Come Home (Cherik fanfiction)

Epilogue

So I lied, apparently. 

This is the end. 

~

And on one hand, it was a terrible idea.

There were teeth-gratingly awkward discussions upon discussions that were both infantile and long overdue. Half of them crept up upon the two men, and veiled them in a sort of finality that you just can't take back. (It probably didn't help that the majority of these pressing conversations occurred when they were both naked and in Charles' bed at, like, three in the morning.)

And they were absolutely awful at it.

Because Charles couldn't quite get over himself: he was too selfless where he should have been selfish, too reckless with the legs he had somehow regained the capacity to move, and he willingly handed his heart over to any damaged thing that needed a home.

Because Erik couldn't quite let himself go: he was too possessive and too vocal and too overbearing and too much Charles' for either of their goods, or the good of humanity. He was a man built for purpose, not for finding it, and with Shaw gone and any foreseeable threats neutralized, his purpose was Charles, who had been thrust into his lap with a cosmic pat on his shoulder and, "Good luck!"

Because they both pushed. Charles pushed himself and Erik pushed Charles and at the end of everyday, they sat at the ledges of their respective sanity and decided to simply start over again.

On one occasion, Erik had nearly through a lamppost through a man who had wolf-whistled at Charles, and on another, Charles had locked himself in his room for days, trying to find a way to painlessly remove the tattoo on Erik's arm and forever rid the man of ghosts he'd never delved into.

On one occasion, Charles attempted to strangle Erik in his sleep because Erik, everybody has nightmares, and I'm no different and had never really tried to resolve what had happened to him in Peru. On another, Erik attempted to bind Charles to a lab table because Charles, dammit, you have a fever and your classes can wait for a few days these kids live here and Charles never quite told him why he was so afraid, or, why, when Erik finally freed him, he didn't speak to the man for a week in favor of avoiding him and looking at him with something akin to fear, even though he knew Erik would never hurt him.

They were jagged pieces from two different puzzles that never should have even seen the box the other came in to begin with, meshed and glued together with something that looked a lot like--

So, you see, it really was terrible idea . . .

Except when it wasn't.

Except when the two of them just laid on the grass and said nothing and didn't look at each other and just felt the Earth turn beneath them and watched the sky race by to catch up. Except when Erik would card through Charles' hair on those rainy days he loved so much, when he would be too caught up in whatever book he was reading to notice. Except when Charles' hands would rest just under Erik's shirt when they would lay in bed -- not fucking, exclusively -- just because he could and just because he knew it drove Erik up a damn wall. Except when they did fuck -- exclusively -- and it would be hell and it would be heaven.

Except when everything hurt so bad it was delicious.

Except when everything felt so good it was insidious.

Except that one time when Erik said, I love you.

Because he was scared.

Because he was unsure.

Because he just knew.

Except every single time Charles said it back.

And, you know, fuck Destiny, and Fate, and Divinity and all their Sunday afternoon brunches where they would concoct all of the terribly best things about the universe. Where they would bring together boys who just wanted to love each other decades before it was safe; where they would give the power of gods to children whose governments would only try to dig up and cut out; where they would gleefully mark infants with death for no reason; where they would tear countries apart over things as trivial as what kind of skin you had; where they would all kiss War on the cheek before they left because, Hey, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em?

And Erik figures, If you can't win, lose so hard nobody ever wants to try and play again.

And Charles figures, Shut the hell up, Erik, it's three o'clock in the goddamn morning. (But, somewhere where it's not three o'clock in the morning, Charles believes it too.)

Because maybe he never gets around to telling Erik about the way Kurt used to look at him (used to touch him) (used to fill him up with wires and needles and turn little dials that made his life all fire and pain and fight fight c'mon Charles you gotta fight it) Maybe he never gets around to explaining why his labs aren't white, but dark blue and grey and even black where he can get away with it. And eventually he has to explain why he refuses to take his shirt off when, like, it's kind of the point to take his shirt off. But he simply decides to burn that bridge when he walks across it and hopes for the best anyways.

And Erik probably should not be so stupid when Charles just gives him these all-too-understanding looks when he wakes from a nightmare and can't function properly for days at a time. Erik should probably understand that all is not as it seems when Charles gives him advice that's a bit too perfect.

And Charles probably should've stopped drinking after college, because even though the man can make himself sober in a matter of minutes if he so chose to do so, he really can't hold his liquor and he really doesn't know how to keep his hands to himself and Erik was never quite trained for how to deal with that so he doesn't.

(Except when he does.)

(Which is all the time.)

So yeah, they are really bad at this. By the time they are old they are withered and more tired than they have ever been in their entire lives. It makes sense, of course, but it's still felt to the base of their bones, and on some level, they hate each other for it.

They must.

(Except they don't.)

And somewhere between the house Erik stole for him and Charles and the one Charles baptized for Erik, they live. Somewhere between all the washed-out Tuesdays in April and the biting Thursdays in January, they live. Somewhere between the places their scars try to deviate into symmetry and crackle against the confines of their boundaries, they live.

Somewhere between touches, they live.

Somewhere at an end disguised as a beginning and all the places it doesn't think to go: They Live.