kinkmeme deanon » repetition (charles/erik, x-men: fc)
This was a drabble written for this prompt on the First Class kinkmeme. It was my first fill on the meme! ;o;
Basically, a repeat of the beach scene years later, except this time it's not Erik's fault and Charles is really dying.
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repetition
“Erik,” Charles manages. The rest lodges in his throat.
“Don’t talk, Professor. Save your energy,” Erik answers; his tone is curt and urgent, but his expression seems to war between neutrality and some emotion Charles is too pain-addled to recognize.
The helmet remains a barrier.
Blood seeps steadily through Charles’ clothes and spreads along his side, though he presses one hand hard to the wound. Too soon his fingers are crimson, wet, lose purchase against the slick material of his shirt.
“My dear friend-” He clenches his teeth around his next breath, chokes on a laugh devoid of proper humor. “How-far we have drifted… only to meet again and speak with-such formality…”
Erik flinches, seized by déjà vu so powerful it nearly overcomes him. Now pavement, rough and gritty, replaces sun-warm sand beneath his knees; there is no bullet to remove, no blame to place, just the numbness that comes before loss.
“…Charles,” he whispers, hoarse, as if the name tears itself from some part of him he has often tried, yet failed, to forget. ”Charles.”
Basically, a repeat of the beach scene years later, except this time it's not Erik's fault and Charles is really dying.
-
repetition
“Erik,” Charles manages. The rest lodges in his throat.
“Don’t talk, Professor. Save your energy,” Erik answers; his tone is curt and urgent, but his expression seems to war between neutrality and some emotion Charles is too pain-addled to recognize.
The helmet remains a barrier.
Blood seeps steadily through Charles’ clothes and spreads along his side, though he presses one hand hard to the wound. Too soon his fingers are crimson, wet, lose purchase against the slick material of his shirt.
“My dear friend-” He clenches his teeth around his next breath, chokes on a laugh devoid of proper humor. “How-far we have drifted… only to meet again and speak with-such formality…”
Erik flinches, seized by déjà vu so powerful it nearly overcomes him. Now pavement, rough and gritty, replaces sun-warm sand beneath his knees; there is no bullet to remove, no blame to place, just the numbness that comes before loss.
“…Charles,” he whispers, hoarse, as if the name tears itself from some part of him he has often tried, yet failed, to forget. ”Charles.”