“I can’t decide if this is wonderful or awful.” Charles looks back down at the mess around him, and Erik stiffens, the swelling sense of success punctured in an instant and turning to ash in his mouth. The top of Charles’ head gives him no cues, nor does the pen Charles is twirling between his fingers, an absentminded roll that flicks ink across the nearest paper in a fine spatter when he spins it back and forth a little too strongly. “Damn, where’s that pencap?”
“You don’t want them?”
“No! I mean, yes, yes, I want them,” and the nearest pile is dragged closer to their feet as though Erik might try to take them away, Charles looking back up at him with eyes wide and a little bit desperate, hands clenched in the pages and crumpling them into sharp creases. “Where did you get all of this? I mean, nobody was publishing for so long, but I haven’t read all of these, and there’s so much research here that doesn’t seem to have come from a journal, which I definitely haven’t seen because it’s about mutants, Erik, mutant genetics, and where on Earth did it all come from?”
“What did you mean, awful?” Erik asks instead of answering, and finally crouches down beside Charles to loosen his grip and smooth the paper back out, flatten it as best he can. Another hand lands gently on top of his own and presses down; Charles squeezes, once, and ducks his head to catch Erik’s gaze, lets the papers go.
His smile is wistful. “It’s sort of like being given a photograph of a feast, is all,” he says, “I miss my lab. But I really do appreciate it - it was very kind of you, to bring me this. I assume you liberated it from someone else? A scientist?”
“I’m trying,” Erik says to the floor, tugging his hand out from under Charles’ to rub at his eyes, cover his face for a moment and get a reprieve from being looked at. He does not let the sudden weight in his chest drag him to the ground, stays crouched and able to leave if he needs to, ready to stand. “I’m trying, Charles. I’m not good at this.”
“I know you are,” and there is a touch on his knee, then his shoulder, as Charles reaches for him, slow and steady, the same way he might if he were trying not to startle a bird into flying away, and when did Charles come to be able to read him so well as to know exactly what to do? It’s unbearable, and Erik pushes abruptly to his feet, dislodging the outstretched hand and stepping back, probably crushing the pages beneath his feet and not caring any more, because he can’t be there, any more, trying and failing yet again to make Charles happy, to mend something that has always been broken and will never be fixed, to fill the bottomless pit that yawns wide and black between them. He has never felt more of a fool than he does now, shovelling endless spadefuls of stunted feelings into an abyss that will never be filled.
Charles doesn’t love him, and never will. He cannot say he blames him.
Erik runs away.
XX
“Erik.” There is a long pause outside the closed door, and a creak of floorboards as Charles shifts, uneasy, before he says, “Erik, are you alright? Let me in.”
He hasn’t bothered to turn on the lights in his workroom, content for a while to sit in the dark among his familiar tools and metal, as good as a map to his metal-sense and comforting, in their own way. Erik considers not answering, but Charles knocks again, clearly not going away, so he raises his head from where it has been resting against his hand and says, “It’s alright. You don’t have to placate me all the time. It’s not going to lose you anything if I’m in a bad mood and you don’t jolly me out of it.”
“What are you talking about?” The voice this time is vexed, as though Erik is the one being stubborn, here. “I swear to God, you blow so hot and cold sometimes, Erik. Just make your mind up, alright? And let me in, you ass.”
“I’m busy.”
The floorboards creak again, and even they sound exasperated. “Doing what, exactly?”
FILL: Everyday Love in Stockholm 123/?
“You don’t want them?”
“No! I mean, yes, yes, I want them,” and the nearest pile is dragged closer to their feet as though Erik might try to take them away, Charles looking back up at him with eyes wide and a little bit desperate, hands clenched in the pages and crumpling them into sharp creases. “Where did you get all of this? I mean, nobody was publishing for so long, but I haven’t read all of these, and there’s so much research here that doesn’t seem to have come from a journal, which I definitely haven’t seen because it’s about mutants, Erik, mutant genetics, and where on Earth did it all come from?”
“What did you mean, awful?” Erik asks instead of answering, and finally crouches down beside Charles to loosen his grip and smooth the paper back out, flatten it as best he can. Another hand lands gently on top of his own and presses down; Charles squeezes, once, and ducks his head to catch Erik’s gaze, lets the papers go.
His smile is wistful. “It’s sort of like being given a photograph of a feast, is all,” he says, “I miss my lab. But I really do appreciate it - it was very kind of you, to bring me this. I assume you liberated it from someone else? A scientist?”
“I’m trying,” Erik says to the floor, tugging his hand out from under Charles’ to rub at his eyes, cover his face for a moment and get a reprieve from being looked at. He does not let the sudden weight in his chest drag him to the ground, stays crouched and able to leave if he needs to, ready to stand. “I’m trying, Charles. I’m not good at this.”
“I know you are,” and there is a touch on his knee, then his shoulder, as Charles reaches for him, slow and steady, the same way he might if he were trying not to startle a bird into flying away, and when did Charles come to be able to read him so well as to know exactly what to do? It’s unbearable, and Erik pushes abruptly to his feet, dislodging the outstretched hand and stepping back, probably crushing the pages beneath his feet and not caring any more, because he can’t be there, any more, trying and failing yet again to make Charles happy, to mend something that has always been broken and will never be fixed, to fill the bottomless pit that yawns wide and black between them. He has never felt more of a fool than he does now, shovelling endless spadefuls of stunted feelings into an abyss that will never be filled.
Charles doesn’t love him, and never will. He cannot say he blames him.
Erik runs away.
“Erik.” There is a long pause outside the closed door, and a creak of floorboards as Charles shifts, uneasy, before he says, “Erik, are you alright? Let me in.”
He hasn’t bothered to turn on the lights in his workroom, content for a while to sit in the dark among his familiar tools and metal, as good as a map to his metal-sense and comforting, in their own way. Erik considers not answering, but Charles knocks again, clearly not going away, so he raises his head from where it has been resting against his hand and says, “It’s alright. You don’t have to placate me all the time. It’s not going to lose you anything if I’m in a bad mood and you don’t jolly me out of it.”
“What are you talking about?” The voice this time is vexed, as though Erik is the one being stubborn, here. “I swear to God, you blow so hot and cold sometimes, Erik. Just make your mind up, alright? And let me in, you ass.”
“I’m busy.”
The floorboards creak again, and even they sound exasperated. “Doing what, exactly?”