of Erik’s mind.

“Hank won’t kick me out if I try to stay, though, will he?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “No, no, don’t worry about him.”

“Should I worry about anyone else? Your professors, the students? The X-Men?” He pauses to think and after a moment he adds, “The kitchen staff?”

“No, no. The children will be fine. Everyone else too, for the most part. There’s one or two people I’d need to talk to, personally, but don’t worry. Once they realize Hank has no issues with your presence they should follow his lead.”

“And you’re sure Hank won’t have an issue with me?”

Charles shakes his head. “You aren’t a threat to the students and he knows it. He won’t be any trouble.”

Erik isn’t sure he believes that. He’s quite certain Hank’s concern in regards to Erik isn’t about the students at all, but rather about Charles. And, admittedly, even when they worked together in the past they never quite saw eye-to-eye, so Erik is sure Hank will have some issues with him, at least.

But, and this is important, Charles seems confident in Hank allowing Erik to stay more or less peacefully despite their issues. And if someone can predict Hank then surely it’s Charles.

So he allows himself to relax, to accept that maybe, just maybe, things will turn out fine. That he will be allowed to stay, that he will spend time with Charles again. That they will go to New York on Tuesday and that they will play many more chess games in the future. That he may even stand in front of a classroom of children, and share his views with them.

“Are you certain you actually want me teaching the children?” he feels the need to ask.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“We both disagree quite fundamentally about some of the very issues you want me to tell them about.”

«Ah, here we go.» The thought slips out of Charles. All the same, he says: “Maybe it’s time we’ve had this conversation.”

“Been a long time coming.”

“Oh, only the entire time we’ve known each other,” Charles agrees.

They both pause, then. Erik, for his part, is wondering how to start with what he wants to say. In the end he decides to just go for it.

“I have to admit that you did have some valid points.”

“So did you.”

“And while I still think you were a naïve idealist I was perhaps a bit too... extreme.”

“Rash?” Charles asks at the same time. “Oh, yes. Well, I was trying to be nice about it but yes, you were quite extremist. And... You aren’t anymore?”

“I don’t... How long have we been doing this, Charles? Forty years? Thirty? Seventy? Depends where you start counting, I suppose. When I was thirty I was... Angry doesn’t begin to cover it. I am still angry now, but I am old and tired. Nowadays my anger makes me feel older and more tired. I have lived fueled by anger and rage for a very long time. But back then, when I was younger... The rage burned within me. It burned me alive, it was all I felt inside me. I would wake up some days and I’d feel certain that all I was was rage. That if I looked in the mirror I’d find burning hot metal where my skin should be. I didn’t know anything but anger, for a very long time. And... Even the days that weren’t so bad, even on the days where I could feel other things. Even then, I could feel it within me, squirming and eating at my insides. I couldn’t sit still.”

He remembers a day, some forty odd years ago. Sitting across from Charles like this, chessboard between them. The children strewn around the room, the radio turned on and playing some catchy tune that had Angel jumping up and pulling some of the boys into some sort of complicated dance. Then Sean had tripped and pulled Alex down with him and they’d both landed on Hank and soon enough half the children had ended up in a laughing pile on the floor. Erik and Charles, both a little tipsy, had laughed as well. And when Charles went to help them get up, someone pulled him down instead, and he joined them on the floor as well. Erik had laughed then, loud and hard, and refused to help him up, lest he also ended up on the floor. Erik remembers this now, and he remembers how, even laughing until he had tears in his eyes, he felt the anger deep inside him; how his chest tightened and his stomach coiled and a little voice in his head berated him for being an idiot, for sitting around and laughing, doing nothing, while Shaw was still out there. While so many guilty still walked, while so many innocent remained dead. And how many more were dying, right during that moment, while he sat in a fucking mansion, drinking and laughing like a fool?

He shivers and shakes his head, pulling away from the memory. Charles’ presence in his mind is heavy, but silent. It feels like a comforting hand on his back, quietly offering support. A point of contact; an anchor.

“I don’t think I can sustain myself solely on anger anymore,” he admits, and he sounds tired, sounds old and weary. He is sure all of it shows in his face, too. “The anger helped me ignore other things too. Helped me focus. But it’s been so long and humans are still... Things are still the way they are. They are better. Significantly better today than they were in the sixties. But my end goal wasn’t plausible. And while my methods worked, sometimes, sometimes yours did too.”

Charles nods, understanding.

“I feel similarly,” he admits. “While I’ll argue the term naïve, I certainly was an idealist. Maybe too much. I hoped things could be resolved quietly, peacefully, and certainly without bloodshed. But time and time again I have been proved wrong. I still don’t like, or agree, with many of the actions the Brotherhood has taken. But I can’t deny it’s effectiveness. And I can’t deny my goal, too, was misguided. While I still hope for inclusion, real, complete inclusion and equality, I know that there are too many hurdles to overcome. And not just people, either, but the systems themselves.”

“Took you long enough,” Erik jokes.

“It took you even longer,” Charles retorts, and Erik will give him that: it probably did take him longer to come around to see Charles’ side of things than the other way around.

“When did we become old men, Charles?”

“Who are you calling old?”

“You, obviously.”

“You’re older.”

“By two years. You’re acting like a child.”

“Why, thank you for proving my point, I am quite young. There’s only one old man in this room and it’s not me.”

“Says you.”

“You’ve gone all gray.”

“Oh really? You want to talk about hair? Really?”

“That’s not fair and you know it!”

“You brought it up!”

They glare at each other for a moment before they both break and dissolve into laughter.

“I suppose we are old,” Charles says eventually. “But I’m not quite sure when it happened.”

“Probably when you lost your hair,” Erik jabs, because Charles brought it up first.

Charles just rolls his eyes.

“It’s not so bad, being old.”

“We agreed to that already.”

“Yes, yes, but I mean. We both changed over the years. And we got here in the end.”

“Wasn’t there an easier route? Couldn’t we have avoided some of all that?”

“Could we have gotten here any other way?”

“No, I suppose you are probably right. We might have gotten somewhere similar, but we wouldn’t be us. Not this us anyways.”

“No. And I quite like this us.”

“Me too. Being here, with you. Now. Old.”

“Exactly.”

A pause.

“What’s that look on your face for?”

A smile.

“Checkmate.”