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human_veilmarvel 616 (excalibur vol. 3, pre-everything going to shit)
~500 words / teen / charles x erik
Genosha, at night, is silent. It’s different to the silence of the day, Erik thinks. Is more than a mere side effect of a small population. It’s the kind of quiet reserved for graveyards and morgues, the kind found in abandoned killing grounds. The kind that sits, spreads, heavy and unavoidable, the absence of sound a reminder of everything that should be there, but isn’t.
The kind that heightens his grief, the screams of sixteen million mutants a not-so-distant memory.
With a sigh, Erik abandons his latest attempt at sleep. Carefully, he slips from the bed, taking care not to disturb the slumbering man beside him. Charles’ exhaustion is palpable--much like his own--and he has no desire to ruin whatever rest his friend can get.
Muscle memory directs him through the house, the dark inconsequential when he can feel the hum of metal. In the kitchen, he finds the waning stash of Charles’ tea and goes about making himself a cup.
If Charles’ exhaustion is palpable, then so, too, is his hope. Dreamer, Erik calls him. Idealist. Sometimes it’s said with contempt, other times, his voice is full with masked affection, the teasing tilt born from familiarity. As he sits by the window, basking beneath the shallow light of the moon, Erik wonders if Charles has ever felt his envy.
Even when he dares--even when he dreams--hope is an elusive concept. He can never quite grasp it between his fingertips, not after the life he’s lead, not even now, as they sort through Genosha’s ruins with plans of rebuilding.
Always the cynic, says a familiar voice in his head. After all their time together, Erik is no longer surprised by Charles’ intrusions. They’re almost second-nature.
Pragmatist, he corrects, taking a long sip of his tea.
He half-hopes that Charles will take the bait, give him an excuse to argue, a distraction in the form of a fight, but he doesn’t. Come back to bed, he says instead, the words tinged with a welcoming warmth, a glimpse of Charles’ psyche, half-awake. Erik almost smiles.
In a moment. He holds his mug between his hands and lets the warmth seep into his fingers, staring down at the dark liquid as to ignore the sight beyond his window, the island of Genosha reduced to ruins and rubble--his people, once more, decimated.
He swallows and stands, his cup only half-empty as he leaves it in the sink. With quiet footsteps, Erik returns to their shared room, slipping in beside Charles and wishing his bubbling anger away. It only half-works, the thrum of fury ever-present. Something he’s resigned himself to.
Charles stirs as he settles, lashes fluttering open as his head rolls across his pillow, eyes peering at Erik through half-open lids. In the dim light, Erik watches the other man smile: a soft, small curl of his mouth, shadowed by exhaustion but still shockingly genuine. It stirs a latent warmth in Erik’s chest, the sensation creeping upward, filling his mouth; he keeps his lips shut to stop himself from saying something stupid.
“I can help,” Charles offers, voice rough with disuse and thick with sleep. He reaches for Erik as he says it, fingertips first brushing his jaw but then his temple. What he’s offering is obvious, and Erik accepts it with the slightest of nods, his hand reaching to cover Charles’ as he allows the other man to push him gently toward sleep.
