[ Worriedly peering at him, searching for signs that he might change his mind and finding none, Charles sighs mostly at himself, fingers picking the book open.
The first is pain. Thankfully, Charles is strong enough now not to let it convey to Erik, but the echo of it is there, sheer bloody things sharpened to deadly points, howls of the soon to be dead jabbing into his head with laser precision, and why wouldn't it, because he's right there, Father's light slowly snuffing out on the bed adjacent to Charles' uncomfortable chair. He could hardly forget the way he spilled onto the floor, not even able to smell the antiseptic for the screams, hands fisted in his hair and he can't see Father's body from down here, not when there are nurses surrounding the writhing boy with their voices and bodies.
Long before his throat gets a chance to go raw, there's a slight prick and he's under, weighed down to the bottom of the sea for eons or minutes, he could never tell. Every time he woke up in that horrid place presumably to answer their confusing questions, but he hears them all again, their pity, poor little boy he's lost his dad and can't handle the mourning, poor little boy he'll never be the same.
He hates hospitals. Hospitals killed his father and took away his legs. Charles knows there's more in the memory to come, but he can't face it, turning away to pillow his cheek on Erik's shoulder, eyes squeezed shut at what's coming. ]
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The first is pain. Thankfully, Charles is strong enough now not to let it convey to Erik, but the echo of it is there, sheer bloody things sharpened to deadly points, howls of the soon to be dead jabbing into his head with laser precision, and why wouldn't it, because he's right there, Father's light slowly snuffing out on the bed adjacent to Charles' uncomfortable chair. He could hardly forget the way he spilled onto the floor, not even able to smell the antiseptic for the screams, hands fisted in his hair and he can't see Father's body from down here, not when there are nurses surrounding the writhing boy with their voices and bodies.
Long before his throat gets a chance to go raw, there's a slight prick and he's under, weighed down to the bottom of the sea for eons or minutes, he could never tell. Every time he woke up in that horrid place presumably to answer their confusing questions, but he hears them all again, their pity, poor little boy he's lost his dad and can't handle the mourning, poor little boy he'll never be the same.
He hates hospitals. Hospitals killed his father and took away his legs. Charles knows there's more in the memory to come, but he can't face it, turning away to pillow his cheek on Erik's shoulder, eyes squeezed shut at what's coming. ]