fic: Only Yesterday Was the Time of Our Lives
Fandom: X-Men First Class
For: 1stclass_kink , third round
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Prompt: Charles always takes an extra plate out while setting the table after the divorce. Nobody corrects him. Angsty or happy ending, up to anon.
It started as something small, something insignificant, something that people over looked as anomaly instead of something that should be treated as alarm signal. The chess set was the beginning. The pieces stood in the afternoon light, regal and elegant as the shiny surfaces reflected the golden hues of the sun that came through the French windows of Charles’ study. No one questioned the game frozen in time, nor did anyone tried to pack up the pieces trapped mid-battle with the white winning. If Alex felt that it was ironic how the white seemed to be the clear winner when in reality they…Well. He figured some thoughts are best left alone.
The dinner plate came next. In Charles’ mansion, there are approximately four dining rooms, one for each season and each one furnished in its own theme. It was a unanimous decision on the children’s part to take their meals in the summer room where the windows overlooked the orchard and where the missing occupants wouldn’t be too obvious with the numerous empty chairs lining the long luxurious dining table. It was also a unanimous decision that they all ignore the one extra set of plate and cutlery set out in front of one particular chair on Charles’ right, the wine glass always settled a little to the left avoiding the vase of flowers because Eri-because it has always been that way. At one point Hank was thankful that the appliances were not set out in front of another particular chair on Charles’ left, but needless to say that he squashed that thought violently.
The window in the left wing was the natural choice. Throughout the months after Magne-after the Cuban missile crisis and the lost of their famil-their comrades, the mansion have seen a fair few thunderstorms. The rain lapped at the closed window panes like little beads of pearls that smashed upon contact into millions of particles, making the saints in the stained windows looked as though they were crying. There’s a section of the house where the walls were worn and the wallpapers were peeling off the wooden surface. The carpet was always damped for days and smelled of musty moths while the wooden table that stood against the abused wall peeled and groaned every time someone placed something on its surface. Sean always thought it was a pity to let this section to rot, but closing the window where he first made attempts at flying seemed to hurt him in places he never thought he had. The red head kept telling himself that was the reason, even though he took his jump on the left window and not the right.
It was entirely Hank’s idea to conduct a complete survey of the mansion, to take into account how many rooms they have to accommodate future students. As Charles was mostly occupied by his…recovery, the children-led by Hank- burst into every room, taking note of the furnishings and the maintenance that needed to be done before recruitment. Serendipity wouldn’t be the word that any of the boys would use to describe the event when all three of them unceremoniously barged into the last room with mops and brooms in hand only to find that they had stumbled into a tomb of sorts.
The entire five minutes it took to study the room was spent in silence as each boy took in the sight of the unmade bed and the opened novel on the side table. Their eyes took in the wilted Papaver Rhoeas in a small white porcelain vase on top of the mantelpiece, right next to the ashtray with a single cigarette poised at an angle from a year ago. Not a single breath could be heard as each person’s eyes lingered on the familiar black turtleneck and the fine sports jacket draped over an armchair by the fireplace, completely untouched with a thin coating of dust. If they were startled to find one of Charles’ cardigan thrown haphazardly in the clothes’ hamper along with Eri-the previous tenant’s sweat shirt, they did a fine job of hiding it. It was with a somber mood fit for a funeral that they turned around and left, an unspoken agreement to leave the tomb alone constricting their young hearts.
--
They made him into a widow.
Charles Xavier was-is a smart man, a professor and a telepath at that. He knows what people are thinking, the practice comes to him as easy as breathing. However, Charles Xavier does not need the advantage of his mutation to know that Hank, Sean and Alex treat him like a widow. The meaning of the word is not lost on him and he smiles wryly at the appropriateness of it despite the wrong gender. It is not the word however, that irks him so. Rather, it is the circumstance of which he gained that title.
It irks him that they made him into Erik’s widow when in actuality Erik is most certainly not dead. Put it however they wish, but his pseudo husband (as the children kindly named him) is not dead. It infuriates him whenever Hank purposely scattered pamphlets on support groups for young widows around the mansion. It frustrates him that Sean -loud, exuberant, lively Sean- tiptoes around him, quietly bringing him little snacks from the kitchen whenever he drowns himself in the accounts. It vexes him that Alex who is always quick to temper patiently learned the game of chess, always taking care to use another set that he found while exploring Charles’ old playroom.
A darker part of Charles would always whisper that with the circumstance they had parted, he might as well accept his place in widowhood and take the necessary steps to move past the tragedy. But it is always in these morbid moments that Charles’ mind softly touches the familiar warmth of another similar mind from a lifetime ago.
He knew then that they were wrong to make him into a widow.
--
a/n: well, that was it for my first prompt fill ever. :) cherry poppin' fandom fic ftw!
For: 1stclass_kink , third round
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Prompt: Charles always takes an extra plate out while setting the table after the divorce. Nobody corrects him. Angsty or happy ending, up to anon.
It started as something small, something insignificant, something that people over looked as anomaly instead of something that should be treated as alarm signal. The chess set was the beginning. The pieces stood in the afternoon light, regal and elegant as the shiny surfaces reflected the golden hues of the sun that came through the French windows of Charles’ study. No one questioned the game frozen in time, nor did anyone tried to pack up the pieces trapped mid-battle with the white winning. If Alex felt that it was ironic how the white seemed to be the clear winner when in reality they…Well. He figured some thoughts are best left alone.
The dinner plate came next. In Charles’ mansion, there are approximately four dining rooms, one for each season and each one furnished in its own theme. It was a unanimous decision on the children’s part to take their meals in the summer room where the windows overlooked the orchard and where the missing occupants wouldn’t be too obvious with the numerous empty chairs lining the long luxurious dining table. It was also a unanimous decision that they all ignore the one extra set of plate and cutlery set out in front of one particular chair on Charles’ right, the wine glass always settled a little to the left avoiding the vase of flowers because Eri-because it has always been that way. At one point Hank was thankful that the appliances were not set out in front of another particular chair on Charles’ left, but needless to say that he squashed that thought violently.
The window in the left wing was the natural choice. Throughout the months after Magne-after the Cuban missile crisis and the lost of their famil-their comrades, the mansion have seen a fair few thunderstorms. The rain lapped at the closed window panes like little beads of pearls that smashed upon contact into millions of particles, making the saints in the stained windows looked as though they were crying. There’s a section of the house where the walls were worn and the wallpapers were peeling off the wooden surface. The carpet was always damped for days and smelled of musty moths while the wooden table that stood against the abused wall peeled and groaned every time someone placed something on its surface. Sean always thought it was a pity to let this section to rot, but closing the window where he first made attempts at flying seemed to hurt him in places he never thought he had. The red head kept telling himself that was the reason, even though he took his jump on the left window and not the right.
It was entirely Hank’s idea to conduct a complete survey of the mansion, to take into account how many rooms they have to accommodate future students. As Charles was mostly occupied by his…recovery, the children-led by Hank- burst into every room, taking note of the furnishings and the maintenance that needed to be done before recruitment. Serendipity wouldn’t be the word that any of the boys would use to describe the event when all three of them unceremoniously barged into the last room with mops and brooms in hand only to find that they had stumbled into a tomb of sorts.
The entire five minutes it took to study the room was spent in silence as each boy took in the sight of the unmade bed and the opened novel on the side table. Their eyes took in the wilted Papaver Rhoeas in a small white porcelain vase on top of the mantelpiece, right next to the ashtray with a single cigarette poised at an angle from a year ago. Not a single breath could be heard as each person’s eyes lingered on the familiar black turtleneck and the fine sports jacket draped over an armchair by the fireplace, completely untouched with a thin coating of dust. If they were startled to find one of Charles’ cardigan thrown haphazardly in the clothes’ hamper along with Eri-the previous tenant’s sweat shirt, they did a fine job of hiding it. It was with a somber mood fit for a funeral that they turned around and left, an unspoken agreement to leave the tomb alone constricting their young hearts.
--
They made him into a widow.
Charles Xavier was-is a smart man, a professor and a telepath at that. He knows what people are thinking, the practice comes to him as easy as breathing. However, Charles Xavier does not need the advantage of his mutation to know that Hank, Sean and Alex treat him like a widow. The meaning of the word is not lost on him and he smiles wryly at the appropriateness of it despite the wrong gender. It is not the word however, that irks him so. Rather, it is the circumstance of which he gained that title.
It irks him that they made him into Erik’s widow when in actuality Erik is most certainly not dead. Put it however they wish, but his pseudo husband (as the children kindly named him) is not dead. It infuriates him whenever Hank purposely scattered pamphlets on support groups for young widows around the mansion. It frustrates him that Sean -loud, exuberant, lively Sean- tiptoes around him, quietly bringing him little snacks from the kitchen whenever he drowns himself in the accounts. It vexes him that Alex who is always quick to temper patiently learned the game of chess, always taking care to use another set that he found while exploring Charles’ old playroom.
A darker part of Charles would always whisper that with the circumstance they had parted, he might as well accept his place in widowhood and take the necessary steps to move past the tragedy. But it is always in these morbid moments that Charles’ mind softly touches the familiar warmth of another similar mind from a lifetime ago.
He knew then that they were wrong to make him into a widow.
--
a/n: well, that was it for my first prompt fill ever. :) cherry poppin' fandom fic ftw!