multiversallogs | [closed] sadness is a blessing

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[closed] sadness is a blessing

Who: Charles Xavier & Erik Lehnsherr.
What: The aftermath of future revelations.
Where: Casa del X-bros.
When: Late Newdi evening.
Notes: Sad feels :C
Warnings: None yet.

The man you know is capable of everything I just said and more. But out of all of Logan's words, what hit Charles most was you can't change his mind. Well, that wasn't the exact wording, but it was close enough and it raced around Charles' thoughts regardless.

It wasn't fair.

He had been graced with an ability where he could do incredible things, but he wasn't able to fix things, make things right, in the few instances when it really mattered, with people he cared about most. It wasn't fair.

Luckily it had been late in the evening when the transmission had broadcasted and Charles was so grateful that it hadn't happened at work because how on earth would he have been able to get through an afternoon or a day of other people's thoughts while having to smile, smile so charming at everyone. On the other hand, he was alone at home with nothing to do but pace and think, try to read, toss the books aside, contemplate going out but not knowing anyone well enough in this city and the only person that he does --what is he even going to say to Erik?

Half an hour passes before he pours himself a glass of Scotch. Some part of him realises it's probably a bad idea to drink alone when trying to cope with a problem, especially when a prediliction towards alcoholism runs on one side of his family. And then he thinks to hell with it and takes the bottle with him into the sun room, closing the blinds and reclining on the sofa.

Three drinks in and things don't feel better, but they don't feel any worse, either.

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It isn't fair just about sums up Mr. Lehnsherr's feelings on the matter as well. He is rather more raw about it, however—and that's the big difference between them, isn't it? Charles maintains, drawing his suffering inward, while Erik is a series of ragged edges sure to scar. Charles bruises; Erik bleeds.

Not knowing what's been said about him is, frankly, maddening—not even the lack of knowing, but the sheer volume of speculation that an anxious mind can and will and does, ultimately, create to fill that gap. His wheels have been turning wildly since that transmission was so suddenly locked. Being forced to deal with a future that might not even be his, having unfair judgments thrust upon him, burdened with a reputation forged by another man in another time and place, another reality, and all the consequences beyond his control.

That is the crux of it: the loss of control. Again and again.

And to have all this come down upon him in a place like this. His fate already cast, indelible, scored deep in the memories of these people. These strangers. The family he was never allowed to have. For it to happen here, in this prison that wears a city's façade...

Erik, unlike Charles, did not have the benefit of immediate privacy when his exchange with Logan took place. He did retain his composure, though, and as he was not hired to look friendly, nothing extraordinary happened during the remainder of his shift. Still, when the locks roll open, and by and by the front door eases shut, it is far later into the night than is usual. Late enough to be considered morning. His footsteps—subdued, but not silent—mark his passage into the kitchen, where the tap runs gently and glassware slides and tinkles in the cupboard. The soft bump of a cup in the sink.
After a time, the sounds move to Erik's bedroom. That one creaking floorboard near his dresser. Miscellaneous, restless shuffling. The muted beat of one boot dropping to the floor, and soon enough the other.

He has not turned on a light in all this time, preferring instead to feel his way around by way of spatial (and metaphysical) awareness, brushing bodily against doorframes and encountering shapes with his hands in the dark.

In the dark of the sun room, Charles lies perfectly still with his eyes shut when he hears the door unlock, followed by Erik's familiar footfall. The door is (mostly) closed. He can lie here and pretend he's asleep. He can lie here and wait until morning.

It doesn't work. He can feel Erik's emotions resonating from the next room, and, tentatively, he searches for a glimpse of forethoughts. Any attempts to put this off are promptly abandoned. He can't leave him like this—

That's a familiar thought. Russia is a million miles away, now. And he idly wonders if that's what life will always be like, a constant state of not being able to leave Erik Lehnsherr to his own devices, for fear of what he could do to others and himself.

No, it's not like that, Erik isn't a project, and the inability to leave him alone is, is.

Too many thoughts. It's not like he'll be sleeping with this hanging over his head, anyway.

And so, Charles swings his legs over and sits there for a moment, trying to compose himself for whatever might come next. No, that's not happening either. All he can manage is a quick rub of his face to shake this tiredness, before making his way quietly out of the room. Slowly, he pads along the corridor in his bare feet before pausing to knock at the bedroom door.

"Erik?" It's audible, but not particularly loud.

"What is it."

This reply comes in a markedly flat affect, yes, but there is no cutting edge. No softness, either, but no edge. Only steadiness. Beyond the door he is sitting on the edge of his low mattress, slouched with his hands folded between his knees, his head turned slightly to one side, as though this one dim spot on the wooden floor is somehow more interesting than any other.

Charles considers asking to be let in, but his hand has already found and started turning the door handle. He is feeling neither reasonable nor rational right now and, presumably, if Erik wants to be left alone, he'll have locked it or stuck the mechanism.

But it swings open, although rather than enter, Charles stands in the doorframe and looks at the man before him: slouched, silent, smaller seeming. Oh, Erik.

And he slumps against the doorframe, something immensely sad in his bearing. "You saw, didn't you." It's not a question.

Edited 2012-01-31 23:24 (UTC)

Erik does not look entirely downtrodden, it should be noted. Tired, yes, and tense as hell—there's a knot in him pulling tight—but not depressed. He is not mourning. Resigned might be a better word for it. Still, he does not look to the doorway.

"What little there was to see." And the rest, whatever it might be, has been gnawing at him since.

Charles edges in slightly, hands tucked behind his back, which is pressed to the wall. He looks ceilingwards for a long time, before offering, "I can tell you the rest. If you'd like."

For whatever good it might do.

The knot squeezes tighter, but Erik refuses to react to it outwardly. He does not move.

"Why?"

"I don't know. I thought—" What? That someone would like to hear all of the horrible things they might one day do? Like most things in Baedal, there isn't a set guideline for when certain circumstances arise. "I don't know."

He slides down the wall a touch. He's not drunk, but he's not completely sober either. "And I hate not knowing." His head thumps back against the wall. "I hate this."

Edited 2012-02-01 00:08 (UTC)

Erik exhales once, audibly, through his nose; something like the ghost of a laugh, perhaps strangely timed with the appearance of a deeper crease between his eyebrows. Now his expression becomes sad. Amused, and sad. It is not an expression of regret, though it may appear so. He hates it, too—he hates all of this, all of it—but has expressed it often enough that it must be a given by this time.

"Was it as bad as you expected?"

(Erik is of the opinion that he is entitled to an infinite amount of self-pity right now.)

Charles blinks, and before he can really think, the words, "I wasn't expecting anything," tumble from him genuinely. "I mean, I never once thought. Before we came here."

It's true; he knows the things that Erik has done, has seen him use his powers violently before his eyes, but that was different, wasn't it? That was Shaw. That was understandable, if misguided. It wasn't whatever this was.

"I only had an inkling that time we met Logan in the bar. You may be surprised to hear this, but I've been trying not to peer into the minds of people who know us. I like knowing, but I want some surprises."

He slides down into a squat, pushing his hair back from his face in a gesture Erik is no doubt familiar with by now. "I never thought... I mean, I don't know." His lips twist into a little far-away smile. "I imagined we'd always be friends. Two old men playing chess together in a park somewhere. You with your fifty grandchildren. Me with hair. I never..." and he pauses to wet his lips, finding the next part difficult, "I never would have begun to imagine we'd end up on opposite ends of the battlefield. Not after what we've been through. And not you—"

He lets that drop and turns his head away.

Edited 2012-02-01 07:35 (UTC)

It would take very little effort to say something along the same vein, to support Charles in his disbelief, to voice aloud his own fierce refusal to yield to the will of others even one more time. Instead he thinks of Wanda, the way she examined his hands when he opened them to her, and how carefully she spoke to him. The way she seemed to be watching him through a veil. He lifts one hand to his forehead, drags it over the ridges of his brow and the bony curves of his eye sockets, the hollows of his cheeks, until it covers his mouth.
The silence here could be long, and perhaps it should be, but he severs it with a word.

"Well." His fingers lace together again, elbows on his knees, and still he does not look toward Xavier. "You had better get used to the idea."

"No." And he turns and looks right back at Erik again, so very sternly.

"No," is repeated for good measure, before launching into, "The concept of infinity isn't one that can easily be grasped by human minds, nor mutant ones for that matter, but that's what this city is. Multiple realities cast together. Do you understand? The possibilities are endless. That's not even beginning to get into the theory of whether this city is a closed system to our time-stream." His tone becomes increasingly more impassioned the more he talks. If there's one thing Charles Xavier is sure of, it's science.

He draws himself up from his sitting position, trying to look as defiant as he feels. "You don't have to be that man. You might not even be him to begin with. For God's sake, I'm not going to sit here and listen to ridiculous concepts like 'fate' and 'destiny,' and if you want to, then tell me so I can fetch myself another bloody drink to help the rubbish go down."

"If you are so certain of everything," he begins, slowly and with clear articulation, in the way that assures only a build in momentum, "then you tell me where I should draw the line."

Now his gaze turns on Charles, and even in this shadowy ambience it should not be difficult to imagine, at least, how it looks. "You tell me, Charles, how to decide what to accept and what to ignore." And now the promised raise in volume. His hands accompany with stiff, agitated gestures. "How can I listen to someone telling me, I'm your daughter, or my son or my grandchild, see the likeness in their faces, and look into their eyes and say to them, I'm sorry, but your existence supports a ridiculous concept and so I choose not to believe it? How am I supposed to do that?"

Edited 2012-02-01 08:47 (UTC)

"Oh now," he says, pushing himself up to stand, tone still as fierce as it was a moment ago. "That's putting words into my mouth, and you know it."

"Their existence does not support a ridiculous concept. Don't you dare, I would never in my life say something like that. But I'll tell you what you can do, you can keep bloody well telling them that you're not going to be that man. And no, they might not believe you for a long time, I'm not saying that will be easy to face. But —oh Christ Erik, just prove them wrong!" That last part is said in a mixture of exasperation and utter frustration, his own gestures accompanying his words, and substituting the desire to go over there and shake the other man (he knows, at least, that that would be an extremely bad idea).

Yes. It would be.

Charles's final exclamation leaves a wake of silence suffused with energy, as though an absence can still have weight; he remains the target of that blazing iron stare for its duration. And like a wake, it does settle, but a return to proper stillness may yet be a long time coming.

"It must be so easy for you to say that." Erik's voice, at once throaty and smooth, now carries weak resentment. "Isn't it."

Surely, the rest of that thought can remain unspoken.

There is an incredulous stare from Charles for a long, lengthy moment, his mouth actually opening in the face of Erik's words. Easy.

"Yes, this is easy. So very easy." The stressed word drops in the hiss of a whisper as his tone becomes momentarily frosty. Not that it lasts. "You don't have a clue. Not a bloody clue."

Neither does Charles, not really, not knowing what he's trying to voice. His lips clamp shut firmly, the skin around them turning white and suddenly, suddenly he can't be in this room right now. A thousand things are raging inside him and, and—

He grabs a hold of the door edge and shoves it back (which might elicit a slam against furniture or the wall), walking out quickly and determinedly.

Edited 2012-02-01 10:03 (UTC)

"Don't—" Damn it.

Spurred by alarm, Erik leaves the bed at once, catches the door with his fingers as it swings away from the impact, moves past it and into the hallway after him. "Charles, stop." His tone falls somewhere between a command and a plea.

At least he listens, which is more than he feels like right now. He turns around to look at Erik challengingly.

"Why?" Now it's his turn to try and ignore the knot of emotions tugging at him.

What the hell does he mean, why? BECAUSE, that's why.

Erik's expression says approximately this. ...And the man himself says nothing. Just stands there, rigid, his breathing shallow, pulse thumping, agitated. Staring.

Because.

Charles returns his stare, not particularly questioning because it wasn't really a question so much as one of those things that just gets said in the heat of an argument. But unlike their previous stand-offs, he's not showing any signs of backing down or becoming flustered.

They seem to have reached an equally aggravated impasse.

So they have.

After a time—what feels like a very long time, probably, but isn't so long at all—Erik draws one breath just deeply enough to fuel a sigh and pushes it out through his nose, and just like that, his posture changes overall. With a gentle bodily sway, his weight shifts from both feet squared to just one, then the other, as if he's settling in. He folds his arms across his chest.

So, what now.

With a small sniff, Charles finally looks away and towards the kitchen.

"I need a drink of water." That's what, apparently. See? Thirsty. Nothing to do with this whatsoever.

Both his fists are clenched and his shoulders look incredibly tense, every part of him, in fact, feels tense. But that's besides the point. Or the fact that, when he finally enters the room, he leans heavily against the counter on both arms, head hanging down, where he hopes Erik can't see him.

He can't see, no—and anyway, he doesn't try to look. While his eyes do follow the other man's departure, Erik himself remains there in the hall, barefoot, arms folded. His gaze soon softens to the middle distance.

Presently, he turns back toward the doorway behind him, steps toward it, and... no, you know what, Erik stops there, and leans with his shoulder blades on either side of the frame.

"What did he tell you?"

"He didn't know much." Charles pushes himself up and quietly makes his way to the doorway again, creeping a few steps back along the hall.

"And it doesn't matter." He stops, arms folded around himself as he looks on at the back of Erik's figure. And he repeats it for good measure, "It doesn't matter. Not to me."

Not that he thinks that makes much difference. He stays perfectly still, despite absently wishing he had gotten himself a glass of water. His mouth feels dry, his pulse is still racing, and he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.

Edited 2012-02-01 13:03 (UTC)

Hmm. Perhaps it's for the best that he doesn't hear it, anyway. If he knows, he might be more apt to head in that direction. That must be what the rest of them decided, he thinks; it would explain a few things.

His head turns toward the hallway—not far enough to see over his shoulder, but enough that the vague impression of Xavier enters his peripheral vision. "You're certain." Despite the intonation, this is indeed a question (and a clear tonal indication that he's well on his way to becoming guarded again).

"Yes." It comes out quiet, on the end of an exhalation. That tiredness is creeping over him again, and he moves off the wall, thinking to head towards the stairs. "It's not the Erik Lehnsherr I know. And may he never come to pass."

He takes a step or two to go past the door, arms unfolding, and there is the briefest, briefest, hesitation as his hand goes half-way out, then stops, thinking better of it.

He walks a few steps on instead, before saying, "I'm sorry I even asked in the first place." And his shoulders sag slightly. Because he could have chosen to avoid all of this, really.

Edited 2012-02-01 14:18 (UTC)

There are several easily predictable responses to such an admission, none of which he'll receive. What Charles does get in response must be quite familiar by now: wordless scrutiny, its bearer contemplative, the faint crease between his eyebrows. He may come to think this will be the end of their conversation, but just as Charles reaches the foot of that narrow staircase, Erik says, "Thank you."

Should he turn in time, he may glimpse partially Erik's narrow figure, already withdrawing into the bedroom.

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[closed] sadness is a blessing

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