They’re quiet for a few minutes, the teleporter content to sit in silence while Magneto gathers his thoughts, considers the meeting. In a funny way it reminds him of Mystique, though she would not have been quiet. While he has never and will never be as close to Azazel as he was to Raven, in many ways they have become better friends from her loss, comrades in misery. Azazel is always willing to sit with him, drink themselves into a stupor and not talk about it, something Erik appreciates.
“How is Kurt?” he asks eventually, letting the issue of Emma drop for the time being.
Azazel swells with pride, something he has never tried to hide. It’s one of the best things about him. “He can teleport a full ten metres now. His range, it increases day by day. Though his control, not so much.”
“He’s a talented lad,” Erik says, thinking of the little blue boy, long since out of diapers and skinny in that way only children are, long-limbed and inquisitive and with his mother’s sweet heart. He’s no longer the only mutant child who lives in the Capitol Building, but he is far and away the ringleader of his little band of ragamuffins, full of creative ideas for getting into trouble. “Tell him I’ll try to come visit some time this week. It’s been too long.”
“I will wait until after you have done battle with the Ice Queen. I would hate to explain your embarrassing demise to the boy when he is expecting you.”
When Erik reaches up to tap his fingers pointedly against the metal of his helmet the other man just smirks, baring his sharp incisors. “Even so,” Azazel says, and vanishes in a cloud of sulfurous smoke.
VII
Erik dreams of Charles in a garden, bending over a flowerbed overflowing with lupins and larkspur, fingers trailing through the sapphire-coloured flowers. Unhurried and relaxed, he walks through thigh-high swathes of tall grass, just starting to bend with its summer seed, hair blown loose and messy from the breeze, like fingers running through it. Golden sunlight turns the air to amber. In the background the sound of bees humming mixes with that of crickets chirping and the far-off rush of water, and amongst the bright blooms Charles’ white shirt is like a pure flame, slowly getting streaked with pollen and grass stains as he walks, plucking acorns from the ground where they have fallen and planting them in the dirt. His broad fingers are gentle as they scoop soil over them, tucking them in until they can grow into oak trees.
Erik cannot tell if he himself is in the garden, following, or if he is just an invisible observer, not present at all but separated by some invisible membrane, a screen he cannot break through. There is a bench, and a notebook; Charles must be working outside, taking advantage of the good weather, Erik thinks, and wants nothing more than to join him, to sit at his feet and look out across the rolling hills that spill out from the skirts of this one, golden and soft-curved against the brilliant blue sky.
When he looks down at his own hands, though, he sees blood instead of dirt worked into the nails, and steel bracelets at his wrists, seamless and smooth.
Charles does not even look up, does not so much as know Erik is there. He turns his head to every new trill of birdsong, waits patiently as a bumblebee ambles slowly across his top page, legs smearing the wet black ink into beautiful curlicues, leaving tiny footprints across the paper.
Erik, himself, seems to have left no mark on Charles at all. He is forgotten, irrelevant, unable to leave even the faintest trace.
He’s not sure he wants to. It is lovely, here. No need to spoil it.
When he wakes up he curls his face into Charles’ hair and breathes deeply, tightens his grip despite Charles’ sleepy murmur against him, and does not go back to sleep.
FILL: Everyday Love in Stockholm 177/?
“How is Kurt?” he asks eventually, letting the issue of Emma drop for the time being.
Azazel swells with pride, something he has never tried to hide. It’s one of the best things about him. “He can teleport a full ten metres now. His range, it increases day by day. Though his control, not so much.”
“He’s a talented lad,” Erik says, thinking of the little blue boy, long since out of diapers and skinny in that way only children are, long-limbed and inquisitive and with his mother’s sweet heart. He’s no longer the only mutant child who lives in the Capitol Building, but he is far and away the ringleader of his little band of ragamuffins, full of creative ideas for getting into trouble. “Tell him I’ll try to come visit some time this week. It’s been too long.”
“I will wait until after you have done battle with the Ice Queen. I would hate to explain your embarrassing demise to the boy when he is expecting you.”
When Erik reaches up to tap his fingers pointedly against the metal of his helmet the other man just smirks, baring his sharp incisors. “Even so,” Azazel says, and vanishes in a cloud of sulfurous smoke.
Erik dreams of Charles in a garden, bending over a flowerbed overflowing with lupins and larkspur, fingers trailing through the sapphire-coloured flowers. Unhurried and relaxed, he walks through thigh-high swathes of tall grass, just starting to bend with its summer seed, hair blown loose and messy from the breeze, like fingers running through it. Golden sunlight turns the air to amber. In the background the sound of bees humming mixes with that of crickets chirping and the far-off rush of water, and amongst the bright blooms Charles’ white shirt is like a pure flame, slowly getting streaked with pollen and grass stains as he walks, plucking acorns from the ground where they have fallen and planting them in the dirt. His broad fingers are gentle as they scoop soil over them, tucking them in until they can grow into oak trees.
Erik cannot tell if he himself is in the garden, following, or if he is just an invisible observer, not present at all but separated by some invisible membrane, a screen he cannot break through. There is a bench, and a notebook; Charles must be working outside, taking advantage of the good weather, Erik thinks, and wants nothing more than to join him, to sit at his feet and look out across the rolling hills that spill out from the skirts of this one, golden and soft-curved against the brilliant blue sky.
When he looks down at his own hands, though, he sees blood instead of dirt worked into the nails, and steel bracelets at his wrists, seamless and smooth.
Charles does not even look up, does not so much as know Erik is there. He turns his head to every new trill of birdsong, waits patiently as a bumblebee ambles slowly across his top page, legs smearing the wet black ink into beautiful curlicues, leaving tiny footprints across the paper.
Erik, himself, seems to have left no mark on Charles at all. He is forgotten, irrelevant, unable to leave even the faintest trace.
He’s not sure he wants to. It is lovely, here. No need to spoil it.
When he wakes up he curls his face into Charles’ hair and breathes deeply, tightens his grip despite Charles’ sleepy murmur against him, and does not go back to sleep.