Fic: How to Disappear Completely
Title: How to Disappear Completely
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Word Count: 1216
Rating: R?
Warning: Extreme violence, angst, brief depiction of holocaust
Summary: Written for this prompt on the 1stclass_kinkmeme:
I don't care if it's pre or post divorce or if Charles is paralyzed or not, I just really need a scene like this:
Charles is badly (possibly fatally) injured but still conscious. Erik is also injured, but less so. They've just been in some battle and as far as they can tell, they're the only ones who are still alive/haven't escaped or retreated yet.
Erik doesn't know how he'll get them out of there, but he sure as hell won't leave Charles. Then some people who are their mutual enemies come and take Erik away, leaving Charles for dead.
I just want to see them torn apart with much angst and struggling and frothing rage and hurt. I want to see them really desperate to stay together.
Anon, break my heart, though it's up to you if Charles actually dies or if they get reunited or something. You could even write nothing more than this scene, zero other story, and I'd cry happily
Notes: Just something small I wrote that I quite liked, and decided to own up to!! I'm tempted to write more....but I have no idea what it would be about, except that it would be epic in length, lol....This is my first time writing in this fandom, so...MEEP! Nervous!! Hopefully I got it somewhat right!
(Title is stolen from the beautifully tragic Radiohead song of the same name)
How To Disappear Completely
There is smoke everywhere. Smoke and voices shouting, and feet on the ground-- running and scrambling and trampling down the burnt grass outside the square, the scattered gravel.
Erik is taller then most. Erik stands like a buoy amidst crashing ocean waves, bending, but resolute as the tide swells and tries to overwhelm him. He stands firm and he looks over the swarming heads of brown hair, and blond, black and red as they shove past him, screaming, shouting, a wall of endless noise piling up in a howling crescendo to the sky.
It is Chaos. It is Inferno. It is bleeding death and wailing despair, and churning, grinding panic.
Erik feels none of it. Erik hears none of it. Erik hears a muted buzzing in his ear, drowned out by the unending pulse of his own heartbeat, the rasping intake of breath into his own lungs. Erik doesn’t feel the slick, wet blood as it seeps down his leg, splotches of red soaking into the brown of his pants, pooling sticky puddles in the laces of his shoes. Erik feels nothing for a single, numb moment.
And then he sees him.
Through the riotous crowd, legs wheeling and arms waving as they move like coloured pinwheels, amongst the bodies on the ground, Erik sees one that looks familiar. Erik sees the brown hair he had breathed in that very morning as the sun weaved through their curtains, the soft blue cardigan his hands had clutched as he pulled that warm body in close for a kiss on those red lips.
His eyes are shut. His body is motionless. His lips are red, his hair and blue sweater and lips are red, and Erik thinks he can hear the drip drip drip of blood from his body to the brick, even from across the grey cobblestone sea that stands between them.
All sound and feeling rushes back to meet him with a resounding, screaming collision. He feels the panic well up inside him, feels his heart hammer in his chest until he feels that he can’t breathe. Until he feels like he might burst with it.
Erik moves, and he is a tidal wave, and any and all who stand in his way are pushed aside. He feels the reverberating call of bracelets and watches, belt buckles, buttons and pocket change cry out to him, and he pushes and pushes, and clears a path with his hands stretched out like Moses parting the red sea.
He is one more snarling beast amongst a crowd that has devolved into animal frenzy, and he hears the snap bang of guns and splatter of bullets in flesh, but they can’t touch him, and he cares nothing for the bodies he steps over, and the bodies that fall beside him with sickening thumps like puppets with their strings cut.
He cares about nothing except for the man on the ground and the drip drip drip of his blood.
Charles.
It feels like forever, and it feels like a flashing moment, but he is standing next to him, and then he is falling to his knees, and his hands are shaking, and he’s placing them on that pale, beloved face.
“Charles.” The word barely murmurs to life in the air, but echoes in shrieking bellows through his brain, and he feels it then, the flicker of Charles, not in the body, but in the mind.
“Erik?” The voice in his head is faint, like a song sung through popping static on the radio. He hadn’t realized it, but he had thought Charles was dead until that very moment, and he chokes a sound through his mouth that might be a laugh, but might be a sob.
He holds his hysteria together, watches as Charles’ eyes flicker open, red rimmed and blue, so blue.
“Erik?” He says again, aloud, and Erik watches as the word pushes more blood out of his mouth. He takes a moment to look him over, but there is so much blood, too much blood, and he doesn’t know where it is coming from, only that some of it is coming from inside.
“I’m here Charles.” And he can’t stop himself from gathering his body up in his arms, and clutching him close. Charles shouts, pained, and coughs with a cloying wetness, but grasps onto Erik’s arms, his nails biting into the skin, new scars to add to the old ones. Charles feels small, pliant, and he is shaking, and breathing air into his lungs with sharp, panting gasps, but he holds on so tightly and they don’t let go of each other.
And they don’t let go of each other when they come for them.
The crowd is still pushing, trapping them in from all sides, and Erik tries to protect them with his body (not thinking about the crowded train cars of piss and filth and rotten air, and rotting bodies, the herded press through mud and rain and barbed wire, the crammed bunk houses, pale, white-ribbed, skinned skeletons pressed together like sardines, not thinking about that, not now, please), and he tries to see a way out but he can’t, he can’t---and then they are there.
He feels fingers on his arms, and arms around his chest, worming like maggots in between the warmth of his body, and Charles’. He feels the round metal butt of a gun to the back of his head, and he feels the rage fill him to bursting and pour out of him. He is free for a moment, his tormentors, his captors, the demons on his back thrown off and away, but then he feels it: the sharp sting of needle, the liquid whoosh of drugs through his veins, pumping through his body.
They take the metal from him, they take his gift, his essence, they steal away “Magneto” but they leave Erik, and Erik holds onto Charles, because they won’t take that too. He won’t let them take that too.
When they come for him again, he fights them off with his arms and legs, with a savage cry that rips from inside him, fights them like the base animal they’ve reduced him to. No better then a human, he fights them with weak human aggression and pitiful human impotence.
He feels them pulling and pulling at him, and he tries to hold Charles close to him, and Charles is shouting at them, flecks of blood splattering out and freckling across his face, and across Erik’s. He locks eyes with Erik, and they share a desperate, anguished moment as Erik is finally pulled away from him.
It feels like they are ripping him open, and he feels raw and wounded. He watches as Charles’ eyes narrow, as he raises a trembling hand to his temple, as a man stands over him and brings the butt of his rifle down on his head.
Erik is screaming, he must be because his throat feels skinned and bloody, but he hears nothing. He’s being dragged away, but he feels only gaping emptiness and the void inside him.
He sees nothing but brown hair, blue sweater, red mouth, eyes closed in a pale face.
Blood that drips
drips
drips
from a motionless body, down down to the cool, grey cobblestone underneath.
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Word Count: 1216
Rating: R?
Warning: Extreme violence, angst, brief depiction of holocaust
Summary: Written for this prompt on the 1stclass_kinkmeme:
I don't care if it's pre or post divorce or if Charles is paralyzed or not, I just really need a scene like this:
Charles is badly (possibly fatally) injured but still conscious. Erik is also injured, but less so. They've just been in some battle and as far as they can tell, they're the only ones who are still alive/haven't escaped or retreated yet.
Erik doesn't know how he'll get them out of there, but he sure as hell won't leave Charles. Then some people who are their mutual enemies come and take Erik away, leaving Charles for dead.
I just want to see them torn apart with much angst and struggling and frothing rage and hurt. I want to see them really desperate to stay together.
Anon, break my heart, though it's up to you if Charles actually dies or if they get reunited or something. You could even write nothing more than this scene, zero other story, and I'd cry happily
Notes: Just something small I wrote that I quite liked, and decided to own up to!! I'm tempted to write more....but I have no idea what it would be about, except that it would be epic in length, lol....This is my first time writing in this fandom, so...MEEP! Nervous!! Hopefully I got it somewhat right!
(Title is stolen from the beautifully tragic Radiohead song of the same name)
How To Disappear Completely
There is smoke everywhere. Smoke and voices shouting, and feet on the ground-- running and scrambling and trampling down the burnt grass outside the square, the scattered gravel.
Erik is taller then most. Erik stands like a buoy amidst crashing ocean waves, bending, but resolute as the tide swells and tries to overwhelm him. He stands firm and he looks over the swarming heads of brown hair, and blond, black and red as they shove past him, screaming, shouting, a wall of endless noise piling up in a howling crescendo to the sky.
It is Chaos. It is Inferno. It is bleeding death and wailing despair, and churning, grinding panic.
Erik feels none of it. Erik hears none of it. Erik hears a muted buzzing in his ear, drowned out by the unending pulse of his own heartbeat, the rasping intake of breath into his own lungs. Erik doesn’t feel the slick, wet blood as it seeps down his leg, splotches of red soaking into the brown of his pants, pooling sticky puddles in the laces of his shoes. Erik feels nothing for a single, numb moment.
And then he sees him.
Through the riotous crowd, legs wheeling and arms waving as they move like coloured pinwheels, amongst the bodies on the ground, Erik sees one that looks familiar. Erik sees the brown hair he had breathed in that very morning as the sun weaved through their curtains, the soft blue cardigan his hands had clutched as he pulled that warm body in close for a kiss on those red lips.
His eyes are shut. His body is motionless. His lips are red, his hair and blue sweater and lips are red, and Erik thinks he can hear the drip drip drip of blood from his body to the brick, even from across the grey cobblestone sea that stands between them.
All sound and feeling rushes back to meet him with a resounding, screaming collision. He feels the panic well up inside him, feels his heart hammer in his chest until he feels that he can’t breathe. Until he feels like he might burst with it.
Erik moves, and he is a tidal wave, and any and all who stand in his way are pushed aside. He feels the reverberating call of bracelets and watches, belt buckles, buttons and pocket change cry out to him, and he pushes and pushes, and clears a path with his hands stretched out like Moses parting the red sea.
He is one more snarling beast amongst a crowd that has devolved into animal frenzy, and he hears the snap bang of guns and splatter of bullets in flesh, but they can’t touch him, and he cares nothing for the bodies he steps over, and the bodies that fall beside him with sickening thumps like puppets with their strings cut.
He cares about nothing except for the man on the ground and the drip drip drip of his blood.
Charles.
It feels like forever, and it feels like a flashing moment, but he is standing next to him, and then he is falling to his knees, and his hands are shaking, and he’s placing them on that pale, beloved face.
“Charles.” The word barely murmurs to life in the air, but echoes in shrieking bellows through his brain, and he feels it then, the flicker of Charles, not in the body, but in the mind.
“Erik?” The voice in his head is faint, like a song sung through popping static on the radio. He hadn’t realized it, but he had thought Charles was dead until that very moment, and he chokes a sound through his mouth that might be a laugh, but might be a sob.
He holds his hysteria together, watches as Charles’ eyes flicker open, red rimmed and blue, so blue.
“Erik?” He says again, aloud, and Erik watches as the word pushes more blood out of his mouth. He takes a moment to look him over, but there is so much blood, too much blood, and he doesn’t know where it is coming from, only that some of it is coming from inside.
“I’m here Charles.” And he can’t stop himself from gathering his body up in his arms, and clutching him close. Charles shouts, pained, and coughs with a cloying wetness, but grasps onto Erik’s arms, his nails biting into the skin, new scars to add to the old ones. Charles feels small, pliant, and he is shaking, and breathing air into his lungs with sharp, panting gasps, but he holds on so tightly and they don’t let go of each other.
And they don’t let go of each other when they come for them.
The crowd is still pushing, trapping them in from all sides, and Erik tries to protect them with his body (not thinking about the crowded train cars of piss and filth and rotten air, and rotting bodies, the herded press through mud and rain and barbed wire, the crammed bunk houses, pale, white-ribbed, skinned skeletons pressed together like sardines, not thinking about that, not now, please), and he tries to see a way out but he can’t, he can’t---and then they are there.
He feels fingers on his arms, and arms around his chest, worming like maggots in between the warmth of his body, and Charles’. He feels the round metal butt of a gun to the back of his head, and he feels the rage fill him to bursting and pour out of him. He is free for a moment, his tormentors, his captors, the demons on his back thrown off and away, but then he feels it: the sharp sting of needle, the liquid whoosh of drugs through his veins, pumping through his body.
They take the metal from him, they take his gift, his essence, they steal away “Magneto” but they leave Erik, and Erik holds onto Charles, because they won’t take that too. He won’t let them take that too.
When they come for him again, he fights them off with his arms and legs, with a savage cry that rips from inside him, fights them like the base animal they’ve reduced him to. No better then a human, he fights them with weak human aggression and pitiful human impotence.
He feels them pulling and pulling at him, and he tries to hold Charles close to him, and Charles is shouting at them, flecks of blood splattering out and freckling across his face, and across Erik’s. He locks eyes with Erik, and they share a desperate, anguished moment as Erik is finally pulled away from him.
It feels like they are ripping him open, and he feels raw and wounded. He watches as Charles’ eyes narrow, as he raises a trembling hand to his temple, as a man stands over him and brings the butt of his rifle down on his head.
Erik is screaming, he must be because his throat feels skinned and bloody, but he hears nothing. He’s being dragged away, but he feels only gaping emptiness and the void inside him.
He sees nothing but brown hair, blue sweater, red mouth, eyes closed in a pale face.
Blood that drips
drips
drips
from a motionless body, down down to the cool, grey cobblestone underneath.