[closed] sadness is a blessing

[cerebral]

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.

Comments

[magnetic]

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.