Chapter Text
EPILOGUE
There never had been a simple comfort or a safe haven in Westchester; nothing warm or soft, nothing holy. The palace rose up before them in the distance, pale and beautifully carved perfection, its white pillars capped in snow. It was hard to imagine a child hiding behind the marble walls and growing into something flesh and blood. There was no warmth or tenderness in the faultless arches, nothing of home. Only the frigid and desolate kiss of winter.
The palace guard stood sentry as the carriage rolled to a stop at the wrought iron gate, rows and rows of stern-faced young men in formal military dress waiting to greet them. Their sabers were drawn and held aloft as Charles and Erik stepped out into the cold, an elegant ballet of precise movement to honour a visiting royal. As they passed under the sharp steel blades, Charles wondered how many of these lives they had saved by weeding out Shaw’s poison in Genosha; balanced each youthful frown against his bloodstains he still carried on his hands.
There was only silence as they walked across the courtyard toward the palace, the wind blowing aimless spinning whirlwinds of snow across the wide expanse, a narrow, blue velvet carpet muting their footsteps. His mother stood waiting for them on the palace steps, surrounded by her picturesque retinue of ladies in waiting shivering in silver damask and lace gloves. Her face was just the same, carved from soapstone and powered white, her body swathed in white cloth and unmovable as a statue.
She did not blink when Charles came to stand before her, did not offer a smile or embrace for her son, merely held out her hand for a kiss. Her skin was cold and dry beneath his lips, stark against the blue lines of her veins. Once his mouth had pressed a fleeting touch upon her, she quickly lifted her hand away, turning smoothly to lead the procession inside.
“That welcome was about as warm as the weather,” Erik murmured, his breath hot against the exposed skin of Charles throat as he leaned in. Charles shivered, but felt himself thaw just a little, reaching out to brush his broken and splinted fingers against the back of Erik’s hand.
As they passed through the entranceway and into the grand hall beyond, the soaring painted dome above their heads echoed with polite applause. As a child he had been in awe of the dome, had spent hours staring at the expansive fresco of silver stars, the massive glittering moon and distant planets. It struck him that only twelve months had passed since he last walked beneath the gilded arches. A single year and it felt like a lifetime. He remembered the lonely, naïve boy who had dreamed of the endless wonder of the night sky and felt weary right down to his bones. Four weeks since Shaw had died and his hand and heart were still broken. The pristine and unblemished corridors of Westchester seemed to understand nothing of heartache or loss.
The servants and courtiers were gathered in the corridor to see their prince and his new husband as the procession moved slowly through the palace toward the throne room. He could see how they whispered behind their gloved hands, sharp eyes raking over Charles’ foreign dress and dark fur cloak, his coal painted eyes, his new scars and fading bruises. He wished he could reach out to take Erik’s hand, but tradition dictated that they not touch until they were behind closed doors again. He tangled his fingers into the fur of his cloak instead and concentrated on moving his feet.
Kurt was waiting for them as they proceeded into the solemn austere throne room. His beard had more grey than the last time Charles had seen him, though his shoulders seemed as broad and intimidating as they had when Charles was a child. Cain was seated at his right hand, as befitting the heir, and his mother swept up to the throne at his left to take her seat and turn a cool eye upon them once again. Charles thought about the throne room in Genosha, the brass lanterns and carved wood, the windows open and close enough to the sea so that you could hear the waves rolling in. In contrast, the halls of Westchester seemed as cold and quiet as a tomb.
Erik inclined his head, a sign of mutual respect and equal status, but Kurt remained in his seat and peering down at them closely.
“Is your father not here? Where is the King of Genosha?”
“My father has been ill,” Erik responded, voice leveled of all emotion.
“Too ill to partake in this sacred tradition?” Kurt raised a heavy eyebrow. “Too ill to grace our halls when we travelled to his Kingdom one year past and paid homage to his customs, his traditions?”
The words are cold and unfeeling, but carefully calculated. Charles felt Erik tense beside him as the insult wriggled under his skin as it was intended to, and so he spoke up before Erik could order his thoughts.
“The King sends his deepest regrets. He submits this gift as penance, and asks for your pardon.” He glanced up at Erik with a sympathetic eye and watched as his mouth tightened before he pulled a small chest from beneath the folds of his cloak. He held it out, unlocking it to reveal an array of red gemstones, their origins fixed within Genoshian soil and greatly sought after by those who lived outside its borders.
The sheen of glittering jewels seemed to reflect in Kurt’s eyes, and he smiled, momentarily appeased.
“Let us pray for his quick recovery.”
***
Once the formalities of welcome were over, Kurt led their company through to the dining hall. There Charles was forced to endure dinner seated next to his brother, who leaned close at the first chance he got to ask Charles if he liked Genoshan cock. It was the same sneering vulgarity from their childhood, Cain sinking his teeth into Charles and tearing away little pieces of him—one of his favourite games. Before Charles would have blushed, or burned with impotent anger. Now he leaned over and whispered to Cain how much he did, in fact, enjoy his husband’s cock and had the pleasure of watching Cain fumble his fork with a loud clatter that drew a cold look from their mother.
It was fortunate that he was seated next to Erik as well, and he wondered how he had ever survived the formal dinners of his youth without Erik’s hand sneaking beneath the table to squeeze his thigh or brushing their feet together. His presence, and the range of Genoshan guards lined against the wall at their back, reminded Charles that this return to his youth was a mere temporary exchange. It was enough to help him choke down the dry pheasant and small, bitter plums, helped drown out the lilting formal flute that droned continuously in the corner through the lips of a bored looking attendant.
Finally the dreary, stilted dinner drew to a close. Kurt stood and raised a silver goblet as the murmured chatter of the hall fell silent.
“A toast,” he said, his voice booming across the stone walls. “To my dear son and his new husband. May their union heal the wounds inflicted upon Westchester during our time of strife, and be sanctified here in our hallowed halls at the conclusion of this first full year.” Charles raised his glass in answer and drank along with the assembled peerage though he was choking on Kurt’s words like a piece of pheasant bone. As they stood to retire, there was no bawdy cheering or frivolity as there had been in Genosha on his wedding night, scattered petals and music and firelight. There was only the cold regard of his mother, the lofty condescension of the curious crowd, the crude sneer of his brother who winked grotesquely as Charles and Erik stepped down from the head table and made their way out of the hall.
Charles reached out and took Erik’s hand, tradition be damned.
***
It wasn’t until they were in their assigned bedroom and the door was sealed shut behind them that Charles felt as though he could breathe again. Their trunk was there, packed with enough clothes for a week, though Charles was planning on leaving in the morning, as soon as they could flee without breaching decorum.
“I had hoped they might quarter us in your old rooms,” Erik said, grinning mischievously as he allowed his stoic mask to fall. “I was hoping to root out some of your childhood secrets.” Charles looked around at the familiar walls, wallpapered in his mother’s favourite blue and silver damask.
“This is my room.” He sunk onto the closed trunk so as not to crease the perfectly folded silk blankets on the bed. “Or it was. It never really felt like it belonged to me.”
“This--?” Erik moved around the room incredulously, taking in the uncomfortable chairs, fingers tracing along the marble fireplace. “Was it like this when you were a child?”
“More or less.” Charles peeled off his leather boots and tossed them to the side, stretching out his toes.
“Didn’t you have toys? Or books?” He turned to look at Charles. “You must have had books.”
“Toys are frivolities for common children,” Charles quoted. It was a line he had heard many times as a child. “And books were meant for the library. Although...” he stood and headed over to the far corner where a heavy curtain hung from the ceiling, obscuring the wall between the bed and a massive wardrobe inlaid with mother of pearl. He pulled the curtain back hesitantly and saw the little door was still there, dusty and obscured but still solidly tucked into the corner.
He tried the handle and felt it give, was able to pull the little door forward on rusty hinges that groaned with misuse. Erik pressed up behind him and peeked over his shoulder into the gloomy passageway beyond.
“One of your childhood secrets after all?” he asked, squeezing Charles on the arm.
Charles crouched down and peered inside. “Hand me a light?”
Erik passed him one of the crystal lanterns from the bedside and he crawled through the door, holding the light awkwardly in front of him as he shuffled along.
“Can’t say I mind the view,” Erik said, crawling in behind him, “though it’s a bit of a tight squeeze.
Charles allowed himself a private, giddy smile. “Yes, well, it was enough to deter Cain from following me in here.” Finally the passage opened into a tiny stone alcove just big enough for Charles to stand in. A small window set high into the wall filtered pale, frosted light over the thick cushions that still covered the stone floor and the pile of rough wool blankets folded messily in the corner. Charles crawled in further so that Erik could push in next to him, his heart growing painfully full as he spotted the row of books lined neatly against one wall. The pages were slightly damp and mildewed as he picked one up and flipped through it, but the words were still the same, each one familiar and beloved.
“This was yours,” Erik said, looking around before his eyes came back to Charles again. “Your secret place.”
Charles nodded, unable to explain though he remembered Erik’s beach, the quiet crash of waves upon the shore and high, protective stone walls, and knew he understood. He couldn’t count the number of hours he spent tucked away in this room, free to read without constant belittling supervision, free to imagine, free to slouch and sprawl and forgo his painful, perfect posture. Space to breathe. Strange that he felt more comfort in this room alone than he did surrounded by people in he palace beyond. This was the place where he came to be alone, and to take a break from loneliness.
Erik settled into the cushions and selected one of the books along the wall. He seemed so at ease here, like he had been carved of the same stone and Charles’ childhood dreams. When Erik asked, “Were these your favourites?” holding the book aloft, Charles could only nod, his voice trapped at the back of his throat. Erik tugged him down so that they were laying side by side, and Charles rested his head on his chest as Erik slowly ran his fingers through his hair, flipping the book open to a page that Charles had marked with a piece of scrap paper.
When despair for the world grows in me, he read aloud,
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
Slowly the strain of the day eased from Charles’ shoulders until eventually Erik’s fingers and the sound of his voice lulled Charles into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
When he woke he forgot where he was, dizzy and disoriented. For a moment he thought he was a child again, hiding from his mother or one of his tutors, one of his books clutched tightly to his chest. It was dark in the room, the light outside the window having completely melted into evening dusk, and Charles groped for a candle as he tried to reorient himself.
There was the sound of movement coming from the corridor leading back to his bedroom. He could just make out an aura of light coming closer and closer until finally Erik crept through the entranceway, a candle held aloft in one hand. He caught sight of Charles sitting up amidst the cushions and smiled, his face ghoulish in the candlelight.
“You’re awake.” He beckoned with the candle. “Come on, I have something to show you.”
He turned awkwardly and disappeared back into the tunnel and Charles followed him back out, unwilling to be left in darkness and willing as always to follow Erik anywhere he asked.
“Close your eyes,” Erik whispered and Charles obeyed, grasping Erik’s hands as he pulled him out into the open air. He clumsily brushed the dust from his robes with his bandaged fingers until Erik clasped his hands again. “Now open them.”
Charles blinked his eyes open, lashes stuck together with leftover sleep, and gasped as he took in the room around him.
For a moment it was as though he had been transported back to their bedroom in Genosha. Brass lanterns sat on every flat surface and flickered orange light across the room. The thick, heady scent of Genoshan blooms suffused the room, gathered in bunches here and there, burgundy petals scattered across the floor and in a lazy path on top of the immaculate bedspread. Now that they were standing in the light, Charles could see that Erik was wrapped in his favourite robe, his eyes still dark with ceremonial coal.
“What is this?” he asked, looking around the room again, amazed. It was like something out of a dream, his new life colliding with his old in a burst of silk and golden candlelight.
“I know we have to be here. And I know you hate being here.” Erik tugged on his hand to draw him closer. “But it’s still your birthday, Charles.” Charles looked up at him in surprise. “Did you think I would forget?”
Charles shook his head. “No, but…19 isn’t really that important. It’s not much to commemorate.”
Erik’s hands came up to cradle his face. “Your life is important,” he said quietly. “Celebrating it is important to me. It means that you’re here.” His thumb came up to brush along the underside of Charles’ cheekbone. “I would give you everything, if I could.”
“You’ve already given me everything,” Charles whispered, his good hand coming up to grip the back of Erik’s head, pulling him down so their lips could meet. Charles felt overrun with love for this man, could feel it welling up inside of him threatening to burst forward in a torrent and he channeled it into every kiss, licking into Erik’s mouth with abandon, not worrying about technique or experience, only with measuring every inch of him, lips and tongue and teeth.
Erik moaned and shivered, hands sliding roughly down Charles’ back to grip his hips and haul their bodies closer together. Charles pushed at him clumsily with his bandaged and splinted hand, and they stumbled toward the bed, weaving here and there and kissing each other in an influx of desperate yearning. Erik spun them at the last moment and Charles landed on his back on the soft, downy sheets, crushing the soft fragrant petals beneath him. Erik followed him quickly, their legs slotting together so that they could grind against each other. Charles’ mouth felt swollen and bruised, but he couldn’t stop kissing Erik, couldn’t stop his fingers from pressing marks into Erik’s shoulders as he shoved the robe away, aching to get at bare skin.
It was hard maneuvering with one hand but he managed to push the robe down the smooth slope of Erik’s back just far enough to get his hand on the bare skin of Erik’s ass, gripping him tight and thrusting up against him to feel his cock. Erik groaned and broke away from his mouth, kissing him against his jaw, scraping his teeth against his throat. Charles gasped and squeezed him tighter between his thighs, feet pressing against the mattress to turn them over so he could straddle Erik, leaning back to untie his robe.
Finally Erik was naked beneath him. His skin was golden from the late summer sun, muscles flexing as he reached for Charles, trying to draw him close again. Charles gently pushed him back down to the mattress, his good hand sliding down Erik’s chest and stomach, shifting his body back to grip Erik’s cock.
He stroked Erik with his left hand and though the angle was awkward, Erik’s head tipped back in pleasure. Charles gazed at him, eyes raking over every inch of him, enjoying the sharp juxtaposition between Erik’s bare skin and his own Genoshan finery, laces and fur and layers of cloth. Erik was his—he knew it now as surely as he knew he belonged to Erik in return—and he felt proud and powerful knowing that such a man was laid out beneath him, thrusting into his grip, gazing at him with such adoration.
“Charles,” Erik murmured, hands coming up to Charles’ hips to hold him tightly. He sat up suddenly, pulling Charles further into his embrace, and Charles wrapped his arms around Erik’s neck in turn, hugging him close.
“I love you,” he whispered against Erik’s ear. Erik squeezed him a little bit tighter.
“I love you too.”
They held each other for a moment longer before Erik drew back, fingers moving to the ties of his shirt and jacket, the stays of his trousers. Charles distracted him with kisses, laughing when Erik forgot himself and leaned into him, fingers straying from his work and clinging to Charles’ jaw or shoulder instead. When the swell of arousal became too much for either of them they fumbled with the rest of Charles clothes, pushing at the material until it tore away.
Charles shifted back until his head touched the pillows, drawing Erik after him until they were tangled together once again. When Erik reached for the low brazier and the shallow bowl of warming oil, Charles felt his body clench in anticipation, but Erik surprised him by dipping his fingers into the oil and bringing them to his face. His fingers anointed his brow, rubbing the warm oil into his temples and down his throat, over his shoulders where tension had held him prisoner all day. Erik’s hands returned to the oil again and again, massaging into the muscles of his arms and then his palms, smoothing a warming path across his chest and then deliciously, over his nipples, rubbing over them again and again until Charles had to bite his lip to hold in the cry threatening to rip out of his throat.
Erik continued down over his hips, unabashedly watching his own hands as they kneaded the soft flesh of Charles’ thighs. Charles’ cock was hard and aching and he felt sure that he would come as soon as Erik touched him, but Erik only nudged him over, rolling him onto his stomach so he could drip oil down his spine, spreading it down the ladder of his ribs and into the dip of his back as Charles rutted against the mattress.
“Erik,” he moaned when he could take it no longer.
“I know,” Erik answered, his voice tight and breathless. His fingers moved to spread more oil on Charles’ thighs and Charles reached back for his hand, twisting so he could look up at him.
“I want you,” Charles said, watching as Erik’s eyes grew heavy and dark with desire, “I want you in every way.” He guided Erik’s hand to the one place it had yet to touch. He had read about this, had shivered at the thought of Erik breaching him and their bodies being united as one.
“Are you sure?” Erik asked, rubbing his fingers there gently. Charles felt a rush of pleasure run through him and nodded, turning his face into the pillow and lifting himself up onto his knees, listening to Erik moan.
Finally those teasing fingers slipped inside him, one, and then another, massaging against a place that made a jolt of pleasure rush through him to the very edges of his body, fingers and toes and the top of his head. Erik turned him over again and he was senseless with pleasure, crying out and reaching for Erik, but Erik was there before desperation took hold, smoothing a hand over Charles' unruly hair and kissing him deeply as his cock slid inside of him.
They were moving as surely as the tide washed the waves ashore and pulled them back into the sea, rocking together in perfect motion. Erik kissed his top and then his bottom lip while Charles panted against him, one hand clutched tightly in Erik’s hair. He gripped Erik between his legs as Erik began to thrust harder, spurring him on as he felt the delicious spiral of feeling tighten in his stomach, winding them further and further together until finally he was coming in a shaking, shuddering wave, pulling Erik along behind him. He watched, his body humming, as Erik’s eyes squeezed shut and his mouth fell open, his hips jerking twice, and then a third time before his body seemed to shudder and ease all at once.
They collapsed against each other, breathing hard, sweat clinging to their skin. Erik tucked his face into the curve of Charles’ shoulder and Charles ran his fingers through his hair, soothing him until he felt Erik fully relax against him.
They dozed for a few moments before Erik stirred and gently pulled away, slowly levering himself off the bed. Charles shivered as the air swept over his damp skin and watched as Erik made his way across the room to the washbasin beneath the moonlit window. The windowpane cast a gridwork shadow across his body as he bent to dip a clean cloth into the water, each curving muscle or sharp angle of bone captured inside a geometric outline. Watching Erik slowly wipe himself down was nearly enough to bring that thrumming arousal flooding back into his veins, water dripping down his legs to pool on the stone floor as he dipped the cloth into the water again, wringing it out and returning to the bed.
Charles ached dully as he took the cloth and cleaned himself, but he also felt intimately connected to Erik, felt as though his room had been transformed into a sanctuary at the heart of a place that had only offered him pain. He never thought he would love anything about Westchester, but in this moment he only felt a pure kind of joy. Erik kissed him slowly and his eyes when he drew back seemed to echo that tenderness, that closeness. Charles felt as though he knew Erik’s mind, like they were linked together with a golden string, heart to heart. Erik slipped between the sheets, pulling the heavy comforter over them both as Charles turned to face him, reaching out to run his foot down the side of Erik’s leg, his bandaged hand resting against Erik’s chest so he could feel his heartbeat.
He watched as Erik smiled and reached out to pluck a stray petal from Charles’ hair.
“Happy Birthday, Charles.”
Charles didn't want to look away from him, wanted the moment to last into eternity, this feeling of being wide open and unafraid. Eventually his treacherous eyelids slid shut and a whisper of a kiss across his forehead pressed him into sleep.
***
The next morning Charles awoke to pale late-winter sun streaming in through frosted glass and the sound of the hearth being swept out and reset. He sat up and saw a young maid with red hair hastily avert her eyes from the bed where the blankets had shifted enough to barely preserve his modesty. Erik’s body was exposed to the cool air, muscles shifted as he rolled closer to Charles, slipping a heavy arm around his waist.
“Apologies, sir,” the girl sputtered once she managed to unhinge her jaw. She stood and collected her bucket of ashes, eyes raking across Charles’ bare chest before she sketched a hasty bow and raced out of the room.
“What’s happening?” Erik mumbled, clumsily tugging Charles down next to him. Charles brushed Erik’s hair back and placed a kiss against his closed eye.
“We’re scandalizing my mother’s spies.”
Erik laughed, a low, sleepy rumble echoing from the back of this throat, and rubbed himself against Charles lazily.
“Should we put on a show for them?”
Charles grazed his lips along Erik’s cheek. “I think it’s just the two of us now.”
“Good,” Erik growled, stretching to capture Charles’ mouth in a heated kiss, pushing the remaining blankets away.
After christening his old room a second time Charles fell into an easy doze, waking when the sun had grown warmer along with the sheets tucked carefully around his shoulders. Erik was gone, but in his place was a breakfast tray laden down with cut fruit and delicate pastry, and from the smell of it, a china pot of strong black tea.
As he poured himself a cup and held it between his palms, breathing it in, he had to admit that he did prefer the tea in Westchester. He was savouring the first sip when the bedroom door swung open and Erik stalked in, fully dressed and shaking snow from his collar.
“Good morning,” he said when he spotted Charles watching him, a sly smile creasing his lips as he took in Charles’ state of undress. “I told the red guard we’d be ready to leave by noon, but we could postpone…?”
No,” Charles laughed, taking another fortifying sip of tea before setting down his cup, “I’m getting up.” He sat for a moment longer, watching Erik move around the room, packing away the lanterns and silks from the night before. Though it had been his room for eighteen years, this was the very first time it had felt like his own space. A place he might think of with warm thoughts and linger in, eager to spend time within the sanctuary of the four walls. Erik closed the lid of the trunk and turned to him, holding up a pile of clothing like a question.
Charles slid off the bed.
“Are you sure you want to go?” Erik asked, holding out a pair of trousers. Charles stepped into them carefully, drawing them up over his hips before allowing Erik to slide a soft linen shirt over his head. “We really could postpone for a couple of days.” Together they tucked the shirt in and Erik laced the trousers while Charles held his broken hand out of the way. He shook his head.
"The only thing I like about this place is the tea." And then he laughed because it was true. It was horrible, and it was true, and for a moment he thought the laughter might turn into tears.
"Hey," Erik said, grabbing him and hugging him tightly. Charles pressed his damp eyes into the soft wool of Erik's coat. "Hey, it's okay. Let's go home."
Charles nodded. With Erik's help his pulled on his stockings and boots, and struggled into his overcoat. The room was stripped of their presence. The only sign someone had been there was the tray of cold tea sitting on the mussed bedsheets.
Erik called for their trunk to be taken away and Charles suddenly had an urge to cut every last piece of himself away from this barren room. He ran to the tapestry and peeled it back, crawling through the door and into the little room hidden behind the wall. Clumsily he gathered up all of his books in his arms and cast a last look around the space, the blankets, the cushions, and the single source of light that heralded the shift of morning into afternoon. Time to go.
Erik said nothing when he returned, only opened the trunk and slipped the books carefully inside, settling them into a space that looked as though it had been saved precisely for them.
His mother was standing by the front door when they left, the peerage gathered to bid them farewell, but she had no words or affection to offer them. Charles held her gaze for a moment, suddenly sure that he wouldn’t see her again for a long time. When he turned to go, he felt nothing, no heartbreak or mourning, only the wind blowing across the silent courtyard.
Charles climbed into the carriage and settled himself into the seat, waiting until Erik slid in next to him to cover them both in the heavy travelling blanket. Erik helped him arrange the folds, tucking the thick material in around his thighs, and took Charles’ uninjured hand.
“Ready?” he asked, watching Charles closely.
Charles thought about waking up to the smell of salt water in the morning, a gentle breeze rolling in from the water outside his window. Remembered the sound of Angel’s voice as she read aloud by the fire in the hush of night, or how the last time he saw Moira she was teaching Raven how to use a sword and laughing, unfettered and free. He thought about Genosha, of the people waiting for their return, of the fragrance of leather and sweet grass down by the stables; of the quiet of their room, in the night, and the sound of waves matching each inhalation of Erik’s breath.
“Yes,” Charles said, “Let’s go home.”