Chapter Text
Charles had experienced many unremarkable summertimes in his life. There were the summers of his youth, of course, when his mother would send him off to unbearably stifling summer camps, or the ones where she’d leave Charles in the mansion for months with only a nanny for company. There were the debaucherous summers of his university days, spent in a delightful haze of partying and writing as Charles allowed himself respite from the intensity of the school year. There were summers of excitement and summers of boredom, but for most of his life, Charles never experienced a summertime that truly changed him.
Until Erik Lehnsherr entered his life in the summer of 1962, nearly drowning himself and Charles in his desperation to kill Sebastian Shaw. From that day forward, Charles’s whole concept of summertimes was forever altered––for that summer did not inspire relaxation and calm like he had come to expect. It was the summer that made Charles unable to stop moving, working, striving. Finally he had a goal, a chance to introduce mutants to the world in a way that would guarantee their safety, and he was going to stop at nothing to make it happen.
And Erik. Oh, Erik. He ruined it that day on the beach in October. Everything they’d built through the previous summer of road trips and recruiting and secretive glances crumbled to sand in one moment. After all their late-night conversations, sharing minds and memories, Charles truly thought that he wasn’t the only one changed by that summer. But then Erik turned those missiles around, and in a way maybe Charles had anticipated it deep down. It didn’t make it hurt any less.
Erik had insisted they wanted the same thing, but he’d given Charles no choice but to turn him away. So, it was Charles who said the words that shattered his own world that day: “I'm sorry, but we do not.”
He’d thought about it every day since--what would be different if he’d agreed to do things Erik’s way. He’d have Erik, he knew, but he’d have lost everything else, all his life’s work towards peace for mutants. Charles would be the first to admit he was a proud man. Whatever he felt for Erik was not enough, would never be enough, to change his morals.
The problem with Erik was that he demanded everything. Black or white, all or nothing; you're with me, or you're not. It was inevitable that he be disappointed––in the world, in Charles, in himself. Charles had tried to change that, to shift the needle slightly, to help Erik see that the path to peace was not through violence. But he couldn’t help someone who didn’t think there was anything to be helped.
And then, in the midst of the summer of 1963, Erik Lehnsherr dared to try and see Charles again. It’s not that Charles hadn’t thought about seeing him––wished for it, even. But Erik wasn’t supposed to be a part of his life anymore, and he’d steeled himself for that, he’d learned to unlearn his reliance on Erik. It had taken a long time for Charles to be relatively okay again knowing Erik would not be a part of his future.
But somehow Erik didn’t seem to get the memo.
. . .
Charles was lying in his bed with the lights off, the way he did almost every night, staring at the ceiling and thinking, always thinking, avoiding the thought of the wheelchair tucked against the side of the bed. For fleeting moments while lying down on his back, he could forget about the accident that had left him paralyzed, even if it meant forgetting the look of shock and care on Erik’s face when the bullet struck him.
This particular night, Charles was thinking about the last evening before Cuba, an evening that wasn’t part of any summer but had felt like one anyway because of the warmth in the air and the vibrant sunset he’d watched on the porch with Erik. Something had felt different between them then. Charles didn’t think either of them knew what to do with each other if everything went right the next day. Who would they be when there was no common problem, no crisis to avert together? Would they need each other in the same way?
But after watching the sunset, they’d played chess together for hours, the way they often did at night. But that night, Erik didn’t leave. Even when the game was over and the pieces packed up, Erik stayed in Charles’s room, hovering, unable to part ways knowing what would happen tomorrow. They’d curled up on the sofa next to each other and talked into the early hours of the morning, falling asleep in a messy tangle.
Charles only ever thought of this day when he was at his weakest, at his most exhausted: the words they’d spoken in the near-dark with the faintest of touches (wrist to wrist, thumb to neck). He’d replay those words in his head, like maybe if he’d said something different, Erik would have changed his mind on the beach. As if it was Charles’s fault, not the years of oppression Erik had suffered to lead him to that moment.
“So, what do you expect to gain from tomorrow, Charles?” Erik had asked as they sat on the sofa, shoulder to shoulder, heads resting together.
“Gain? What do you mean, gain? We’re trying to avert a nuclear crisis, it’s more of a ‘let's try not to die’ kind of situation.”
“Charles…” Erik sighed deeply, and it rumbled through the both of them. “Of course you hope to gain something. Even if you don’t expect it, you certainly hope for it.”
“Erik, all I want to gain is peace and support for mutantkind,” Charles said placatingly, patting Erik’s chest in reassurance.
“If that’s all it is, why do we argue so much?”
Charles had made a little, strangled sound of disagreement. “I don’t like your methods of going about it.”
“Well, I… do. I like your methods.” Erik let out a smaller, quieter sigh before he continued. “The way you think––I like it. I don’t agree with it, but I like it. You and your relentless hope.”
“There’s a great deal more that I like about you, my friend,” Charles said, his words falling heavy in the air between them. He couldn’t see Erik’s face, could only feel the way Erik’s hand tightened on his bicep.
“Tell me,” Erik said then, so quiet Charles almost didn’t hear him even though they were pressed close from hip to shoulder. “Tell me what you like about me. Sometimes I––I need to hear it.”
And Charles had. He’d told Erik everything that he liked, every small, irrelevant thing Erik did that made him smile. Everything he could think of. They’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms.
It was the last time Charles had been truly happy.
It was what Charles was thinking about, lying there in the dark, when he heard the latch of his window sliding open with the light shriek of neglected metal. He tensed instantly and reached out with his mind, hoping to sense the intruder and shocked that he hadn’t already. But there was no mind for him to detect, no thoughts for him to hear. In that moment, against all odds, Charles knew who was opening his window even if he wasn’t sure if he should be horrified or overjoyed––or a mixture of the two.
Erik.
Charles didn’t need to be able read Erik’s mind to know he was the only person who could move the latch of his third-story room window without climbing the side of the house. The effortlessness with which the window swung open only confirmed it.
The window being on the same wall as the headboard, Charles had to swivel his head all the way to the left to get a good look. He squinted in the gloom and could just make out the shadowy figure climbing in through the window, stepping over the ledge and leaping over his desk in one unfairly smooth motion.
With only the soft thud of his boots on the oak-wood floor, Erik Lehnsherr was standing in the middle of Charles’s room, looking like he’d arrived to either kill him or seduce him in an all-black ensemble with suggestive hints of scarlet under his… cape??? Charles had never seen him wear such a thing before. But it wasn’t the cape that made the words freeze on his lips, that made Charles unable to utter a clever first remark.
Erik Lehnsherr was standing in the middle of his room. For the first time in nearly a year. And he was wearing that godforsaken, absolutely abominable helmet over his frustrating (beautiful) face. Charles wanted to punch something––preferably someone––at the sight of him.
“Hello, my friend,” Erik started, and Charles burst out in a sudden, ugly fit of laughter.
The laughter roared through him, seized his chest, curled his lips in an almost painful way. Erik simply stared at him, unable to respond, and Charles thanked the heavens for that, because he was one second away from waking the whole house with his telepathy just to see Erik turn and run his sorry ass out the window. Try being graceful then, huh?
“I’m sorry,” Charles choked out bitterly after a moment. “But how you dare come into my house, into my room, and call me a friend while wearing that hideous piece of metal to confirm you are anything but.”
Erik opened and closed his mouth, still stunned somehow, and Charles turned his head away. He didn’t want to look at Erik or he might do something rash.
“I know you might not want to see me, I’m no fool,” Erik said, voice coarse. “But I didn’t come here for forgiveness.”
“Then what did you come here for? What could you have possibly thought you could gain from me while wearing that––that evil fucking bowl on your head! You really trust me that little?”
Charles flinched at his own inability to communicate. He sounded pathetic, even to himself, just hurtling insults because he couldn’t get over the fact that after everything, Erik still didn’t trust Charles enough to offer up his mind. He should know Charles didn’t want any part of it anymore, and even if he did, he always respected people’s privacy. He might be curious, sure (he was curious indeed) but as long as Erik wasn’t posing any sort of threat, Charles would never seek to intrude on his thoughts. Erik should know that.
“Well, I’m here to apologize, Charles,” Erik continued, not paying any mind to his feeble jabs. “Even if you don’t want to hear it. I just wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I never said sorry to you.”
“You wouldn’t be able to sleep at night? You wouldn’t? What do you think has happened to me since you left!” Charles spat.
“I’m sorry for that too. Sorry for all of it.”
“Erik, are you really? Are you really sorry for doing things your way? I think you knew from the start that you were never properly on my side.”
Erik took a cautious step forward. Charles could hear the boards creak under his feet, but he still wasn’t looking at him, still couldn’t bring himself to do so.
“I’m sorry for how things ended with you, Charles. For not being the ‘better man’ you wanted from me. That’s what I’m sorry for.” His voice was too soft. Charles hated it. He was the one who had failed Erik, not the other way around.
A tense moment of silence settled between them. Charles clenched his hands under the sheets. He couldn’t do this anymore. Why did he ever want this? Why did he ever, for the most fleeting moment, think that seeing Erik again was a good idea?
“Get out,” Charles said, decisively. “Get the hell out of my house.”
Erik didn’t make a sound.
“You heard me the first time! Get the fuck out!” Charles wasn’t thinking straight. He didn’t know where to direct his anger. He grabbed the half-empty teacup off the nightstand and hurled it in Erik’s direction. He turned his head with the throw and watched the cup strike the floorboards at Erik’s feet, doing absolutely nothing but shower his legs in cold tea. “If you aren’t going to change, if you are never truly going to want the same thing as me, what are you even doing here!?” Charles finished, finally meeting Erik’s gaze in the moonlight.
“I thought it would ease your mind to hear me say sorry,” Erik said, rubbing his chin with his hand. “So, I’m sorry, Charles.” Charles only glared at him, the message abundantly clear. “I’ll leave. I’m leaving now.” Erik muttered, turning back towards the desk and clambering onto it.
Just as Erik was about to take the leap over the windowsill and surely float down to the ground below, Charles managed to find the words he was looking for.
“I don’t want your apologies, Erik. I want your improvement. Don’t come back unless that’s what you have to offer.”
With a flash of cape and a creak of metal, Erik was gone into the night and Charles’s window was bolted up again as if nothing had ever happened. But he knew that he could never have dreamt Erik so unthinkingly cruel.