The very idea of someone laying a hand on Charles makes Erik’s blood boil, and he turns away, hides his hands behind his back so they cannot see his knuckles straining white against the skin at the thought of it, hopes the wish that the man were still alive so that Erik could kill him again doesn’t show on his face. He wonders if the man - Kurt - had used his fists, or a belt, what he had picked on Charles for when surely Charles had been as good then as he is now, no doubt eager to please and to care, given the chance. He very deliberately does not say anything in response, because he is not sure what would come out.
“Oh, Erik.” He glances back to see Charles looking at him ruefully, a small smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “There’s nothing to be angry about now, it’s all very distant history. But thank you anyway.”
“I only - ” Erik starts, then pauses, unsure of what he was going to say.
“Come here,” and Charles reaches out with his free arm to him, beckons him closer. When he gets near enough Charles takes hold of Erik’s hand and tugs him to sit down beside the two of them, hip to hip with Charles in the snug leftover space on the couch. Then it is the three of them sat together, close and warm, Erik shifting to put his arm around Charles and overlapping onto Raven, his hand resting on the back of her neck; she twists to bring her legs up over their laps so that her feet rest on Erik’s thighs, her knees overlapping Charles’. “This is nice,” Charles says, and wipes the wetness from his face with the pad of his thumb, leaning into the cushions and Erik’s arm as though there is nowhere he’d rather be.
“It’s not the house, it’s the memories,” Raven says, after a while. Her voice sounds less damp now than it did before. “Not the bad ones, not - not Kurt and Sharon and Cain. But you and me, Charles, when it was good. It was the first place I could ever really call home, and now it’s gone.”
Erik tries to hide the way he has to swallow down bile at that, along with an onrush of feeling that he ruthlessly crushes, but he’s fairly certain Charles notices, anyway. He thinks about the photograph he is currently keeping in the box in the bottom of his wardrobe, of the pretty little house he had shared with his parents before everything had gone wrong, and he wonders suddenly if they would like to see it, maybe. If maybe it would help if he says that it gets better - it doesn’t - or that he’s suffered the same loss and he understands - he does, all too well.
“Memories don’t burn, Raven.” Charles curls the arm he has around her so that he can stroke his hand over the smooth scarlet of her hair, cupping her head closer in to his shoulder. “The house might be gone, but they can’t take your memories away. Not if you hold on tightly.”
The irony being, of course, that Emma could do that and more without lifting a manicured finger.
“I have nothing that belonged to my parents,” Erik says abruptly, the words coming out of their own accord, without stopping off for approval at his brain, and he wishes intensely that they had, for the way the Xavier siblings turn to look at him, twin expressions of sorrow on their faces when they should be grieving their own loss. “Never mind. It’s not relevant.”
Charles wriggles against Erik so that he’s twisted more towards him, head tilted to one side, considering the look on Erik’s face. “What were you going to say?”
“Nothing. I didn’t mean to say even that much.”
Raven’s heels dig into Erik’s thigh like she’s trying to find bone, and she sits up enough to look around Charles directly at Erik with gold eyes like coins. If they had been silver he might have had to leave. “No, tell us. You really don’t have anything?”
FILL: Everyday Love in Stockholm 126/?
“Oh, Erik.” He glances back to see Charles looking at him ruefully, a small smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “There’s nothing to be angry about now, it’s all very distant history. But thank you anyway.”
“I only - ” Erik starts, then pauses, unsure of what he was going to say.
“Come here,” and Charles reaches out with his free arm to him, beckons him closer. When he gets near enough Charles takes hold of Erik’s hand and tugs him to sit down beside the two of them, hip to hip with Charles in the snug leftover space on the couch. Then it is the three of them sat together, close and warm, Erik shifting to put his arm around Charles and overlapping onto Raven, his hand resting on the back of her neck; she twists to bring her legs up over their laps so that her feet rest on Erik’s thighs, her knees overlapping Charles’. “This is nice,” Charles says, and wipes the wetness from his face with the pad of his thumb, leaning into the cushions and Erik’s arm as though there is nowhere he’d rather be.
“It’s not the house, it’s the memories,” Raven says, after a while. Her voice sounds less damp now than it did before. “Not the bad ones, not - not Kurt and Sharon and Cain. But you and me, Charles, when it was good. It was the first place I could ever really call home, and now it’s gone.”
Erik tries to hide the way he has to swallow down bile at that, along with an onrush of feeling that he ruthlessly crushes, but he’s fairly certain Charles notices, anyway. He thinks about the photograph he is currently keeping in the box in the bottom of his wardrobe, of the pretty little house he had shared with his parents before everything had gone wrong, and he wonders suddenly if they would like to see it, maybe. If maybe it would help if he says that it gets better - it doesn’t - or that he’s suffered the same loss and he understands - he does, all too well.
“Memories don’t burn, Raven.” Charles curls the arm he has around her so that he can stroke his hand over the smooth scarlet of her hair, cupping her head closer in to his shoulder. “The house might be gone, but they can’t take your memories away. Not if you hold on tightly.”
The irony being, of course, that Emma could do that and more without lifting a manicured finger.
“I have nothing that belonged to my parents,” Erik says abruptly, the words coming out of their own accord, without stopping off for approval at his brain, and he wishes intensely that they had, for the way the Xavier siblings turn to look at him, twin expressions of sorrow on their faces when they should be grieving their own loss. “Never mind. It’s not relevant.”
Charles wriggles against Erik so that he’s twisted more towards him, head tilted to one side, considering the look on Erik’s face. “What were you going to say?”
“Nothing. I didn’t mean to say even that much.”
Raven’s heels dig into Erik’s thigh like she’s trying to find bone, and she sits up enough to look around Charles directly at Erik with gold eyes like coins. If they had been silver he might have had to leave. “No, tell us. You really don’t have anything?”