“What happened to you was awful,” Charles says, meeting Erik’s eyes solidly, without flinching. “I can only hate the people who did that to you, to your family, to everyone who was hurt by the Nazis. It was evil, what happened, pure and simple. But it does not mean that an entire species can be written off like that, Erik. You can’t wave your hand and make humans into old technology, swept aside for upgrades. I’m human, and you tell me I’m not obsolete. You don’t mean me. But the only reason you don’t mean me is because I’m the only human you know well enough to see as an individual rather than as a thing. I’m only an exception because you can no longer lump me in with the rest of the herd of nameless, faceless animals. And it is far too early to be making speeches like this at one another. Please think about what I’ve said, instead of dismissing it as - as bleating.”
Erik feels himself tremble, and he leaves the room to step out into the corridor before letting out a loud shout of anger, his back turned to the doorway so that he doesn’t have to look at Charles, frustration bubbling up inside him until he has to let it loose, before it finds its own pathway, one he might not like. His fist collides with the wall before he’s even realised he’s lashing out, and the plaster splinters under his knuckles with a satisfying crunch that it takes a moment for him to register is as much bone as wall. “Scheisse!”
“Erik?”
“Go away!” He cradles his hand and goes to press on the knuckle, but it shifts under the lightest touch and he draws in a sharp breath of pain, suddenly woozy. “Scheisse, dummkopf, Erik, bravo.”
“What did you do?” Charles asks from right behind him, and makes a disapproving noise when he sees the wall, then another one, louder, when he sees Erik’s hand. “What did you do that for, you idiot? Let me see.”
“No,” but though Erik tries to keep it away Charles shoves at him until he manages to get hold of Erik’s wrist, and then he’s pulling it around until he can see the hand itself, hissing between his teeth when he does.
“You idiot,” he repeats, not touching the already-swollen knuckles, turning the hand carefully over so that he can get a better look at Erik’s fingers. “Can’t you talk it out instead of beating things up?”
Erik’s eyes are watering with the pain, and he blinks, hard, trying to get rid of it so Charles won’t think he’s crying; he’s lost enough dignity already for one day, and they’re barely out of bed. “I thought you knew I was a brute already. I’m only helping you decide which parts of me to excise first by putting them on display.”
“Oh for goodness’ sake,” and Charles tightens his grip on Erik’s wrist, glaring up at him in exasperation. “Would you please stop it with the surgical metaphors? I don’t want to change you, I want you to change yourself because you see that maybe I have a point. It’s not the same thing.”
“Sounds to me like you want to hand me the knife and have me smile while I cut myself,” Erik says, staring at the purple colour rising under the skin and slowly darkening. “I’m sorry, Charles, but I won’t do that, not even for you.”
Charles makes a sound halfway between a growl and a shout, letting go to grab at his own hair with both hands, tugging at it as though he might try and pull it out. “Erik, for God’s sake, you’re a good person! I just want you to let that out from under all of the walls of anger and self-defence and not-giving-a-shit that you’ve buried it under! Would that be so bad, for people to see that you actually care about something?”
“I told you that I care about you,” Erik says, trying to wiggle his fingers and stopping before he can even complete the motion, and it’s only with a great deal of effort that he keeps from swaying on his feet. It hurts, a lot. “And you never say it back, do you?”
Charles’ breath hitches, like he’s been taken by surprise.
FILL: Everyday Love in Stockholm 143/?
Erik feels himself tremble, and he leaves the room to step out into the corridor before letting out a loud shout of anger, his back turned to the doorway so that he doesn’t have to look at Charles, frustration bubbling up inside him until he has to let it loose, before it finds its own pathway, one he might not like. His fist collides with the wall before he’s even realised he’s lashing out, and the plaster splinters under his knuckles with a satisfying crunch that it takes a moment for him to register is as much bone as wall. “Scheisse!”
“Erik?”
“Go away!” He cradles his hand and goes to press on the knuckle, but it shifts under the lightest touch and he draws in a sharp breath of pain, suddenly woozy. “Scheisse, dummkopf, Erik, bravo.”
“What did you do?” Charles asks from right behind him, and makes a disapproving noise when he sees the wall, then another one, louder, when he sees Erik’s hand. “What did you do that for, you idiot? Let me see.”
“No,” but though Erik tries to keep it away Charles shoves at him until he manages to get hold of Erik’s wrist, and then he’s pulling it around until he can see the hand itself, hissing between his teeth when he does.
“You idiot,” he repeats, not touching the already-swollen knuckles, turning the hand carefully over so that he can get a better look at Erik’s fingers. “Can’t you talk it out instead of beating things up?”
Erik’s eyes are watering with the pain, and he blinks, hard, trying to get rid of it so Charles won’t think he’s crying; he’s lost enough dignity already for one day, and they’re barely out of bed. “I thought you knew I was a brute already. I’m only helping you decide which parts of me to excise first by putting them on display.”
“Oh for goodness’ sake,” and Charles tightens his grip on Erik’s wrist, glaring up at him in exasperation. “Would you please stop it with the surgical metaphors? I don’t want to change you, I want you to change yourself because you see that maybe I have a point. It’s not the same thing.”
“Sounds to me like you want to hand me the knife and have me smile while I cut myself,” Erik says, staring at the purple colour rising under the skin and slowly darkening. “I’m sorry, Charles, but I won’t do that, not even for you.”
Charles makes a sound halfway between a growl and a shout, letting go to grab at his own hair with both hands, tugging at it as though he might try and pull it out. “Erik, for God’s sake, you’re a good person! I just want you to let that out from under all of the walls of anger and self-defence and not-giving-a-shit that you’ve buried it under! Would that be so bad, for people to see that you actually care about something?”
“I told you that I care about you,” Erik says, trying to wiggle his fingers and stopping before he can even complete the motion, and it’s only with a great deal of effort that he keeps from swaying on his feet. It hurts, a lot. “And you never say it back, do you?”
Charles’ breath hitches, like he’s been taken by surprise.