Logs:Anchor

Anchor
cw: explicit sexual content, alcohol abuse, mentioned infidelity, discussion of terrorisms and trauma
Dramatis Personae Charles, Erik	2022-05-28 "Whatever else are you looking for?"
Location <NYC> Mandarin Oriental Hotel, Columbus Circle
Backdropped by expansive city views overlooking the Hudson River, this elegant room features contemporary décor in chocolate brown and soft golds, as well as a granite and marble bathroom complete with a beautiful accessible shower to soak up the spectacular surrounds. The main part of the suite is centred on a luxurious king bed, turned down already with a transfer board already positioned on one side and newly outfitted with a bed pull strap. Most things are as Charles left them when he went down to speak at the GENUS fundraising gala earlier this evening — suitcase in its place, extraneous copies of his speech scribbled with revisions left on the desk, the desk chair pushed out of the way into a corner of the room. Now, on his return, there is a notable addition that he almost certainly did not leave behind several hours ago — his ex-husband, lounging on the chaise with a glass of whiskey, looking out over Central Park below them. The half-drank bottle of whiskey (Hakushu, single malt) on the side table is a new addition as well, as is the unopened bottle of Oban beside it. It doesn’t take telepathy to be able to tell that Erik has been drinking for a while, or that he has not been sleeping — the bags under bloodshot eyes tell that story clear enough. The helmet is slightly askew on his head, the centre point just out of alignment with the bridge of his nose. A burgundy suit jacket is tossed on the back of the chaise, the top few buttons of the black dress shirt undone. Erik turns his gaze to the door when it opens. “Hello, Charles. Fancy a game?” He sits up — notably, there is no chess board to be seen. Charles wheels in on one of his powered chairs -- sleek and futuristic and, like most of his, with wheels styled as large Xs -- looking bright and alert, though a familiar eye can tell he's holding himself together on sheer willpower. The crisp lines of his navy suit have grown rumpled over the course of the long day, and he reaches to loosen his blue-and-gold damask tie even as he pivots the chair around far enough to see his uninvited guest. His hand freezes on the neat if strained full Windsor knot. It's hard to catch him so completely off-guard, but his reliance on telepathy shows in how slow he is to process what he's seeing. His eyes stutter on the shape of the man first, actual recognition dawning a split second later and followed fast by a flash of worry. The slight upward defocusing of his gaze would be lost on most and illegible to all but a very few -- he's opening his psionic senses, the way a dog lifts its muzzle to scent the wind. In his distraction the tie knot is left, for the nonce, unmolested, but his fingers linger over -- is it the Xavier's School crest tie pin, or the (almost) unique magnetized ring he wears on a chain beneath the shirt? When he speaks at last, dropping his hand away with a faint embarrassed flush, it's just a gentle "Hello, old friend." His pale eyes flick to his suitcase where it's propped up on a folding luggage rack supplied by the hotel, then back at the half-drunk bottle. "I imagine you have your pick of partners, but you know I am always game." He rolls slowly over the suitcase. "Are you -- do you --" The long breath that eases out of him would probably be a sigh coming from anyone else. "What's the matter, Erik?" Erik's lips curl up slowly into a wolfish smile as Charles finds his voice, clearly amused while he finishes his whiskey. His gaze runs over the chair -- the suit -- the tie -- the face of the man rolling towards him. Erik stands up from the chaise, an effortless flex of power already uncorking the Oban before he can actually pour out a measure into the same glass. "Must something be the matter?" The now full glass is placed with apparent nonchalance on the arm of powered chair so that Erik can lean over and pick up where Charles left off with the loosening of his tie. "All those years you dropped in on me -- I simply thought I might return the attention." The knot is only a little looser when something else catches Erik's attention, too: the ring resting warm against Charles' sternum. There's a gentle tug on the end of the chain, the touch of Erik's power light as he pushes the ring up between skin and shirt, up further until its free from beneath the shirt and can rest in Erik's open palm. His gaze rises from the ring to Charles' eyes, back down to his ex-husband's lips, running his thumb over the polished surface all the while. "You sentimental fool. I thought you were rid of this." "No," Charles allows steadily. Too steadily, perhaps, the way he sounds when he's trying to conceal strong emotion. "And it is -- very considerate of you to visit, but they're still hunting you out there. I thought..." His eyes widen fractionally when Erik starts plucking at his tie and his breath flutters almost imperceptibly with that tug on the chain, but he makes no move to stop him. He does blush deeply and look down at the ring in Erik's hand, though. "I've never claimed to be otherwise. Those years with you were precious to me. Everything seemed so much clearer, back then, and this reminds me what we tried to build." He chances a look back up, his expression opaque though he's clearly searching for something in Erik's eyes. He reaches for the whisky and takes a slow sip without lowering his gaze. "What I'm still trying to build." His voice is lighter, if not quite amused, when he adds, "Besides, we never formally divorced." "You never asked for one." Erik lets the ring drop, continues to loosen the knot at Charles' neck until the strip of fabric is completely undone, tossed with its tie onto a near dresser. His voice lowers, a tinge of soft laughter in his alcohol-scented breath. "We were married under the laws of a nation that no longer exists, by a rabbi who would never admit to performing it. Surely that is grounds enough for annulment?" Next, the buttons of the shirt -- Erik works the top three open, fingertips almost but not quite brushing against the newly bared skin. "And how goes the building? All this grovelling to the lesser species is ill-becoming -- I much prefer when you are bringing others to their knees." Charles arches one eyebrow sharply, but if he had a witty reply to the rhetorical question it gives way to a slightly unsteady and only vaguely interrogative "Erik..." He swallows hard, lifting the glass again too late to disguise it. "I don't grovel." This doesn't quite sound petulant, but it is a touch defensive. "Progress is slow, but cooperation isn't about dominance." There's no heat in this, his words too soft for the steely determination he was probably aiming for. It doesn't help that he's pulling towards Erik as though magnetically drawn, so close the warmth of his presence is just faintly sensible despite the helmet. "Unless that's what both parties want." Hesitant, almost tentative, he ventures, "What -- what do you want? Other than humanity kneeling at my feet." "What worries you? That Ms. Grey will come home early? Worried about the children catching us here? Forget them, Charles. " Erik continues working the shirt open, the lean and drape of his body almost boxing Charles into his chair. "Of course it's about dominance -- the illusion of it, the pursuit of it. The thrill of letting your own go for just a momentary rush of freefall." There's a huff of amused laughter again. "Our feet," Erik corrects, freeing the last button and raising his gaze back to Charles eyes, pupils blown wide with desire. "I want --" Erik cuts himself off with the press of his lips to Charles', letting his mind finish for him -- << this (you) (us) (how it was) >>. The cacaphony of his mind crashes against Charles -- all sharp edges and mania and spiralling rushing thoughts kept just barely at bay by the blanket of booze and anchor of touch when Erik finally lets his hand cradle the back of Charles' neck, lets the other push the jacket and shirt off his shoulder. Want, yes, for Charles -- but also for the simpler days they shared, when there was more future to be hopeful of than failures weighing every next decision. Louder -- the need to forget, for a while, to not have to explain anything further, ever again. "I'm not worried." This time Charles does sound a little petulant. "I'm just startled. To put it delicately, you're quite inebriated, and I ought not take --" He loses the rest of that thought in the kiss, his mind frantically shoring up shields exhausted by the bustle of the city even as it eagerly opens those same shields to the tumult of Erik's thoughts. The warm rush that wells up around Erik is at once familiar and not -- a raw elemental force that might be unrecognizable if he hadn't known a much younger Charles in all his bright reckless passion. Beside the careful, measured contact of their conversations this past decade, it's like stepping into the blazing summer sun after a long, dark winter. In this torrid chaos there is fierce desire, stark terror, and sheer ardent joy, but it's hard to pick out discrete thoughts. It's hard to even remember there's a world outside their heads until Charles curls his fingers into Erik's shirt and tries to haul him closer. When he breaks the kiss he doesn't so much pull away as lean back into Erik's hand, eyes dark and just a touch glassy. His relief at the touch and the simultaneous aching need for more, sharpened by second-hand mania, crowd out the worry he claimed not to feel. Quite abruptly Erik knows -- no words or images or concepts, he just knows -- Charles wants to be lifted out of his chair. The half voiced sentence is lost to the roar of surf as Erik's mind crashes against Charles' and folds into that bright heat. There's a hint of a reply -- maybe Erik wants Charles to take advantage -- but it's quickly lost in the overwhelming reflected desire. Nothing stays long, thoughts barely coalescing back into a fervent refrain -- << be here with me ( be here ) ( be here ) ( with me ) >> -- before the next wave of lust carries Erik further into muscle memory, into base instinct. Maybe it’s not as easy to scoop Charles into his arms as it was ten, twenty, thirty years ago, but Erik is still stronger than men of his age have any human right to be — he lifts Charles up in a swift, confident, achingly familiar movement and deposits him with practiced gentleness at the head of the bed. The transfer board is quickly knocked aside, Erik's left hand slipping around to knead at Charles' back while the right endeavours to free Charles from his clothing. Is it him demanding that their skin remain in contact, or is it his lover? It's unclear to Erik, at least, a clanging alarm at the veeeeery back of his mind trying to remind him why the helmet is on to begin with wrestling with the urge to remove it and the last barriers between the two men. At his wrist, the latchless bracelet is working itself loose, a few links heating as they elongate under Erik's slow and very distracted control. Charles tucks his face against Erik's shoulder, hands tightening around fistfuls of his shirt though the rest of his body relaxes with startling ease despite the fear that jangles louder against the safety he wants to feel in those arms. << I'm here (you're here) Calm your mind, Erik (let me help) >> His mental voice is, for all that, not particularly calm, his attention bombarded by Erik's racing thoughts as well as his own. It sounds like it's coming from everywhere at once, another throwback to a time when he was less adept with his powers. He only has a split second to panic at the prospect of Erik pulling away, or wonder why indeed he's still bothering with the helmet. The firm touch at his back floods his senses with blinding pleasure and he gasps, arching as far as his body -- or Erik's -- will permit. The reaction is far more intense than either of them has cause to expect, and the wordless knowledge that it's been a decade since Charles last did this presents itself with somewhat abashed reluctance in Erik's mind. But for all the heartbreak and enmity of the years between them, he feels more than just a little smug that this man -- this magnificent, tenacious force of nature -- still wants him. And he still can't help but smile at the steel yielding to Erik's power. Why, indeed, is Erik still ( << {am I what am I doing} >> ) bothering with the helmet? There are — were reasons, surely, but they’re not near the top of Erik’s mind and Charles is, the echoes of panic and pleasure drowning out reasonable objections. His hair falls from the helmet as it lifts off his head and clatters to the floor, almost entirely white again save for hints of pink under the warm hotel lights. Recollection twists into the doubled sensations of here, now — his palm pressing into the arch of Charles’ back, the surge of pleasure and the suddenly known admission dragging out the sense of velvety wings brushing over his own back and short nails digging into skin ( << “…tell us how you like it...” >> ) and a faintly dissociated sense of guilt. He falls forward on top of Charles, hands catching -- -- in long strawberry blonde hair, his gaze reflected back in hazel eyes, -- no, not here, his fingers find purchase in bedsheets, and he's looking down into 'blue' eyes, Charles' eyes -- -- meeting Erik's watery blue. His breath hitches and his hands falter where they'd dropped to finish unbuttoning Erik's shirt. The memory of that last paramour cuts into him (into them) like an icy blast of wind. << "You sentimental fool..." >> could be either of their memories, but Suzanna's thoughts, some thirty years past, << (can they even have sex?)(that's so unfair --) oh God did you hear that I didn't mean it... >> so clearly belong to Charles. The full shape of these echoes hardly have time to register in either mind before Charles shunts them away, vehement where he's usually meticulous. Even so, the pain those memories dredged up hums across the link between their minds and stills their bodies. For a moment the room is quiet save their heavy breathing. << (it's not me he wants)(doesn't matter he needs this)(does he?) >> Charles lifts one hand to brush Erik's hair back from where it's fallen like a ragged curtain beside his face. Despite the lingering twinge of hurt in his chest, he's relaxed -- with a distant guilt all his own -- at the removal of the helmet. His fingers sink into Erik's hair with a whisper of warm comfort that does nothing to quell the scorching heat of desire, but he's diffident now, uncomfortably aware he's still only half hard, his broken body slow to comply. With Charles' hand twisted in his hair, Erik teeters on the edge of falling backwards into memory. His eyes flutter -- the image of Suzanna lingers, haunting the space between Erik and his ex-husband with her betrayals ( << “You’re so lucky, at least your marriage wasn’t real,” >> ) ( << "You're so full of shit ...abandoned your own kid to be raised by flatscans." >>). Heat grows behind his desire; simmering resentment, regret, and a sharp wish to turn back time to punish -- who? Suzanna? Charles? Himself? The strip of steel twists around the base of Charles' erection, ends fusing together to form a ring. Erik leans away from the memories and into Charles, trying to sooth his doubts, half formed thoughts unclear but far more potent than simple desire: << (need this) (need you, liebe) (always you when will you listen when will you come to your senses) (come home to me) >> It's with reluctance that Erik pulls away from Charles' grip, apologetic kisses pressed down his lover's chest as he slips down the bed. Where Charles is frustrated with his cock Erik's thoughts are almost soothing -- here is something he can fix, something he can make whole again if he cannot quiet his own mind or heal the wounds the past has left. When he takes Charles' in his mouth, there are no more words in his head -- just desire, just satisfaction, just this. *** Charles opens his eyes and gives a small sigh, but the mental flutter of recollecting his surroundings does not displace the soft soporific warmth he's radiating. His afterglow may be more literal than most, but it cannot offset the faint chill of the air conditioning on the sweat he'd worked up. He shuffles himself tighter against Erik's side, suppressing a wince when the movement tugs at his aching back and the scattering of muscles in his hips and thighs that escaped the not-quite-severing of his spine, strained well past their wonted exertion. He glances aside at the abandoned whisky but doesn't seriously consider getting up. Just closes his eyes again and relaxes into the luxurious mattress. << Won't you stay the night? >> His mental voice is quiet and, better controlled now, sounds like it's coming from -- him, as though he'd actually spoken. << I'll handle Jean. >> The roiling boil of Erik’s mania has quieted significantly — still bubbling, yes, but almost controlled, the haze around the edges of his thoughts softer. The arm around Charles’ shoulders curls tighter, coaxing Charles closer. He could get the whiskey — he’s thinking about it — but he doesn’t need that dampener right now. Nor does he really consider the question posed to him, instead focusing on the feeling of Charles against him, of the sweat cooling on their skin. It would be nice, wouldn't it? To stay, to pretend like the last thirty years never happened and they were still a family. The ring still is around Charles' neck, the empty space on his own finger where its match should be, the bracelet of steel links at his wrist warm against his skin. A skip of thought and the anger that had carried him across New York tonight reignites, more controlled than before. Quiet, the memories kept on his side of the link, Erik finally says -- "You could have warned me she was Mormon." Charles sighs softly, drawn along with Erik's idle musing, though his own wistful memories are more vivid and more despondent. He's waking up in the middle of the night beside Erik -- again and again, long after Suzanna had abandoned them both -- wrapped in the familiar whispers of his dreams, unable to fall back to sleep knowing he'll be gone again come morning. He lets Erik pull him closer, not minding the pain so very much this time. The spark of anger draws a tension back into his wispy frame, but he doesn't pull away, not really. "You didn't give me much opportunity to tell you anything about her," he murmurs against Erik's shoulder. There's no censure in his voice, nor in his mind where he's annotating his reply with a glimpse of their last encounter, Erik pulling from his grasp, his presence turning abruptly unreal as the telepathic connection drops and Charles casts around reflexively for a mind he cannot reach. << I'm sorry if she hurt you. I knew this would be difficult for you both -- she's so very much like you. >> “Suppose I did not,” Erik allows, mollified more by the telepathic admission than the replay of their last conversation. Carries it on where Charles’ stops — the sure way he left the mansion last, determined to only watch his daughter from afar — the resolve crumpling when she was so close — the agonizing gulf between Polaris and he across a Riverdale table, him scrambling for some anchor to hold onto that seems familiar, that seems like family. Curls his arm tighter into Charles. How much longer could he spare? How long will the Brotherhood miss him, would they miss him or would this whole flight of fancy be seen as ceding control back to Raven? Can't have that, not now, not when they were so close to -- << I should be going >> snaps across the link, Erik’s touch lightening as he starts to pull away, power stretching out to pull the helmet to his free hand and thoughts deliberately focusing on the whiskey bottles out of reach. << Another drink, first? >> Charles's presence blooms warmer. << I never felt quite like I could talk to you about fatherhood, however much I wanted to. I was so lost, with Jean... >> He remembers wading terrified yet determined into psionic tantrums, brimming with wonder and pride at every piece of art or science project, waiting out stormy nights in his armchair lest he disturb the scrawny little girl tucked at his side. << It's not the same, but for better or worse, I do have a notion or two about it now. Family isn't always easy, but it's worth the work. >> The reply comes as no surprise to Charles, but with his shields still thrown wide to the link, he can't quite disguise his pang of disappointment or stop himself following the calculations that lead Erik there. When his friend starts pulling away, he goes very, very still. The reaction isn't fear, not exactly, but his pulse accelerates before he has any notion why. << "Don't get in my way," >> Erik warns him across the gulf of seven years and so much pain that he might have prevented if he had only known . Erik whom he trusted with his entire being, Erik who was supposed to defend their people, Erik whose thoughts he would not violate, to disastrous consequences. A vast, suffocating tide of minds crushes down on him from every side as Cerebro blinks out, the uncanny precision of his memory tightening the snarl of angry mental scars until he can barely breathe and he reaches -- -- for Erik, past Erik into Magneto. Digs up memories with no finesse -- Magneto sitting at the head of that long steel table, poring over a paper map of D.C. covered in circles and arrows and names while arguments over the efficacy of arson rage around him. Magneto moving a pawn in the midgame of a chess match with a young woman Charles does not recognize, discussing as calmly as they would the weather which politicians could be threatened and which would have to simply be replaced. Magneto sifting through printouts, staring at small text with eyes that are maybe, finally, starting to age into nearsightedness, carefully circling a factory address in red pen. Each fragment of memory comes with knowledge, too, the incomplete banality of planned violence, the equations of life and death already balanced and deemed acceptable. Further still, under that terrible algebra, a familiar machine is both taking slow and steady shape in Erik's workshop, his mind spinning with the thought of trying again, getting it right this time, Magneto and Polaris at the console because surely that was the mistake, that Rogue could not leave him standing to power it, and with the both of them it would have worked if only he had known she existed, and the deaths would have been examples unto the nations -- -- then suddenly, nothing. The helmet snaps into place around Erik's head a moment before he untangles himself from the telepath and scrambles out of the bed. The expression on his face is shadowed by the dim light of the room, the shadow of the helmet, but there is anger in how his jaw is tensed. "You should know by now you won't find it in there." Slowly, he echoes his own words from nearly a decade ago -- "Whatever else are you looking for?" Charles still hasn't moved, though his face is blank with horror. His thoughts, however, are racing as quickly as Erik's, now. He's thinking about Polaris, her guileless smile, her passionate defiance, and her readiness to defend others. This last comes with a reluctant but determined glimpse of her in black tactical gear on her way to train for a Prometheus raid -- in the Danger Room, yes, but without the X-Men's help. The last thing Erik feels through the link is grief and shame so intense it hurts deep in his chest. "I wasn't looking for anything, but I see we've learned nothing," he says, soft and unsteady. "I'll keep hiding and you'll go back to your bloody war, but it's the children who will pay the price for us." When his eyes seek out and hold Erik's, there's a spark of anger brightening the despair in their faded blue depths. "Kill me if you must, but I won't let you murder innocents in the name of our freedom. I cannot." Erik's gaze is focused determinedly at the mess of clothes on the floor even as the memories snap through -- there is a pause as he picks up his trousers, a small furrow of brow that Charles knows from long years of experience is the confused precursor to rage. Not until Charles falls silent and he is partially dressed does Erik look up, the pain Charles left in his mind clear in his eyes. His jaw tenses. "Have we learnt nothing, Charles?” There is more dignity in the rest of his dressing, belt buckling and buttons slipping through holes without Erik’s eyes leaving Charles. “I’ve been studying my mistakes these long years — I have been learning." Jacket, shoes, the Hakushu whiskey -- Erik gathers these with a flex of power to his hands. "The war is no longer coming -- it is here, its soldiers preparing for battle in your basement.” There is pain in Erik's inflection on the word 'soldiers', a touch of accusation in his tone. He steps towards the window. “You said you would fight when you must. If you choose to fight for humanity, then you will die -- as like by their hand as mine.” Charles sits up gingerly and pulls the rumpled top sheet over his lap, watching Erik with furrowed brows and a kind of fretful detachment. "You were --" But he bites back whatever he was going to say. "You wouldn't be making those plans if you didn't have hope." He sounds as though half trying to convince himself. "You wouldn't have come to me if you didn't have hope. But you know perfectly well being the same species has never stopped humans killing each other, and making them more like us won't, either." His expression shutters at Erik's -- prediction? Threat? Warning? "I will fight for a chance at peace for us all, even if it means fighting you. Even if it means fighting them." He takes a steadying breath, and his voice doesn't quite break when he continues, softly, "Even if they kill me for it. Don't do this, Erik." No denial of hope, no denial of why he came here. What Erik does respond to, he does so viciously, every word pointed. "Oh, I have no intention of making them more like us. That was your hope, Charles — that if we made our case convincingly enough, if they could only understand us, they would not repeat history." There’s a slight tremor behind Erik’s accusation, equally likely to be rage as it is anguish. "That dream died, Charles, when they passed that terrible law. I --" The window opens, wind rippling the curtains, the sheets, the silk of his shirt as Erik corrects himself, " -- Magneto will do must what be done."