Work Text:
has someone taken your faith
it’s real, the pain you feel
your life, the love you’d die to heal
the hope that starts the broken hearts
your trust, you must confess—
is someone getting the best
the best of you?
Erik says it isn’t his fault. Everyone thinks it wasn’t his fault. He doesn’t have to read minds to know that. They’re all wrong. They weren’t there.
The only people there were himself and that other man, and of those two, only one of them is currently left standing. Maybe not even one.
The physical wounds have, mostly, healed. That’s wrong, as well, he thinks. There should be something left, some outward manifestation of this thing that follows him around like an invisible shroud. There should be visible signs.
He’s very tired of that invisible shroud. It changes the way everyone looks at him, and it’s far too heavy on his shoulders. He’s very tired in general; he doesn’t sleep much, these days.
He shaves with an old-fashioned straight razor that had belonged to his father—his real father, not the cretin who had called himself a stepfather—and one day finds himself playing with it in the bathroom. He could take someone apart with it very easily. He doesn’t need to be in someone’s head, to kill that person.
Of those two people who were there, he’s already taken one apart. The other guilty party should be just as easy, he thinks.
Two people were there. One of them is still here. Perhaps if he removes all the reminders, somehow it will never have happened. It’s not suicide; that’s such an ugly word. It’s just logic.
He makes lots of little, shallow lines across his wrists. Hesitation cuts, they’re called. Often made by those who can’t quite, yet, bring themselves to go through with it, but who wish to test the waters, as it were. He read that somewhere once. He can’t remember where, or when, or why.
He wears sweaters often, and wristbands when running, and is thankful for the chill in the air. No one notices, not even Erik, who sleeps in his own room now and looks at Charles with concern more often than not, these days. Charles ignores this. He doesn’t want concern. He doesn’t deserve it. Not after what he let happen, and then made happen.
One evening he cuts a little deeper than he means to, and for a minute it doesn’t hurt, and then it does. Redness spills out over his arm, wet and shiny. He watches it hit the floor and thinks about how easily the human body can come apart, and then he starts to feel a bit dizzy, so he stops watching it, but that doesn’t help. He takes a step backwards, runs into the towel rack and the bathroom wall, and slides to the ground.
Half-irrelevantly, he thinks, no one ever tells you that you shouldn’t cut yourself on an empty stomach, it makes you lightheaded… But that’s not really why the dizziness, of course.
Automatically, he pulls the towel from behind him and tries to stop himself from bleeding, despite the little voice in his head that says, well, what did you think you were doing, you idiot? The towel is entirely inadequate and he starts to worry, just a little bit.
The human body comes apart very, very easily.
But, he thinks with sudden clarity, he doesn’t want to die. He really, really doesn’t.
He’s still terrified of his own mind, and he doesn’t know what he does want, or if he’s allowed to want things anymore, but he doesn’t want to die.
Too bad it’s very late, and no one’s likely to come and save him. There’s quite a lot of blood around him now. On the wall, on the floor. It’s almost pretty, shining in the cold bathroom lights.
There is one thing he wants. He wants to see Erik and say that he’s sorry, and that Erik can show him again how to castle the wrong way across a chessboard, and to please come back and sleep beside him if Erik wants that. He will regret dying without ever letting Erik touch him again, no matter how horrifying it is to be touched.
He thinks, very clearly, oh, fuck.
And then he thinks, you are such a fucking idiot, Charles, if you want to live, do something about it! And he shouts, as loudly as he can, except not out loud, only in his head, Erik!
And he doesn’t hurt Erik with that mental shout, because he doesn’t. He won’t let himself. It’s amazing. He can still not hurt people if he chooses not to. Who knew?
He’s quite possibly going to die, or maybe just possibly not, and he doesn’t have the energy to shout again. But he knows beyond any doubt that Erik heard him. That Erik is, even now, running down the hall to find him. This makes everything better, somehow, even when it’s really not.
And Erik knocks down the door and falls into the bathroom at his side.