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Chapter Text

2010 - New York City

This is the most awkward silence of Charles’ life.

He can’t believe he let Gabrielle coerce him into carpooling to the pediatrician’s office with her. This type of social situation is precisely why he insists on driving himself places—there’s a reason he owned three separate cars when he was married to Erik. But now that David’s getting older, he and Gabi have been making more of an attempt to ‘parent together,’ so that David might have a more cohesive sense of mom and dad.

It’s not going very well.

David is asleep, and for once, Charles finds himself wishing the three-year-old would fill the quiet with his incessant crying. That way, he and Gabi wouldn’t feel obligated to talk. It’s already hard enough to make conversation with her these days—she’s been seeing someone else, and Charles has long since moved on from any romantic interest he might have ever had in her—but today is even harder than usual.

Because today was David’s last screening appointment. At the psychiatrist’s office. Charles and Gabi haven’t spoken a word to each other since leaving the doctor.

(Even pediatrics has a psychiatric department. Who knew? Charles didn’t.)

The news hadn’t been good. Although, Charles thinks, it could’ve been a lot worse. Maybe it’s about perspective. That’s what his therapist would say—that he needs some time to consider his perspective on the situation.

He’s too tired to ask Gabi how she feels about it, and her mind isn’t nearly as loud as Erik’s, so he decides it’s not worth prying open that can of worms when it’s so tightly sealed. Gabi keeps casting him nervous side glances, like she’s worried about how he’s feeling, but won’t ask either. He’s tired of people thinking they have to comfort him constantly. He knows he’s been sensitive these days (‘these days’ constituting the past seven years since his accident) but he’d never let it be Gabi’s problem.

He often envies the platonic kinship Erik and Magda seem to share, even post-divorce. He begrudgingly marvels at how the ever-angry Erik is so secretly good at making friends like that. Charles couldn’t think of three friends to save his life—and one of them includes the socially inept Hank McCoy, who will listen to his woes but often has no idea what to say unless it involves either biology or soccer talk.

Gabrielle pulls into her usual spot in the driveway, then remembers, too late, that Charles requires flat ground to get into his wheelchair. There’s an unwelcome extension on the awkward silence as she restarts the engine and backs onto the main street for him. She’s apologizing profusely, and now Charles has to keep telling her it’s not a big deal, that their minds are both somewhere else right now.

Once Charles transfers out of the car, he wheels to the back and begins to unload little David from his seat. He looks down at his sleeping son with pain gripping his heart. He brushes a thumb over that tiny temple, and even if toddlers cannot maintain a stable psychic link at so young an age, Charles takes a moment to project his love as hard as he can.

I’m so sorry, Davey. Oh, my Davey…

“Charles?”

He looks up, and Gabi’s waiting with her arms outstretched for the baby. It’s a weekday, meaning he’s staying with his mother today. Charles almost can’t bear to let David go right now. He briefly considers asking to keep him for the week, but he knows his schedule is far too busy to give the boy the full attention he needs, and besides, their custodial agreement already provides regular weekends for Charles to see him.

“Alright, well…I’ll call you if I need anything,” Gabi says, lifting David carefully out of Charles’ arms. “Are going to tell Erik the, uh, news when you see him today?”

Off-handedly, she thinks to herself: maybe Erik will know the right thing to say.

It’s a hilariously generous sentiment, and also demonstrably false when taking Erik’s history into consideration, but Gabi hasn’t spent a lot of time around the man. It’s kind of sweet she gives him the benefit of the doubt. Not many would.

“Oh, darling, my ex-husband will almost always say the wrong thing if he has the chance,” Charles laughs, before realizing he’s picked up on a silent thought and not something she said out loud. He laughs even more nervously. “But, to answer your question, yes. I think it’d be healthy for both of us—for you and me, I mean—to talk about it. With someone. If not each other.”

“Yeah, probably,” Gabi agrees. “I don’t know how I’m feeling about it yet. But I’ll talk to Daniel as soon as I figure it out.”

Daniel is her new partner, and at this rate, the man who will probably upgrade to being David’s stepfather soon. Charles doesn’t have any problems with Gabi dating, but he also doesn’t know anything about Daniel, and isn’t sure what kind of opinions he’d have about a mutant child. Especially a mutant who’s been diagnosed with—

“Anyways,” Gabi says, interrupting his mental wandering once again, “are you okay?”

“Oh, yes, of course! Are you?”

“Totally.” She squirms. “I’m sorry that things have been…distant, between us, lately.”

“No need to apologize, love. Just the way things go.”

“You know I still care about you, right?”

“Of course. I appreciate that.”

“Okay. Say hello to Erik for me when you see him.”

“I will.” He won’t. Erik hates Gabi.

Gabi gives him a well-meaning but cumbersome pat on the back. Charles kisses his sleeping three-year-old on the cheek, a gesture that the temperamental boy only tolerates because he is asleep, and wheels across the road to his car.

***

Once a month, Charles and Erik meet at an old coffee shop in downtown Manhattan.

Café des Vieux Copains. It’s French. Charles picked the place three years ago, and it’s been ‘their spot’ since then—the place where their lives slowly but surely have become intertwined again, in a distant yet simultaneously intimate way.

It feels strange to say that Erik isn’t his enemy anymore. It feels strange to say ex-husband in conversation without any of the old malice left. It’s just a straightforward statement of fact now, and draws less suspicion than describing him as a friend.

Their routine is the same every time. They sit in the gentrified little patio, have brunch, share grievances, usually about their respective family matters, and then play some chess. If they’re in a good mood, they spend the night together.

Usually, Charles books them a fancy hotel somewhere, on his own dime, of course. It has to be in the city, so that the twins have things to do while Erik is…occupied. Neither Pietro nor Wanda bring up what is obviously taking place between their separated parents. They know. They’re just old enough to mind their own business now.

Charles can’t help feeling like he’s doing something wrong, though Erik insists it’s simply a matter of maintaining their privacy—in other words, keeping the children out of another potential mess. Even Charles’ therapist tells him to ease up, that he’s not in trouble, that he’s a grown man who can make his own decisions, but it doesn’t feel that way whenever he looks the twins in the eyes and remembers all he’s done to hurt them in the past. He’s worried that sleeping with Erik might fall under the category of irresponsible parenting tendencies.

It’s a lot of pressure. Because they’re trusting Charles. They’re trusting Charles not to leave them hanging, yet again, and it’s a scary limbo for all of them to exist in.

Today, the sun is out, and there’s a pleasant breeze, signaling the coming of springtime. Charles arrives fifteen minutes before their usual meeting time. Just to be safe. Just to mentally prepare himself.

He takes great care to be on time these days. He’s trying to make up for over eight years of delayed flights, unexpected tardiness, and unexplained absences. It’s one of the little things he wished he had paid more attention to when they were still married.

He wheels to their usual spot, the black iron patio table that sits perfectly in the shade and also a comfortable distance away from the busy tables. He orders a vodka martini on the rocks while he waits, then folds his hands on his lap, people-watching idly into the busy streets of the city.

His mind wanders like it always does, and for once, he welcomes it.

Erik arrives at eleven o’clock on the dot. Charles feels him in his mind before he sees him, a little dot of warmth and familiarity on the periphery of his senses. Erik is extremely punctual by personality, even more so now that he’s not wrangling four elementary-aged children into the car.

Outwardly, he maintains his composure perfectly, looking almost bored, even. But inside—and this is what Charles can feel—he’s excited to see him. He always is.

“Old friend,” Erik greets, nodding cordially as he lowers himself into the chair across Charles. He places the travel-sized chess kit he always carries at his feet, then smiles warmly. “You look lovely. Exhausted, but lovely. Work is kicking your ass that bad, is it?”

Charles flushes at the bluntness that follows whenever Erik opens his mouth—but Erik, ever so calm and collected, doesn’t acknowledge the flustered reaction. Unlike Charles, who’s dressed up in a nice shirt and navy blue cardigan, Erik resembles the unfashionable soccer coach he will always be at heart: he’s wearing the usual Adidas sweatpants, a Brotherhood windbreaker over a fitted white shirt from Costco, and running shoes that give him arch support even if they’re not the most fashion-forward.

Even in gym clothes, he looks handsome, somehow.

“Erik,” Charles chokes. “Good morning. I—you—yes, thank you. Er, you look like you’re doing well yourself.”

“I actually am, for once. Thank you for noticing.” Erik grins playfully, amused that he has the upper hand in this conversation already. He’s in a good mood. It’s becoming more and more common these days. There’s a brief flash through his mind of all the things going right in his life at the moment: Wanda just got her learner’s permit to drive, Pietro passed the math class they were worried he’d fail, Magda stopped for a visit in Boston last week, Lorna made the dean’s list at university this quarter, Jean sent him a lovely postcard from her study abroad program in Italy, and the doctor had all good things to say about his blood pressure. It’s the little things in life, he thinks. He only learned how to appreciate them in recent years.

“Any particular reason you look so run-down?” Erik teases. “Is Baby Telepath Junior causing problems at home?”

Charles winces at how easily his ex-husband can read him. Erik tilts his head patiently, an invitation for Charles to fill the air with the rambling words that he always clings to so affectionately.

The waitress comes to take their order. Charles tries not to look restless as Erik pores over the menu, like he isn’t ordering the same thing he gets every time (a single piece of French toast with a modest serving of maple syrup on the side). He gets ice water to go with the cigarette he lights. Smoking is a privilege he only gets to indulge when he’s away from both the twins and the baby, so Charles bites his tongue, for once, before he can reproach Erik for indulging such vices.

“The weather is lovely today, isn’t it?” Charles resumes, but Erik just laughs, exhaling his first drag of smoke.

“Skip the pleasantries with me, Charles,” he replies. “You know I hate small talk. I can tell you’ve got something on your mind, so enlighten me. It’s David, isn’t it?”

“How did you know?”

“You only get that look on your face when you’re worried about him. Or Jean,” Erik answers, unimpressed. “Besides, his evaluation is all you’ve been worrying about these past few months. Did you get the results?”

Charles scrubs his face, as if to reset with a clean slate. “Yes,” he says hesitantly. “His final appointment was today, actually. Both the specialist and pediatrician confirmed it. It’s…he’s…he has…”

The unspoken word hangs in the air for a second. Charles can’t bring himself to say it out loud. He’s been saying it all month, especially as he blabbers on about psychiatric literature and all the other psychological nonsense that he’s taken to with his personal research. It was easy to talk about when it was an abstract, scientific concept. Now it feels like a bad word. A life sentence. Because it’s about his son, and he hasn’t even begun to unpack what that means.

“Autism?” Erik supplies helpfully. “David has autism?”

Charles winces and ducks his head, casting wary glances over his shoulder. “Christ, Erik, keep your voice down—”

“What? Why?”

“People know me here. They know I have a son. They—I—just, don’t say it so loud.”

“Wait, are you ashamed?” Erik’s eyes widen incredulously, and then he laughs with a lick of old-fashioned schadenfreude. “Hang on a just second! Charles, you were the one proudly parading my son around when he showed signs of an attention disorder. You were so unapologetic about it, too. Oh, Erik, he needs this diagnosis. Oh, Erik, he’s not broken, just different—”

“We barely got the diagnosis today,” Charles hisses through clenched teeth. “The wound is fresh for us. I realize I’m being a hypocrite, alright? There’s no need to rub my nose in it.”

Erik chuckles one last time and relents with a brusque drag from his cigarette, exhaling in deep thought. “I told you not to get this stupid thing done until David was older,” he says disdainfully. “If this turns out to be a misdiagnosis, or part of his future mutation in any way—I don’t know. Seems like a lot of stress for nothing.”

Untimely as waitstaff always seems to be, the waitress stops by their table then, and Charles remasters himself with a cheerful thanks as she sets his drink down. The glass has scarcely touched the table before Charles seizes it. All the while, Erik keeps his eyes locked on Charles, who brightly thanks the waitress again, as if everything remains right in the world.

As soon as the waitress departs, Charles’ face falls. Erik waits for a courteous moment before prodding into the first bite of his meal, seeing that Charles, for once, will say nothing else.

“It’s just a label,” Erik says finally. “Labels are made by man. And like I said, man can be wrong.”

Charles shakes his head. “There has to be a reason he’s not meeting developmental milestones, even by mutant standards. It’s more than just the presence of the X-gene.”

“Well, suit yourself. Go on and pathologize your weird kid for the rest of his life, see how that turns out.” Erik shrugs rhetorically. “I think it’s an overreaction. Weird kids are just that—weird. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Regardless of your opinions, the world was not built with the wellbeing of ‘weird kids’ in mind,” Charles retorts. “This world is not kind to weird kids. I’m starting to think it may have been a disservice to bring him into it at all.”

Erik’s eyes turn dangerously dark. “You don’t seriously think that? About your own son?”

“Listen, I’m not proud of myself for thinking it, but—”

“He’s still David. What part of that upsets you?”

“Good Lord, Erik, I don’t know!” Charles cries. “Don’t you remember how distraught you were when Pietro was first diagnosed?”

Erik raises his eyes from his plate. Charles hastily backtracks.

“I apologize,” he mumbles. “That was rude of me.”

“Yeah, I’ll say,” Erik scoffs.

“I know you’ve come…a long way. In accepting Pietro’s condition. I shouldn’t make comments about the past. It’s just—this has not been an easy time for me.”

“Well, keep in mind, I didn’t get Piet reevaluated until this year for a reason,” Erik points out. “I waited until he was sixteen, and well-developed in his mutant gift. Taking him to the psychiatrist in first grade was still not one of your brightest ideas, in my humble opinion.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “Right. We can agree to disagree. At the very least, I must say, I do understand why you hesitated all those years ago. It’s frightening to admit something might be wrong with your child. Something beyond a simple mutation.”

“Yeah.” Erik drops the aggressive demeanor for a second. “I get it.”

“Gabi and I have known all along that this was a possibility. But it still feels like my life will never be the same again. Nor will David’s. From what I’ve studied, the prognosis seems bleak. The quality of life for an individual with this condition—”

“You’re acting like he just got diagnosed with fucking leukemia or something,” Erik laughs.

“It’s a condition that has a significant impact on one’s quality of life!” Charles protests. “Did you know, for example, that autistic adults have shorter lifespans? Fifty-four. That’s the average lifespan, according to a study in Sweden. The autistic population is up to nine times more likely to commit suicide, and even children are more likely to attempt it. Autistic individuals also have a higher chance to experience co-morbid depression, anxiety, OCD, PTSD—and that’s not even including the most common physical ailments that overlap with the disorder.” Charles swallows his tirade down with a broken noise. “Just think about it, Erik. What this means for my son. He’s going to to struggle his whole life. He’s going to be sad, confused, and lonely. I can’t bear to watch. And I—dear God, where’s our waiter? I need another drink. Now.”

Out of nervous habit, Charles begins to pick at his cuticles, heart racing and lungs tight. He feels like he’ll cry unless he focuses on the skin-picking.

Erik sighs. He stubs his cigarette out on the brick wall beside them. He knows Charles, and he knows how these discussions play out, so he reaches across the table and puts a hand over Charles’. Stop that, he seems to say.

He knows this conversation isn’t just about David. It’s also about Charles.

It’s about whatever version of Charles still lives inside his head: the little boy residing in the cerebral plane of his telepathic abilities, lurking in the shadows, a quiet passenger who won’t leave without first being acknowledged. Erik has met the child firsthand during his many ventures into Charles’ boyhood memories. He knows that inner persona well. He’s just a kid, holding on to every ounce of loneliness Charles knows so that the present-day man on the outside won’t have to face it.

Charles worries because he doesn’t want David to turn into that boy.

Charles ducks his head so that he doesn’t have to acknowledge the concern in Erik’s knitted eyebrows. Instead, he flags down a passing waitress and orders a second martini, which they bring out almost at once. The service is fast here. They know Charles is a big tipper.

“Let me put it this way, Charles,” Erik begins again slowly. “Would you consider it a regretful thing that Magda and I conceived Pietro to begin with?”

Charles looks stricken. “Of course not. Pietro is a lovely boy, and he has a bright future ahead of him.”

“What about Lorna? I know I sometimes say things in the heat of the moment, but do you really think I regret her existence? Anger issues, mood swings and all?”

“N-no.”

“Then why wouldn’t the same be true for you and David?” He pauses pointedly, allowing a moment for the words to sink in. “The world needs unusual people. I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you if I hadn’t found you just a bit strange.”

“Well, maybe I don’t want my son to be like that,” Charles grumbles, reflexively raising his glass to his mouth again. “I’m not a good role model. I can scarcely stand the thought that he got this horrible condition from me.”

“What are you talking about?” Erik laughs. “It’s not a fucking cold you can catch.”

“Both autism and ADHD have a strong genetic component, you know. Even Gabrielle’s been going on these days, saying it would make sense for David’s condition to have come from my side of the family. Who else would it be? We both know she’s as normal as normal comes.”

“‘Normal’? Based on fucking what?” Erik already resents Gabi for obvious reason, but this is the cherry on top of his hate-filled sundae. “She barely sees you, Charles. What the hell does she know about you, your personality, or your childhood experiences? Besides, if Gabrielle is a human, you know very well as an armchair geneticist that she could be the carrier.”

“That is true,” Charles relents, staring at his drink and swishing the glass glumly. “It’s hard not to take her words to heart. I’ve always been the oddball, the unusual one—always watching the world from the outside-in. Of course, that is inherently the experience of a mutant. Even more so of a mutant who can read minds.”

“Yes, most mutants feel that way,” Erik agrees. “Which only proves my point. Being the weird kid growing up doesn’t mean you have this autism thing, or that it came from you at all. I’d be first to know if you were…‘on the spectrum,’ or whatever. You’re not, Charles.”

“You say that with such unwavering confidence.”

“Yes! Because you and me, we’re the same.” Erik is suddenly raising his voice. “You and me, our minds have always clicked. Both of us have our eccentricities, our quirks, our gifts. They make us different. Usually, you like that. Why are you suddenly acting like you want to be a part of the ‘normal’ world? It’s not as if they want you there.”

Charles mumbles incoherently to himself. Erik doubles down in his rage.

“If either of us had what David has, someone would have noticed much sooner. Fifty years ago, to be exact,” he storms. “Maybe your parents ignored you your whole life, but my mother would have noticed.”

“Children fall through the cracks all the time, even with the most well-meaning parents,” Charles objects. “Those missed diagnoses have to grow up sometime.”

“You’re seeing what the doctors prime you to see. Shit like this—it’s over-diagnosed these days. Avoiding eye contact. Being picky about touch. Having difficulties with people. Those are just things kids do all the fucking time, Charles. Your son will grow out of it, like Lorna and Pietro and Jean did, and once his mutation manifests, you’ll see it was a misdiagnosis from the start.”

“What if he doesn’t? What if he never unlearns all these odd habits?” Charles persists. He doesn’t say it, but the hidden connotation is there: What if he turns out like Pietro?

“There’s no if,” Erik says stubbornly. “People these days, they want an explanation or a medical excuse for everything—for acting human. And even without the trending popularity of pathologizing our personalities, doctors are wrong more often than not! Remember that time my appendix burst? The nurse on the phone told me it was indigestion. Next thing you know, they’re operating on me. What’s the deal there?”

“Your bloody appendicitis was much different than this,” Charles snorts, unable to suppress a small smile at the old memory of Erik curled on the floor in fetal position while insisting he was fine. “The screening process for autism is extremely detailed, and they screen for a handful of other conditions at the same time. Besides schizophrenia or deafness, it’s the last thing they hoped for it to be, since it’s so…final. It’s something you take from the cradle to the grave. It comes with a lot of strife.”

“Being alive comes with a lot of strife,” Erik replies. “For everyone.”

“Yes, but if human suffering occurs in varying increments—if some people experience more or less pain than others—then I’d like for David’s to be minimized.”

Erik leans back in his seat. “Of course. That’s every parent’s hope.”

“Perhaps I hope for too much.”

“Now see, Charles, your boy was an accident to begin with. Nothing about his existence was planned. It only makes sense that he’s a little off-the-mark.” Erik spreads his hands. “But what even is the mark? Do you truly remember your own childhood by comparison? How do you know you’re not misremembering it? Even as a telepath, you can’t have all the answers.”

“Well, there’s nobody around who witnessed my childhood, and you know me second-best to myself, which is why I sought your feedback in the first place,” Charles sighs. “It’s not as if I can simply ring my mum and dad to poll their opinions.”

“Good. Do not talk to Brian or Sharon about this. Even if they weren’t already horrifically neglectful pieces of shit, they’re humans. They haven’t understood a single thing about your mutanthood in their fucking lives.”

“I know, I know, Erik. Relax. I have no intentions of informing them.”

“They’d only make you feel worse if you did.” Erik grumbles under his breath at the mere thought, angry about something that hasn’t happened yet, and will probably never happen at all. “I can already hear Sharon blaming you for everything. Lecturing you for all the things you’re doing ‘wrong’ with her grandson, when in fucking fact, she hasn’t spent a day in her sober life worrying about what’s fucking best for her own son—”

“Relaxing, Erik.”

“I’m just saying! Whatever ‘normal’ means…fuck, Charles, don’t worry about this anymore.”

Charles actually manages a laugh. “Oh, my sweet friend, I’ll worry myself bald by the time David turns four,” he says fondly, “but I appreciate your words nonetheless. Now, enough about me. How are you and the twins doing? I take it you haven’t strangled poor Pietro to death yet?”

And so, that’s the end of the David conversation, at least for today.

─────

Back in Boston, Erik has problems of his own.

Part of it is all this free time. He finishes coaching by noon everyday—his doctor’s making him take less hours now that he’s older, though he knows plenty of teachers who work summers even in their fifties—and by the evening he’s usually ‘unwinding,’ or trying to unwind, with a glass of whiskey and a silk-lined robe that Charles gave him for ‘facilitating a relaxing environment.’

It’s unusual for Erik to have all of the kids out of his hair at the same time. It almost feels wrong to let his guard down.

His eldest daughter, Lorna, has long since moved away to college on the west coast, leaving behind an unsettling sort of quiet in the apartment. The twins are in their junior year of high school, and they’re testing the limits of their growing teenage independence: Wanda claims she’s out with her friends at the mall, though Erik has a feeling she’s hanging out with that no-good boyfriend of hers; Pietro, meanwhile, is playing video games upstairs while on the phone with his friends, a sporadic source of muffled shouting that jolts Erik constantly out of his thoughts. He’s probably smoking his brains out, but Erik can’t prove it (unfortunately, his authoritarian parenting style seems to have created quite the sneaky child out of Pietro).

Erik reclines on his favorite chair in the living room and groans out. He stares blankly ahead at the wall, his eyes flitting over the bookshelf, the photos on the mantle, the ‘art’ pieces that came installed with the property when he first rented it. Everything is gathering a fine layer of dust. It feels like he just cleaned, too.

Perhaps he ought to pay Pietro a couple of bucks to give the apartment a wipe-down. It’d take him less than a minute with his superspeed. But knowing his son, he would probably break something, and do a poor job of cleaning up the broken glass to boot. At sixteen, Pietro’s just as clumsy—and unhelpful—as he was when he was six. The teenage incompetence annoys Erik, though a lot of things annoy him about Pietro, now that he thinks about it.

Oh, shit. He’s supposed to be relaxing. Relaxing, starting now.

Erik squirms in his chair, the faux leather suddenly feeling sticky and uncomfortable. Maybe he should lie on the couch instead. He could put something on the TV. But what would he watch? Movies makes him think too hard, and he’s not a fan of anything that requires him to follow multiple seasons—shit like Breaking Bad and Suits, which the PTA dads at school keep prodding him to watch, strikes Erik as drawn-out and contrived. No, no TV.

Maybe he could play a game of chess against himself. He’s been getting his ass handed to him these past few sessions with Charles. But his chess set is in the bedroom, and when the sun sets at the end of the day, the light comes in through his window and makes his bedroom unbearably hot. He can’t get sweaty right now, since he’s already showered—unless he takes two showers today, but—

Relax, motherfucker! RELAX!

Erik reclines a bit further and folds his hands on his stomach, closing his eyes so that his mind won’t wander with his surroundings. It doesn’t help. The distracting images dance on the back of his eyelids instead, and narrowing his senses down only seems to pronounce the sticky texture of the armchair.

Just as Erik’s about to get comfortable—for real this time—the fucking phone in the kitchen starts to ring.

He raises his head. Really? At this hour? Some people have no sense of personal space these days. He drags himself to his feet and saunters over to the kitchen.

By the time he gets there, the answering machine has already picked up for him, and the most insufferable British voice he’s ever heard is happily yammering away:

“Hello, Erik! How are you? Pardon me for bothering you on a work night, but I’m on my way back from the office—and by that, I mean my classroom, ha-ha. I’ve been grading those summer essays since the bloody afternoon. Quite a disappointing batch of papers, I might add, but—oh, this is Charles, by the way. Xavier. I hope you’re not still at work. You push yourself so. Anyhow, as I was marking up those papers today, I got to wondering whether—”

Already pissed off at the sound of such senseless rambling, Erik seizes the phone and brings it to his ear. “Charles,” he barks. “Hello. Hi. I’m home. What the fuck do you want?”

There’s an affectionate laugh on the other end of the phone. “Why, hello to you, too, Erik,” Charles says, amused that he’s being greeted with such hostility right off the bat. “Is now a bad time? Are you in one of your moods?”

“One of my—? No, I just wasn’t expecting a call! Especially not from you. I was trying to relax, actually, like you’re always bugging me to do.”

“Oh! Well, if you’re too busy to chat—”

“That plan is out the window now. What do you need?”

Charles makes a scandalized sound that is no longer playful. “Why must you automatically assume I need something whenever I call?”

“Because you always do.”

“That’s not true. I don’t need anything from you. You told me you wanted me to call more often, so here I am.”

“Yeah, but it’s annoying when you ring me out of the blue. I get more than enough of your nonstop chatter as it is.”

Truth be told, Erik is—and always has been—bluffing right out of his ass. He doesn’t know why. It’d be so much simpler if he was honest: that he likes when Charles calls, that it’s the best part of his evening when it happens, that he’s in a bad mood when Charles doesn’t call. He and Charles want the same thing. To be close. Erik can’t admit that, but even without saying it out loud, Charles is irritatingly respectful of his wishes, so eager to please in the wake of their failed marriage.

Charles sighs, realizing belatedly the game that Erik is playing. “Well, either way, I’m afraid I am calling to ask you a favor today,” he admits. “Would you happen to be available tomorrow morning? Gabi and I scheduled an IEP meeting at the last minute with David’s case manager, and we need someone to watch him for a few hours tomorrow. Just until the afternoon.”

“You want me to drive all the way to New York, just to babysit?” Erik repeats coldly. “For free?”

“No, not for free, never! I’ll pay you for your time and even the mileage,” Charles promises. “I’d call Hank, but he’s not as good with Davey as you are. Last time, David ripped out a handful of his fur, and he tried to bite when he—”

“Don’t call Hank,” Erik says quickly, incensed at the idea of that clumsy blue nerd trying to do anything even resembling parenting.

“Aside from the pay, I can make it up to you in other ways. You’re more than welcome to spend the weekend. I’ll pay for all your meals, and maybe we can have a drink once Davey’s asleep, or go to a museum, or—oh, and the twins are more than welcome to tag along! You know their old bedrooms will always be here,” Charles adds earnestly. “If they don’t want to spend the night at the manor, they can always stay with their mother, yes? I’m certain they miss her as well.”

Erik chews this thought. Pietro does talk often about missing his mother; he’s always been a momma’s boy, at least when Charles wasn’t an available substitute. He would also probably like to see the friends he was forced to leave behind in New York after the divorce, especially the teleporting goalkeeper on Charles’ current soccer team—Kurt Wagner, was his name? The two boys have reconnected since that weekend in D.C. They play video games all the time, but Erik knows better than anyone that telephone calls are not as good as the real deal.

Then there’s Wanda, who seems to have a lot of maternal instinct for a girl so young. She would love a chance to play with her baby stepbrother. She coddles and pampers David whenever she sees him on holidays, even if she’s still harboring some resentment for what happened with Charles—she’s been working on forgiving him, too, Erik knows. She talks to her therapist about it all the time.

A trip to New York could be good for everyone.

In fact, Erik has already said yes in his mind, but due to the non-telepathic nature of this phone call, Charles doesn’t know that. Erik plays that to his advantage, feigning disgust and disinterest.

“Let me get this straight. You’re going to an IEP meeting for a preschooler,” he says wryly. “I wasn’t aware Charles Xavier had time for IEP meetings at all. You really are trying to turn a new leaf here.”

Charles is less than amused by the jab. “If you’re not available, Erik, I still have Hank on stand-by.”

“No, no, I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.” Charles deflates like he’s been holding his breath this entire time. “You know how hard it can be to find someone who handles David well. You’re more help than you can imagine.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. I’ll be there first thing in the morning.” Erik hangs up before either of them can say anything else.

He feels stupid. A little used, too, maybe, but that could just be in his head. It’s an old worry. A past feeling, resentment that came with doing all the parenting while Charles disappeared overseas. He has to remind himself that times have changed.

But Charles still has him wrapped around his finger.

Because Charles is rich. He could pay for a high-end babysitter, a live-in helper, a full-time nanny—he could even stick David in a fancy daycare if he wanted. And yet, he’s asking Erik. Erik, who lives three hours away. Erik, who has owed no marital obligation to him since 2005. Erik, who snaps and yells and acts like an asshole when really all he wants to do is curl up in Charles’ lap and have his hair played with forever.

So he heads into the hallway and raps his fist on Pietro’s door. As expected, his son ignores the first call to attention.

“Open up, Maximoff,” Erik shouts, and then, remembering that the family therapist calls it ‘impersonal’ whenever he addresses the children by their surnames, he clears his throat. “I mean, open up, Pietro.”

There’s some vague shuffling and bumping inside his son’s bedroom. “Hang on, guys,” Pietro’s voice mumbles. “Gimme one sec. Yeah, it’s my dad. Play this round without me. Come in, old man!”

Erik opens the door and sticks his head inside, wincing at the hormone-ridden smell that emanates from the pigpen Pietro calls his living space. Wanda’s very lucky she has a bedroom of her own now. The bed, desk, and floor are all drowning beneath an impermeable layer of dirty laundry, crumpled homework papers, discarded Twinkie wrappers, Hot Cheeto leavings, empty Monster cans, and dirty dinner plates that never quite made it to the kitchen sink. There’s the faint smell of mildew coming from a growing collection of used shower towels, and that’s not even taking into consideration the overturned duffel bag of soccer equipment on the ground.

Pietro nonchalantly spins in his swivel chair to face Erik. He’s chewing loudly on a lollipop—probably horrible for his teeth, but he’s had a habit of chewing inedible things since he was a boy, and Erik’s just glad his son isn’t remedying the oral fixation with e-cigarettes or vape pens anymore. That he knows of.

Pietro doesn’t even bother to take the ridiculous gaming headset off before addressing Erik. He tilts his head inquisitively. “Hey, bro,” he says. “What’s up?”

“Don’t call me ‘bro.’ You know I hate that,” Erik snaps. “Have you been vaping again? It smells like a strawberry took a shit in here. If I find out you’re back on that stupid habit—”

“Dude, lay off! You’re smelling this.” Pietro waves his lollipop pointedly, and to be fair, it is strawberry-flavored. “Jesus, have a little faith. You already took my shit. Anyways, what do you want now? I’m kinda busy here.”

“I can see that,” Erik says sarcastically. “I need you to pack your bags. We’re going to stay in New York this weekend.”

Pietro is less than enthused at the idea. “Kinda last minute,” he comments snidely, with the attitude he’s picked up since his snob of an older sister moved out—as if he sensed that Lorna’s absence left more room for the other siblings to act rude and defiant. “I don’t wanna be an asshole about it, but, like, the shrink told me to be more honest with you. I don’t fuck with these last-minute plans or whatever.”

Erik rubs the bridge of his nose, exasperated by the weaponized therapy talk. “I’m aware what the shrink said,” he growls. “This isn’t up for debate. It’s a family matter. Charles needs some help around the house.”

“Oh, we’re referring to Charles as family again?” Pietro asks, grinning. “I didn’t get the memo. Sure, sure, family stuff.”

“It’s not that deep, Pietro. You know how hard it is for Charles to find a babysitter who can handle David. I had the same problem when you and Lorna were that age, you know—it’s no walk in the park.”

“Wait, so you’re gonna be babysitting David?” Pietro crunches on his lollipop in thought, then gestures broadly at Erik with the chewed-up stick. “This could be fun to watch, actually. Say less. I’m in.”

“I wasn’t asking for your blessing, Maximoff, I was telling you, as your father—”

“Woah, why are you shouting? I already agreed to go.”

“Don’t fucking forget to set an alarm, either, because if you sleep in, I’m leaving you, and I’m taking the Internet router with me. We leave at six.”

“Six? On summer break?” Pietro throws his head back and groans. “That’s so freaking early! Can’t I just get up at nine and meet you guys there?”

“Tough stuff. Set the alarm.”

“I don’t get why I have to go in the car with you.”

“I’m not letting you run to Westchester on fucking foot!”

“Yelling, stop yelling! Jeez.” Pietro grumbles and rubs his eyes. “Any other last-minute plans to ruin my weekend, Mr. Magneto?”

“One thing, actually. I have some questions about your sister. She hasn’t answered any of my calls or messages.” Erik absently brushes his hand over the pockets in is robe, feeling around for his cell phone, and then he remembers he left it in his work pants. “Do you have any idea where she is?”

“Probably watching a movie.”

“This late?”

“It’s only eight o’clock!”

“Who’s she with?”

“Friends.”

“Which friends?”

“Man, how should I know? Why don’t you ask her before she goes out next time?”

“I do, but it’s not like you teenagers ever tell me the truth the first time I ask.” Erik narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Is she paying you to lie?”

“Dude, no! Wherever she is, I’m sure she’s fine! She’ll call you on the off-chance that she needs you to bust someone’s balls, or whatever.” Pietro crossly swivels back to face the double computer monitors his video game is projected on. He fiddles with the mic on his headset and jiggles the mouse to wake up his screen. “Hey, guys—yeah, I’m back. What’d I miss?”

Erik sighs, deciding this is not a battle worth fighting, especially in front of Pietro’s peers. He’s kind of relieved Pietro has peers to hang out with at all—the bar is on the floor these days—even if they are his old mutant friends from New York. His human classmates in Boston don’t want to be friends with a mutie who has both an IEP and a one-on-one behavioral aide. Erik has encroached on his son’s precious social hour for long enough.

Still, he makes sure to slam the door behind him, so Pietro knows he’s not happy.

Chapter Text

The rose garden looks the same.

So do the lilies, the hydrangeas, and the lavender plants growing in rows around the mansion. Erik doesn’t know what he expected. In his mind, he’d created images of an estate in ruin: a dilapidated castle with nobody living in it anymore, the X-shaped fountain overgrown with weeds, the cobblestone roads swathed in moss.

When he first left Charles, the man had become too depressed to care about appearances anymore. By the time they moved out in 2005, there was even less reason to continue maintaining impressions.

Erik hasn’t been here since then. Not even for family gatherings. While they’ve been making an active effort to co-parent since the events of D.C., they’ve only ever celebrated holidays in public spaces, such as restaurants or fancy hotels.

And for good reason, too. The manor is too full of memories.

Erik tries not to look fidgety as he rings the doorbell. The twins stand behind him, overnight bags slung over their shoulders. They pass not-so-subtle whispers to each other about this and that, and Erik doesn’t need to be a telepath to know what they’re saying.

He doesn’t bother to turn his head. “I can hear you back there, Pietro. I’m not nervous about seeing Charles today, okay? We see him all the time.”

Pietro acknowledges the reproach by elbowing his sister, giggling. He cups a hand around her ear to protect his secrets further, and she stifles a high-pitched laugh of her own at whatever he says.

For his pride’s sake, Erik chooses not to acknowledge their teenage antics. It’s also just unusual to hear Wanda laughing at all—to see her interacting peacefully with her siblings, to take her anywhere without those stupid headphones constantly blaring death metal in her ears. He doesn’t want to jinx this upward trend in her mental health.

“Someone’s home, right?” Wanda asks, after they’ve been standing there for a while.

“Ring it again,” Pietro suggests.

“There’s no need for that,” scolds Erik. “Be patient for once in your life, please.”

“Dad probably just didn’t hear us the first time,” Wanda says helpfully. “It’s a big house.”

“Can’t you like, talk to him in your head, or whatever? Let him know we’re here?” Pietro asks her.

“Don’t bother Charles, Wanda. We can wait a few minutes longer.”

“Holy shit, you guys are way over-thinking this.” Exasperated, Pietro pushes past Erik and repeatedly jams his thumb on the doorbell with his superspeed. The bell sounds off an annoying number of times, a clangor they can hear even through the huge front doors.

Erik quickly magnetizes his son by the silver watch around his wrist and pulls him back. “Pietro!”

“What?”

“Don’t be fucking rude!”

“When have you ever cared about manners? Besides, it’s only Dad.” Pietro reaches out with his other arm, this one free of any metal to manipulate, and resumes his annoying assault on the doorbell. “Daaad! Dad! Open up, Da—”

Erik resorts to manually wrestling his son off of the doorbell now. Pietro yelps in surprise as his arms are pinned behind his back—in what Erik knows is probably an overreaction, but the thought of annoying Charles this early in the morning is his number one concern right now. Pietro unsuccessfully attempts to squirm out of the hold, and as recompense, begins to kick into Erik’s shins.

“Ow, you little shit!”

“Ow, yourself! Let go of me!”

“I’m fucking serious, Maximoff, knock it off!”

“What are you so mad for? It’s like, nine in the morning!”

“You’re being a little shit and you know it!”

ERIK! What on earth are you doing?

The sound of Charles’ telepathic projection makes everyone freeze, even Wanda, who’s more accustomed to hearing voices than her non-psychic brother and father. Erik releases his hold on Pietro as if he’s a child being caught doing something wrong. Pietro brushes himself off with a huff.

The bloody door’s been unlocked all morning, Charles thinks tiredly. I’m surprised you haven’t let yourself in already. Come inside, would you? I’ve got my hands a bit tied with David at the moment. We’re in the playroom upstairs—third room on the left. Oh, and hello, kids.

“Hi, Dad!” Pietro calls.

Charles just as quickly withdraws from their heads, leaving all three of them standing about and staring at one another. Erik sheepishly reaches for the front door. It is, as promised, unlocked.

“Jesus Christ,” Wanda mumbles.

With all the courage Erik has left in him—and with the hopes that his morning can only get better from here—he leads the twins into the mansion.

Charles’ home, once so formal and uptight in its nineteenth-century aesthetic, now looks more like a playpen at an overrun daycare. Erik is nostalgic for a split second—this is exactly how he remembered the house, when he lived here, when the kids were still kids—but the feeling is quickly overtaken by the relief that his own apartment in a Boston is no longer ruled by disgusting toddlers who don’t know how to wash their hands.

It’s gratifying to see that Charles is now experiencing this side of the parenting coin.

Throughout the hall, David’s various belongings litter the floor: a trail of scattered toys, discarded toddler clothes, and various food spills leading all the way to the staircase. The clothes in particular get a good chuckle out of Erik. According to Charles, David has been going through a phase where he’s constantly undressing himself, expressing immense displeasure at the sensation of socks, shoes, shirts, pants—anything that restricts his movement. The little nudity strike has been driving everyone on David’s early-intervention team insane. The behavioral aide is perpetually wrestling shirts back onto him, only for it to mysteriously disappear the moment she turns away, and she cannot, for the life of her, figure out a way to keep David simultaneously happy and clothed at preschool.

Erik laughs whenever Charles talks about it, but only because it’s not Erik’s problem. At least not full-time.

As they make their way upstairs, the twins peer curiously into their old bedroom, just for old time’s sake. It’s barren now. The bunk bed is devoid of linens, and the old desks are blanketed in a fine layer of dust. It’s clear that nobody’s been inside in years.

Wanda comments that everything looks exactly how she remembered leaving it. Pietro seems uninterested, and moves on rather quickly.

But Erik, sentimental old man is he, stands wistfully at the doorway, reminiscing about what used to belong to the twins. This was their childhood safe space, the room where they grew up. It really does look the same. He suspects that Charles has deliberately left it untouched, all this time, perhaps in the hope that they might still move back in someday. Or maybe there’s just nothing else to do with the room. The mansion certainly had a surplus of unused space to begin with.

Erik pats the threshold fondly, as if to acknowledge an old friend, and continues down the hallway.

He follows the sound of distant toddler screams, a wretched sound that grows louder the closer he gets to the playroom. The playroom itself is not something that existed when he last lived here—at least, not with that explicit purpose—and the unfamiliarity has him on edge.

He finds it lovingly decorated and generously furnished with all the things that a spoiled son of Xavier could want.

The walls have been painted a modern shade of pastel purple. They’re covered with the sort of shit you see in elementary school classrooms these days: framed platitudes like I AM LOVED! and NOTHING’S IMPOSSIBLE WHEN YOU WORK HARD! There’s a colorful, child-sized table at the center of the rainbow rug, littered with countless crayons, markers, and coloring pages. A jumbo beanbag sits in the corner beside several bookshelves containing children’s literature. Plastic storage containers sit on a rolling cart for Charles’ ease of transport, overflowing with jigsaw puzzles, board games, Legos, stuffed animals, and action figures. There’s even a fucking TV fixed to the wall, as if a toddler has any need for watching his morning cartoons in the highest resolution possible.

Charles has always excelled at spending frivolous amounts of money on the kids.

Erik takes a tentative step inside. In the corner, Charles has installed a toddler-proof playpen, complete with a wheelchair-accessible gate and a metal bar for assisting him in transferring from the chair to the carpet. Based on the nonstop crying, David is held prisoner inside the cage, and is not very happy about it.

Charles sits on the ground amidst the chaos, an untouched plate of sliced grapes in his hand, David bawling in his lap. Charles’ clothes are rumpled and stained with something that suspiciously resembles child vomit, while the dark circles, unwashed hair, and scruffy beard do nothing to enhance his disheveled appearance.

“Hello, Erik,” Charles says sourly. He has to talk extra loud to be heard over the sound of David’s cries. “I’m aware I don’t look my best right now, alright? I’ve been up since three in the morning.”

Erik grins. “I didn’t say anything.”

Three-year-old David, soon to be four, pauses briefly in his tantrum to look up at Erik. He scowls with all the child-sized displeasure in the world. Such discontentment comes with good reason—David is dressed like a tiny old man, complete with a button-up, stuffy cardigan, and dress slacks (which Erik didn’t even know they made for babies). He looks like he has an important conference to go to. Or a college lecture.

“Well,” Erik remarks, “I’m glad I didn’t let you dress the twins while they were growing up.”

The twins in question are crouching beside Charles, poking and tickling David, as if that will make the situation any better for anyone. “Davey! Hello, baby boy!” Wanda goes, shrill and doting. “You’re getting so big, schatzeleh! Look at you!”

She scoops him out of Charles’ lap, and the moment he’s off the ground, David makes a startled, unhappy sound. Of course, he doesn’t see Wanda frequently enough to remember who the hell she is. He promptly resumes screaming and crying, even louder this time.

“Poor baby,” Wanda babbles at him, unbothered, bouncing him cheerily on her lap a couple of times, all to no avail. Charles looks embarrassed.

“I’m terribly sorry, everyone,” he sighs. “I promise it’s not personal. Davey’s been fussing all morning.”

“Awww, that’s okay! Everyone has bad days, right, Davey-boo?” Wanda croons. “Isn’t someone a grumpy boy this morning? Yes, you, you are—”

“Wanda, you’re doing the baby voice again,” Pietro whines. “I told you it freaks me out.”

“You’ll be doing the same once you have kids of your own,” she replies evenly.

“You say that like you have any.”

“Well, you have as much paternal instinct as a rock, so—hey, don’t shake him around like that, Pietro! He doesn’t like it!”

“I’m not shaking him, dude, I’m rocking him—”

“Kids, don’t fight over the baby,” Erik says tiredly. “You’re making it worse.”

“Oh, they’re alright,” Charles chuckles. “I’ve long since accepted that nothing can be done about the little bugger’s tears at this point. His young mind is still too fragile for me to feel comfortable giving him a calming nudge with my powers, either, so we just have to weather the storm.”

Erik shakes his head in disapproval, but decides there’s ultimately no harm done if Charles is okay with the twins rattling David around like a toy doll. He places a hand on his ex-husband’s shoulder and swiftly changes topics. “Speaking of fragile minds,” he says, “how are you holding up?”

“Me? I’m fine! I’ve never been more fine.” Charles pulls his mouth into an unconvincing smile, unwilling to elaborate on his bad mood in front of the twins. “I really am fine,” he insists. “Like Wanda says, bad days happen all the time. Now, shall I give you the rundown of David’s daily routine?”

“A rundown? What is this, intro to babysitting?”

“Trust me, with David, you’ll need all the heads-up you can get.”

“How complicated can it be?”

“I’ll show you. Come along.” Charles sets aside the forgotten plate of untouched grapes, transfers back into his wheelchair with a pained grunt, and claps his hands. “I’m leaving you two in charge of things for five minutes, if that’s alright,” he tells the twins. “I trust you can handle Davey on your own, Wanda?”

“I could handle him forever,” Wanda beams, perfectly content to be cuddling a screaming David. Pietro doesn’t respond, so caught up is he in trying to win David’s attention back from his sister.

Relieved of that burden, Charles and Erik depart for the kitchen. Charles immediately launches into a long spiel of things to look out for during mealtime, and Erik sincerely intends to listen, at least at the beginning—but at some point, the instructions begin to blur into condescending, meaningless jabber.

“…and listen to me carefully, because David won’t eat anything if even one thing on his plate seems suspect. You need to cook the chicken nuggets in the microwave, even though the bag says to do it in the oven, and you have to do it for exactly forty-five seconds. Anything else is too hot, too cold. Also, be sure to use only the plastic cutlery. The sound of the metal fork on the ceramic plate upsets him. Right, so when you put the ketchup on, do not let it touch the chicken, because he prefers to dip. That’s imperative. And shake the ketchup bottle well, or else—”

“Alright, Charles, I get it,” Erik interrupts, holding a hand up. “He’s a picky kid. So what?”

“He’s not picky,” Charles says tartly. “He’s autistic.”

Erik draws an agitated breath. His fingernails dig into the palm of his hands as he struggles to come up with a response that is a little more sympathetic than ugh, this bullshit again?

“Is there a difference?” Erik asks instead, and that, of course, quickly turns out to be the wrong thing to say.

“Of course there’s a bloody difference,” Charles snaps. “Picky has the connotations of being spoiled, as if he’s a pampered boy lashing out when things don’t go his way. I can assure you that David is not lacking in either discipline or character.”

Erik smirks. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

“No, don’t whatever me right now, Erik! He has different needs than a typical toddler. He’s in distinct emotional and physical distress when those needs aren’t met. It most certainly is not my intention to bring your many years of experience into question here, but David is a special case, and you must remember that. Now can you follow my directions, or should I tell Gabrielle to go to this IEP meeting without me?”

They stare at each other, jaws and fists clenched. For a second, Erik remembers exactly why they were never able to parent well together—and yet, here they are, eight years later, squabbling about the same petty things.

Erik sighs. He’s not the same man he was eight years ago, thankfully, and he also knows that Charles has always been especially prone to having a nervous breakdown when he’s sleep-deprived; that’s not a mess Erik wants to clean up right now.

“Alright, fine,” he relents. “David is…special. How could I forget?”

“Yes, and one last thing.” Charles wheels to the counter and reaches for an electronic tablet charging at the adjacent outlet. The device is encased in a thick, rubber case, covered in children’s stickers, with a handle chunky enough for a three-year-old to hang onto.

“Oh, Charles,” Erik groans. “You bought him an iPad?”

“It’s an AAC device, not a recreational item,” Charles corrects. “That stands for Alternative Augmented Communication. It’s designed to help him communicate his wants and needs without speaking.”

“Right,” Erik says skeptically. “So, you got him an iPad.”

Charles ignores the catty comment. “It’s quite easy to use. Simply tap the pictures on the screen, and it’ll read the word or phrase out loud. Here, give it a go.”

Erik accepts the tablet from Charles’ hands and begins to scroll through the application. The screen displays an array of colorful squares, each box containing an icon and its associated phrase: help, hungry, bathroom, more, all done, the list goes on.

“We call them his ‘words’, so if you tell him to ‘go get his words’, he’ll know what you’re talking about—actually, he understands more than he gets credit for in general, possibly as much as the average three-year-old, so be mindful of your language with him as a basic rule,” Charles prattles on. “Anyhow, remind him the tablet is there as a tool, not a toy. He’s not very consistent at using it yet, so you might have to help him—”

“I’m not sure I’ll know how to use this, Charles,” Erik admits.

“It’s a bit of a learning curve for us older folk, but if Davey can use it, you’ll be fine. He really only needs the all done and no thank you buttons. Oh, and he’s mostly into trains right now, so perhaps that.” To demonstrate, Charles taps on the picture of a toy train, and an automated voice reads the word out loud: train. “Take your time getting familiar with it. Just make sure you honor all of his requests, yes? We’re working on pairing functional communication with reinforcement. It’s crucial that every instance of success is met with the requested tangible—”

“Sounds like someone’s finally taken the time to study up on their behaviorist jargon.”

“—but do not let him use the tablet for anything else. He’s been switching the application to YouTube when I’m not looking these days, and I can’t figure out how to put parental controls on that without flat-out uninstalling the app. That’s most everything I can think of right now. You may ring me if something else comes up. Any questions?”

“Is that really it?" Erik huffs. "Or are you going to keep blabbing after I say I understand?”

“I’m trying to set you up for success here, my friend.”

“Of course you are.” Erik puts his hands in his pockets. “Well, I appreciate the…foresight.”

As they leave the kitchen and head for the nursery—David has an entire diaper-changing schedule to memorize—Erik grumbles to himself, irritated that this child can fluently use an iPad yet isn’t toilet-trained. He tries to reel in his judgment. The shrink would say that he’s not understanding the full picture; that David’s childhood is going to look very different than, say, Pietro’s.

Although, it’d taken just as long to get Pietro out of diapers—the loud flush of the toilet had always scared him.

***

The minute Charles is out the door, David begins screeching anew. This time, he wriggles out of his cardigan, throws himself to the ground, and kicks his little fists against the ground. When Erik takes him out of Wanda’s arms and into the nursery for his first routine diaper change, the fucking brat bites him on the hand. Then he proceeds to writhe out of his stupid baby trousers, throwing them across the room.

Erik grunts as he bends over to scoop up the discarded clothes and then David, steadfast despite the screams and tears that resist his embrace. He sets David down on the changing table and opens the adjacent dresser drawer.

Immediately, he’s appalled to find the drawers filled with little button-ups, cardigans, jumpers, and trousers. He pulls out the topmost shirt and surveys it with disdain. David screams harder, as if to agree with his derision.

“Yeah,” Erik murmurs thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t want to wear that, either.”

With David in tow, he returns downstairs, and quickly finds what he’s looking for: Pietro and Wanda’s duffel bags, unceremoniously dumped to the ground in the living room. He crouches down and unzips Pietro’s.

He tries to be quick, so that Pietro doesn’t wander in and accuse him of snooping. There’s not much to snoop through, anyway—Pietro never packs very well. Erik only has to dig through a tangle of charger cords and a single pair of boxers before he comes across an old T-shirt and basketball shorts with adjustable drawstrings around the waist.

The shirt is several sizes too large, even for a teenager—it’s an XL, as Pietro has been embracing the ‘oversized’ aesthetic trend lately. On the front, there’s a black-and-white design of Pietro’s favorite Pokémon, Gengar; on the back, some symbols and characters beyond Erik’s linguistic capabilities.

“How about it?” Erik asks, holding the gigantic shirt up to David’s tiny body. “So much softer, right?”

David reaches out with a chubby hand to grip the fabric. He makes a garbled noise, but it doesn’t sound entirely displeased. Erik slips the shirt over his melon-sized head and wriggles the shorts on with care. David allows it.

“There you go,” Erik says encouragingly. “You like Pokémon? Your stepbrother, he loved Pokémon at your age. Still does. It’s all he’s filled his head with, ever since your dad gave him that stupid GameBoy. That must have been…ten years ago? You haven’t been alive for even half of that time.”

David babbles and pats his hands over his legs, exploring the sensation of the new fabric. Erik chuckles at the boyish curiosity.

“It’s too bad you haven’t learned to talk yet, little man,” he says playfully. “I bet you would have a lot to say about Charles’ choice in clothes. You know, he might have a stick up his ass when it comes to appearances, but…he just wants you to look responsible and polite, so that you’ll be respected as you deserve. He means well.”

David looks up at Erik with an unsettling intensity. Suddenly, Erik wonders if Charles was right—that maybe, just maybe, David understands what everyone is saying to him. About him. Come to think of it, who are they to assume otherwise? Speech is not necessarily the defining characteristic of intelligence. And three-year-olds aren’t babies anymore. Even children can parse a surprising amount of their environment.

Unnerved, and feeling the need to keep a better bridle on his tongue, Erik zips up the duffel bag. He allows David a moment to fidget with the baggy shirt newly draped over him, and once he loses interest, Erik reaches a hand out.

“Come. Let’s go change our diaper.” He uses the word our, like shitting his pants is an issue he, too, is struggling with, and they will overcome it together.

David stares blankly at the outstretched hand. There’s no telling what the poor little thing is thinking. Maybe he’s expecting to be scooped off the ground again—that’s all that ever seems to happen when grown-ups are around.

Eventually, David does take Erik by the hand. He’s sticky and wet for some reason. Erik grimaces, but gently closes his hand around the tiny fingers.

They waddle back to the nursery at his pace.

“He gets an iPad?” Pietro exclaims incredulously. “At this age?”

“You’ve had a Nintendo since you were five,” Erik replies, propping up the tablet on the ground where it’ll be within David’s reach in the playpen. “Besides, Charles says this isn’t for fun. This is…a tool, I guess.”

“For real? A tool?”

“It’s how David is learning to communicate at school, apparently.”

“It’s for kids with special needs,” Wanda explains. “To help them learn how to talk.”

“Oh.” Pietro scoffs. “I had special needs, and I never got a personal iPad.”

“Yeah, well, you also never needed any help learning how to talk,” Erik says wearily.

Everyone watches as David crawls over to the tablet. He picks it up at once, like he knows exactly what it’s for, and scrolls his chubby hands over the screen with comical expertise.

“What do you want to play today, Davey?” Wanda asks.

David scrolls for a while, then taps his tiny finger on the screen.

Trains! a robotic voice reads. Trains! Trains!

“Yo, that’s fucking insane,” Pietro says. “He like, totally understood you.”

“He just likes trains,” Erik mumbles.

Trains! Trains!

“Trains?” Wanda repeats sweetly. “Okay, honey! I know where those are!”

She jumps to her feet, eager to fulfill David’s request, and begins digging through the playroom clutter. Erik stands back observantly as his daughter removes a plastic bin from the cart, excitedly dumping its contents out onto the floor.

David freezes. From afar, he scrutinizes the new stimuli in his environment: an endless supply of wooden railroad tracks, various locomotive figurines with magnetic bumpers that allow them to link to one another, and larger Thomas the Train toys that obviously weren’t meant to go with this toy set but wound up in the same bin somehow.

Wanda shakes the rest of the bin clean and sets it aside. She sits down beside Pietro and begins to assemble the wooden railroad tracks. Her twin brother joins in, making quick work of it with his superspeed, and Wanda picks up one of the train cars. She clicks it onto the track.

“Check it out, Davey,” she coaxes. “The trains go on the track! Let’s build a really long train while Pietro makes the rest of the track.”

The confusion on David’s face instantly morphs into outrage. A cry rears up in his throat, and with the clumsy flail of his arms, he upturns what bit of the wooden railroad track Pietro has completed.

The blocks scatter all over the floor in the wake of his tantrum. Pietro jumps back, startled by the sudden noise, and Wanda tries to soothe the toddler with the promise of another train—but David is having none of it. He simply snatches the toy from her hands and flings it across the room, wailing.

“Oh, Davey, no thank you!” Wanda scolds brightly. “Let’s have respectful hands and safe body, please!”

A spectator to the chaos, Erik can’t help but laugh to himself. Respectful hands and safe body is a phrase Wanda must have picked up a long, long time ago, when her own siblings were first receiving behavioral services from a one-on-one aide in elementary school. It’s what the aides used to tell Lorna whenever she punched a classmate, crumpled the goalpost, or played ‘dangerously’ with metal in the classroom. It’s what they told Pietro whenever he began kicking and inadvertently destroying shit in his desperation to get away from the teacher.

Erik can’t remember the phrase ever having any impact on either Lorna or Pietro back then, and it certainly doesn’t work on David now.

Screaming all the while, David throws himself atop the heap of trains. His little arms scrabble over the pile as if to protect the rest of his belongings from the big evil twins impinging on his personal space.

“Oh, schatzeleh, why are we crying?” Wanda coos. “Okay, okay, look! We don’t have to play with the railroad tracks. No railroad tracks. Look, here’s another train. Don’t you want the train?”

David shrieks and clambers to his feet, arms still clawing over his precious pile of toys. He’s making a valiant attempt to lug them along with him into a corner of the playpen. Wanda moves to intercept him, but now Erik stops her with an outstretched arm.

“Let him.”

“But—”

“It’s okay. Let him.”

Once David has his pile of treasure sequestered to his satisfaction, he plops down and begins to dig through the toys. He picks up a single train and places it on the ground before him. He then reaches for another, and places it beside the first.

He does this until he has formed a long line of trains, bumper-to-bumper, snaking around the couch. It’s an oddly organized behavior for such an unruly toddler.

“Alright, then. No railroad tracks,” Wanda surrenders, sitting back on her hands. “Dad really wasn’t exaggerating when he said David hasn’t learned how to share yet.”

“Isn’t that normal for three-year-olds?” Pietro asks, still looking tense.

“Some of them,” Erik admits. He crouches beside the twins, taking in the mess David has made. He begins to put away the unwanted pieces of railroad track, which earns him a wary side-eye from the toddler, though David generally refrains from escalating further over the action.

“David just…has a hard time playing with others,” Erik explains, trying his best to remember how Charles usually describes it. “He doesn't even play with Charles. It’s part of why they took him to be evaluated in the first place.”

“Oh, right, for the autism thingy,” Pietro recalls.

Erik nods solemnly. “Yeah. That.”

As if to the test the limits of this theory, Pietro reaches for one of David’s train cars. David screeches like a banshee. Pietro yanks back at once.

With that, Erik is faced with a strong feeling of déjà vu, which doesn’t normally happen unless Charles is actively tampering with or exploring his memories. He’s looking at David, but right now, he feels like he’s looking at Pietro, age three, fussy, constantly crying, and full of overwhelming emotion until he gets to do things exactly his way.

It was hard for Erik to understand back then. He still isn’t sure he fully comprehends the reasons for Pietro doing what he does—but he knows Pietro is a good kid, full of love and joy that he’s all too eager to share. It just has to be on his terms.

He’s not picky, Erik. He’s autistic.

“Stop touching his things, Pietro,” Erik says abruptly, shaking his head clear of Charles’ voice. “He obviously doesn’t like it. Let him play how he wants.”

“But how’s he gonna learn to share unless we help him?” Wanda asks.

“He will. In his own time. Trust.”

The twins nod reluctantly. After it becomes clear that nothing of notable interest will further take place, Pietro excuses himself to find entertainment elsewhere, and Wanda follows, having run out of ways to play with David without only upsetting him further.

Erik sits down, crosses his legs, and prepares to settle in.

***

Now that the atmosphere has calmed down, David seems perfectly content to continue playing his little game. Erik watches in silence. He finds it amusing in its own right, how David lines up the trains, kicks them askew when he finishes, then starts over.

David seems to forget that he’s there at all. Erik discovers that the kid’s actually pretty good at sitting in silence—it’s almost kind of relaxing. Watching David play has a hypnotic, repetitive rhythm to it.

When lunchtime comes around, he completely ignores Charles’ advice about the chicken nuggets, and grabs some pasta from the pantry instead. He cooks the noodles until they’re soft and mixes them with nothing but butter and parmesan cheese. That was Jean and Pietro’s ‘comfort’ meal, and he’s right on the money that David likes it just as much. He eats it happily, quickly, and without a fuss. Erik makes mental note to share this information with Charles later, if he can figure out a way to say it without sounding like he’s gloating.

As soon as he finishes, David hurries back to the toy trains. Erik follows and continues to observe in silence. He checks his watch after another half an hour of uneventful playtime, and that’s when he decides to try something new.

Erik reaches for one of the toy trains.

David immediately tenses up, alarmed that a grown-up is once again meddling with his belongings. He looks prepared to fly into fight-or-flight rage again, but Erik has no intention of overruling playtime—with clear and deliberate movements, he carefully adds the train to the end of David’s neat little row. Then he returns his hands to his lap.

He nods his chin. Your turn.

David scrutinizes Erik’s work, looking baffled that a grown-up understands the unspoken rules of his game. He must find it satisfactory, because he gradually relaxes.

He places a train beside Erik’s.

Emboldened, Erik reaches for another. David watches with keen interest. When Erik places it down, waiting for David to take his turn, David simply looks up at him with big eyes.

Erik’s heart stops at the unexpected eye contact, but he doesn’t say anything out loud. He doesn’t want to break their silent streak, or startle David to tears.

This time, when David reaches for another train, he holds it out to Erik.

The boy blinks expectantly—almost impatiently—and there’s no mistaking what the gesture is. Erik humbly accepts the offering and places it at the end of their row.

They’re playing together.

It might not look like it, but they’re playing together.

The rest of the day goes by surprisingly fast.

Once they’re finished with the trains—which David signals by hopping to his feet and waddling away without cleaning up—David leads them toward the bookshelves. He quickly picks out his book of choice, then sprawls out on the ground with a happy hum.

He completely ignores Erik, who lies on his stomach nearby. Erik flips through a pile of books nearby to pass the time. He’s reminded fondly of Pietro’s old Pokémon books: the ones with no words, just pictures, more than enough to keep a child busy for the foreseeable future.

He used to hate those things. He doesn’t know what changed.

Most of the books are written for preschoolers, but he comes across a select few that seem like relatively advanced reading, something more appropriate for second or third graders. He reaches for one about zoo animals. On the inside cover, Erik sees the timeworn smear of a child’s wobbly handwriting:

If found, pleaze return to Wanda Maximoff at 1407 Graymalkin Lane, Salem Center, Weschester Country, NY.

He can’t recall the last time that Wanda’s handwriting looked that bad. Maybe first or second grade. She must have left this behind in the mansion, forgotten by the time the divorce necessitated their move, and Charles picked it up upon discovery.

Feeling fond, Erik sifts through the pages. It turns out there are a lot of useless facts about zoo animals. He’s going to forget it all later, but for now, he can appreciate its entertainment value.

He loses track of time beside an equally content, silent David. He doesn’t register the metal of Charles’ wheelchair in the doorway until he hears a sniffling sound.

“Charles! You’re home!” Erik says. He cranes his neck back with a sheepish smile, embarrassed to be caught in such a vulnerable and silly-looking position on the ground. “Hi, there. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Charles hastily wipes his eyes and wheels to a stop at the rainbow rug. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle,” he says softly. “You boys just looked so peaceful. I don’t think I’ve seen you this relaxed in a long time.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, we’re having a good time, actually.”

“I can tell. It’s quite unfortunate that Davey’s got to get going soon.”

Erik rolls over and sits up. “Oh? Is he going somewhere?”

“He has a session with the behavior tech. Mum is usually the one to take him to the clinic. I just came in to—” Charles halts. “God, Erik, what is he wearing?”

Erik crosses his arms. “Clothes that are suitable for a child.”

“He looks ridiculous!”

“Well, he looked ridiculous in the cardigan, too. He took it off as soon as you left. I folded it over there, if you care that much.”

Charles wheels over and collects the cardigan from the table. “Alright, Davey,” he says, louder now, “we’ve got to go, mate. Mum and Danny are waiting in the car for you. Come, put on your jacket—”

He takes David by the arm, and just like that, the spell is broken. David, who’s starting to realize that Charles’ presence means his playtime is now over, nearly topples over in his haste to get away. He begins to wail when Charles grabs his other arm.

“Oh, Davey, no, don’t cry,” Charles says desperately, putting the cardigan down to hold his arms out instead. It’s his loving, fatherly instinct to pick up a crying child and comfort them—but David doesn’t want that. He shrieks and pulls away again.

A wave of palpable hurt ripples from Charles’ mind. “Davey, please. It’s cold in the clinic, so you need your jacket. One arm in, my friend, that’s all we have to do. Just one arm—ow—David, alright!”

David shrieks and scratches and claws, his fingernails leaving behind long rakes of blood down Charles’ forearms. Charles finally lets go. David snatches his train off the floor and makes a break for it, but Erik catches him easily.

David writhes and sobs at the betrayal. He trusted Erik! He played with Erik! He’s made it clear that he doesn’t want to be touched, nor does he want to wear that stupid, itchy cardigan, but it’s what Charles wants, and everyone always has to listen to what Charles wants because he’s a grown-up. It’s not fair. It’s not fair, it’s not fair—

Blinded by rage, David grips his train tightly and hurls it at Charles’ head. It’s a mighty blow, surprisingly strong for a child his age, and his aim is true: Charles cries in pain when the toy strikes him directly over the head.

“David! That’s enough!” Erik snarls.

“It’s alright, Erik—”

But Erik’s pissed off now, and as David’s squirming borders on violent thrashing, Erik pins the poor kid’s arms to his sides—not with the intention of harming him, of course, but with a snug enough embrace to deter further aggression. David twists around and bites down on Erik’s hand.

And he bites pretty hard. Erik is impressed. But, he also isn’t intimidated, because Jean and Lorna have bitten him a lot harder before. He looks up at Charles, panting.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Erik, I’m fine! Put him down! He’s going to bite again if you—”

Just as expected, David latches on to Erik’s other hand, chomping down with all of his strength. Erik withholds a reaction of any sort, negative or otherwise, and the complete neutrality seems to throw him off. Biting a grown-up usually equals immediate freedom from whatever hold they have on him. Once he realizes that even aggression won’t release him from this horrible trap, he cries out in dismay, going limp.

Erik remains firm, but as gentle as he can manage. David’s hyperventilating eventually ebbs into tiny, exhausted gasps. He whines despondently, then buries his face in Erik’s chest, bawling loudly at the injustice of it all.

Erik relaxes slightly, and to his surprise, with this newfound autonomy, David flings his arms around Erik’s shoulders.

Oh. He wants comfort.

Erik strokes the boy’s back in reassuring circles. Charles watches with disbelief scrawled across his face. David sniffles pitifully, squirming closer, a minuscule gesture that tugs quietly at Erik’s heart strings. The silence allows time for Erik to reevaluate the situation, and he looks up.

“Shit, Charles. You’re really bleeding.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“He throws things at me all the time. It’s not worth fussing over.”

“He fucking hit you in the head!”

“Don’t make it sound like it’s anything more than an accident. It’s alright.”

Erik shakes his head, struggling to keep his voice contained so that he doesn’t accidentally escalate the situation again. “It is not alright,” he hisses. “What happens if he knocks you out when nobody else is home? What happens when he gets older and throws bigger things? What then?”

Charles stays quiet. He could argue, but he’s thoroughly exhausted by the whole episode, and so is Erik. He uses a sleeve to wipe the blood from his temple, and looks back to Erik.

“Can you take him out to Gabi’s car?” he asks dully. “He’ll be…calmer, with you. I truly don’t have it in me to do this again.”

Erik nods obediently. “I’ll be quick. Then we’re taking a look at that cut.”

“I said I’m fine, Erik—”

But Erik’s already back on his feet, heaving David into his arms and cradling the boy’s head in the nook under his chin. He hurries out the door before things can get any worse.

David starts squirming again by the time he makes it to the car, but that officially stops being Erik’s problem the moment he clicks the seatbelt on. He breathes out in relief, says a brief goodbye to the toddler, and then rushes back inside the house, feeling like he’s just passed a live grenade to poor Gabi.

Erik grabs the first aid kit from under the kitchen sink—yes, it’s still there, right where he thought it’d be—and finds Charles upstairs, abashedly cleaning up the mess his son made. He sees the box in Erik’s hand and balks.

“I don’t need you to put a band-aid on my boo-boos, Erik,” he says tautly.

“I know. Just let me take a look at it.”

“I’ll wash the cut after I clean up here.”

“It’ll make me feel a whole lot better if you let me look at it. It’s my fault this happened in the first place.”

“It’s not your fault and you know it.”

“Just five seconds. Please.”

Charles groans. He puts away the last bin of toys and wheels over to the couch, where Erik sits now with a cotton swab and disinfecting wipe.

Erik parts the graying hair from around the wound. The bleeding has mostly stopped by now. It’s not a big cut, no longer than an inch long. It’ll barely even leave a scar. He’s honestly more concerned about the numerous claw marks marring Charles’ arms, though even those are mostly surface-level scratches.

Charles hisses in pain as Erik touches the wound with the wipe. He generously refrains from teasing about it, grateful for the opportunity to take care of someone—especially when that someone is Charles.

As he works, he feels the insane impulse to kiss Charles. Not on the lips, or anything. Maybe on the forehead, or his nose, right on the three freckles there; as if that would make everything better, as if Charles still belongs to him. But he stops himself, because the truth is it would only make everything so much more complicated if he acted on his urges. He’s lucky Charles invited him to New York today. He’s lucky Charles is in contact with him at all. He can’t mess this up.

“Is he always this bad?” Erik asks, making idle conversation to distract himself from the painful longing in his chest.

Charles shakes his head, though he cannot move much with the fingers tenderly holding him in place. “Bad is not the word I’d prefer to use,” he says stiffly. “But…yes, David typically behaves in this manner.”

“I thought you said the behaviorists were helping.”

“They are! It’s just a game of give-and-take. You know that progress is not a linear journey for these kids.” Charles squirms. “He’s been going through a particularly hard time this year. Starting preschool isn’t easy. That, and he’s getting old enough to be bothered by the constant change of custody between his parents. Gabi and I agreed on a new arrangement recently: two weeks with mum, two weeks with dad, so that he’s dealing with less frequent changeovers—aside from the behavioral sessions, of course. He does all of those with mum.”

“How’s that working out?”

Charles rolls his eyes. “Once he adjusts to the new routine, I’m sure he’ll improve.”

Erik makes a skeptical sound as he carefully plasters the band-aid over Charles’ cut. He crumples the trash and quietly moves to clean up the scratches on Charles’ arms next. “Some routine,” he laughs. “Do you force him to wear the little old man clothes every day? Because I don’t think he’s a fan.”

“He’ll get used to it eventually. I’ve dressed like that since I was his age.”

“And I’m sure you looked adorable, but you need to buy him actual clothes.”

Charles snorts. “Like what? Baggy t-shirts and basketball shorts?”

“Toddlers don’t care about dress codes, Charles. He was plenty happy in Pietro’s shirt.”

“Listen, I admire many qualities about Pietro, but his fashion leaves a lot to be desired. I’d prefer if David didn’t grow up dressing like him.”

Erik knows it’s a comment made in the spirit of reciprocating banter, but he finds himself deeply offended by the truth in it, even though he wholeheartedly agrees. He can’t tell if he’s defending David or Pietro when he snaps, “Who cares if he prefers to do things a different way than you?”

“I care,” Charles replies. “It’s difficult to unlearn bad habits once you’re older. It’s better to do it right from the start.”

“The fancy cardigan was obviously the breaking point for him today.”

“Sure, but you’re missing the point.”

“Which is?”

“This severe rigidity and inability to compromise will soon bleed into other aspects of his life if I don’t stop it now. That’s the point,” Charles says hotly. He stops to clear his throat, wringing his hands in frustration. “If he keeps going this way, it’ll be disastrous for his social development. How will he ever make friends? Work with others? Learn to cohabitate, or connect with a community? These are essential skills in life. You cannot participate in society without them.”

“You’re being a hard-ass. I never learned half those skills you named,” Erik scoffs. “Outside of soccer, at least. I was completely friendless until adulthood, and I’m just fine.”

“Ah, yes, I’ll be sure to think of you from now on whenever I contemplate the standard for a well-adjusted member of human civilization.”

“Not everyone has to fit in to be happy, Charles. I know he can’t talk, but you have to listen to him.”

“Good Lord, don’t you think I’m trying?” Charles yells abruptly. “It’s not that simple! I understand that you’re a seasoned parent, but you forget my son does not follow the same logic and developmental trajectory as yours did! You are not the expert on troubled kids!”

Erik bristles. “I have eighteen years of experience under my belt that you’re brushing off right now because of your pride!”

“It’s nothing to do with my bloody pride, you presumptuous ass-hat! I don’t want your unsolicited advice because it’s not applicable to David!” Charles lets out a shaky breath, palming his eyes. “If I could understand what’s wrong—what’s making him such a miserable, unhappy child—I would help him out in a heartbeat, Erik. But I’m already doing everything I can. And yes, perhaps he’ll dislike me entirely for enforcing a rule he doesn’t like. That’s fine. It hardly matters anymore. I already am the reason he is this way at all. You don’t need to make me feel worse about it.”

Charles’ voice catches in his throat at that last sentence, and Erik goes quiet, feeling uncharacteristically regretful for bringing this up at all. There’s a guilty pang in his stomach as Charles begins to cry.

Fuck. Wrong thing to say, again.

Charles weeps quietly. He strains against his own shuddering breaths, as if doing so will somehow keep his breakdown from becoming an even bigger deal than it already is. He only succeeds in making himself look even more wet and pathetic. Erik can hardly stand the sight. His free hand reaches for Charles’, and almost by instinct, their fingers intertwine.

Charles goes silent. They don’t ever touch like this anymore. Not even during sex.

Realizing what he’s done, Erik pulls away.

“Forgive me,” he sputters. “Old habits. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright,” Charles says softly.

Erik blinks. “Are…are you sure?”

“Yes. It’s alright. More than alright. Come back.”

Erik scrutinizes him for any hint of humor or jest, then tentatively puts his hand to Charles’ tear-stained cheek. He relaxes more when Charles nuzzles into his palm. He looks up at Erik with appreciation for the comforting gesture.

“I’m sorry my son is so difficult,” Charles whispers. “Maybe you’re right, about the clothes, and about lots of other things, but…oh, I didn’t mean to call you here so that you could babysit me as well as David. I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to rely on you for anything. Not after we…”

He trails off. Erik nods in understanding.

“You called, so I came,” Erik says simply. “Doesn’t matter what you need.”

“But I don’t deserve that.” Charles sniffles. “I was…such a twat.”

“I was shitty, too. In many other ways.”

“You always listened to me.”

“Well, of course. I like listening to you.” Erik runs his thumb over Charles’ ginger beard, although it’s not so ginger anymore, what with all the gray hairs springing up in his middle age. “Tell me what you’re thinking about,” he persists. “No more hiding. The twins aren’t here to eavesdrop. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

Charles considers his offer. “I don’t know. Ever since David got diagnosed, things have been…harder,” he confesses. “I thought the diagnosis would help us understand. I thought it’d give us answers. But instead, we’re more confused than ever, and it makes me feel so…breakable. Dads aren’t quite the invincible superheroes everyone makes them out to be.” Charles tries to laugh, but it falls flat. “I’m worn so terribly thin. Between coaching, teaching, taking care of David, and worrying about Jean—”

“What’s wrong with Jean?” Erik interrupts.

“Nothing.” Charles shakes his head, exasperated with himself. “She’s just in college. Doing college things. She’s not a little girl anymore, and I can’t protect her when she’s so far away—not that I was ever any good at protecting her to begin with—and I spend every waking hour worrying about her. It feels like I was given a second chance with David to be a real dad, and yet, here I am, fucking it up. Failing both of my children.”

Erik listens intently, unsure of the right thing to say. Having spent the past two decades coaching soccer, you’d think that he’d have a better idea of how to cheer people up by now—but he’s coming up blank. The silence is deafening now that David is gone.

He tries his best to imagine what Magda or Emma would say if he were the one crashing and burning. Emma would probably yell at him to get it together for the kids. And Magda would just hug him, saying I’m sorry for something that’s not even her fault. That doesn’t feel helpful right now.

He focuses instead on that all-encompassing feeling of love and kinship—the way he feels whenever he’s being held by someone who loves him. The sense of safety. The warmth, the closeness, the promise that things will get better. He projects it all outward as hard as he can.

Charles breathes a laugh through his nose. That’s a very sweet sentiment, Erik. Thank you.

I’m sorry I don’t have anything to say.

Well, I feel much better already.

I’m glad.

…Do you think I’m fucking him up? David, I mean?

“No, Charles, no. Not at all.” Erik says this out loud, with as much resolution as he can muster, keeping his gaze locked on that worn, freckled face. “Hey. David’s an unappreciative little shit right now, but that’s because he’s three, and all three-year-olds are ungrateful brats. When he’s grown, he’ll be…different. Your relationship to him will be different. Yeah?”

Charles swallows hard. He nods, and smiles. He’s tearing up again, which was the exact opposite of what Erik had hoped to achieve with that mini pep-talk.

But, at least Charles is smiling.

Chapter Text

1977
New York

Charles has never known a life without the voices.

He doesn’t necessarily think of the voices as a bad thing—not all the time. They’re so ingrained in his natural line of thinking that most days, he fails to question their existence at all. He simply assumes everyone hears voices of their own.

Charles’ voices, in particular, talk the most while he’s at school. They’re rather distracting. And not very polite, either—they talk like he isn’t in the room, like they aren’t in his head, calling him bossy, a know-it-all, and a goody-two-shoes. They laugh at him for following rules. They say he has no friends because he takes over every group project, and tells everyone else they’re not ‘doing it right’. The same voices also make snide comments about the formal clothes he’s forced to wear to school, which apparently look ‘preppy’ and ‘pretentious’ in a school that doesn’t require a uniform.

Once in a while, the voices do say nice things. They tend to praise Charles the most for his academic achievements and his athletic talent—though the latter feels cheap, given that he is the son of Brian Xavier, a retired footballer who played internationally in his prime. For that reason, Charles prefers to be complimented for his schoolwork. He likes when the voices marvel at how articulate he is for an eight-year-old, or when they get jealous of his excellent grades. They always act surprised and impressed when they remember that he’s skipped not one, but two whole grade levels.

Charles absolutely adores attention. He doesn’t get any at home, and nobody in fourth grade likes him. He thinks of the voices as his only friends, keeping him company while he eats lunch alone, cheering him on when he plays football with the big kids at recess. They tell him he’s gonna be big someday. They tell him that not many kids are as special as he is. He was born for greatness. That’s why things are so hard right now—because main characters have to go on quests to become stronger first.

These voices, in their kindness, help him keep his chin up.

It’s true, that Charles has no friends in real life. But not for lack of trying. No matter how closely he watches the others, he can’t seem to figure out the precise method they use to form meaningful social connections. It doesn’t help that people are scared of him, perhaps for good reason: the voices in Charles’ head know everything about everyone, and sometimes, he can’t tell the difference between his own knowledge and the information passed quietly along to him by the voices—so he says off-putting things that maybe he should have kept to himself.

One day, he’ll figure it out.

Once in a while, the voices say things that Charles doesn’t know how to feel about. Poor little thing, for example, is something the voices often whisper at him whenever he’s sitting alone on the swings at recess.

Such an odd kid.

Makes you want to give him a hug.

It's funny, how he can do high school algebra, but he can’t make friends.

Well, ya can’t have it all. At least he’s smart. Like his father.

And sad like his mother.

He really does remind me of them.

Well, I do hope he has much better things in store for his future than those two.

Charles usually doesn’t mind if the voices observe his day-to-day routine, but when they get personal like that? It makes him nervous. It makes him feel like his every move is being watched. How would they know that his father is a washed-up shell of a former celebrity, his mother a day-drinker who hardly spares her only child a glance these days? How would they know about the affair she may or may not have had with Brian’s former colleague, Kurt Marko? How would they know that Charles is probably the only thing keeping his parents married at all by this point?

With all this talk going around in his own head, Charles begins to worry that the voices aren’t his friends after all. Someday, they might take it one step further, and spill his secrets to people in real life. Maybe they’ll expose all the awful things he’s ever thought about. Like how quietly resentful he is of the children having fun around him, or how much he yearns for a different family whenever he goes home and finds Sharon drunk.

Maybe they’re even watching him so that they can tattle to his teachers about something. About what, he has no idea—he’s a well-behaved child, but he could be doing something wrong without even realizing it.

This is when the real trouble starts.

Because the next time he feels the voices watching, it isn’t at recess, but right there in class.

He has nowhere to hide. He feels like a bug being studied under a microscope. Or a zoo animal without any good hiding places in its enclosure.

In the hopes that the paranoia will ebb on its own, Charles forces himself to stay put. He ignores the roaring in his ears for as long as he can—he grits his teeth, focuses all his energy on looking like he's listening to the teacher, and robotically copies down the equations on the board.

In the end, it’s not even the voices that do him in. It’s all the little things.

The fluorescent lights. They’re too bright. The material of his collared shirt. It’s itchy and hugging his throat. His skin feels hot. His socks are too tight. The classroom, which usually smells like a stale schoolhouse from the 60’s, is suddenly twice as unbearable in its odor, a stink so pungent he thinks he might throw up.

He shifts restlessly in his wooden chair, feeling suffocated, like there isn’t enough oxygen for everyone in this one tiny room. He can smell the body odor of the person sitting next to him. That’s how closely packed they are.

Space. He just needs space.

The teacher drones on without taking any notice of his silent distress. Trembling, he shrugs out of his cardigan. The woolen fabric catches on his chair, and when he tugs, he accidentally bumps his elbow against the student sitting next to him.

The mere contact sends another thousand little voices rippling through his mind, as if he’s disturbed not only his classmate, but an entire legion of sleeping soldiers. He squeaks in pain. His classmate gives him a questioning look. He mumbles an apology, and begins frantically rolling his sleeves up now, but it’s still too hot, way too damn hot. It’s winter time. Why is it so hot? A million iron-hot needles prickle along his scalp. He claws through his hair, then begins to scratch in earnest, but the sensation lingers, crawling on him until he’s convinced it’s underneath his very skin—he scratches harder, harder, harder—

“Mr. Xavier?” the teacher calls. “Is everything alright over there?”

Charles whimpers without meaning to, but doesn’t look up. He can feel the entire class turning to stare at him. They’re watching him, just like the voices are. He’s surrounded. Cornered.

He’s still scratching furiously when someone puts a hand on his shoulder. The point of contact only agitates the voices further. He hears someone yell—“please don’t touch me!”—before realizing he’s hearing himself.

What’s going on? Is he alright?

Doesn’t look like it.

Charles, what’s wrong?

Everyone! Shut up!

Charles, step outside with me.

What’s wrong with him?

Hey, breathe, kid.

Their concern blends into one ugly cacophony that threatens to overtake him like the tide. He can no longer tell which voices are coming from his head, and which are coming from his classmates’ mouths.

He thinks he starts to cry.

***

When the principal comes in, Charles is still clasping his head, his knees pulled up to his chest. He would normally unfold himself and assume the polite posture—a straight back, folded hands, listening ears—but he’s in so much pain, it’s all he can do to simply look up.

“Alright, Mr. Xavier,” the principal sighs, lowering himself into the seat across from Charles. “I must say, I’m quite shocked to have you, of all students, called into my office. What’s going on?”

Charles swallows hard. He gathers himself, and even if he doesn’t feel ready to do so, he forces the words out of him with such strain it physically pains him.

“It was just…really loud today, sir,” he chokes out. “I…they…they won’t be quiet.”

“Who’s they? Your classmates?”

He shrugs, not wanting to sound like a snitch, or get anyone in trouble. “It’s just…loud,” he repeats. “All the time. Here.”

“Do you mean school as a whole, or…?”

Charles nods, trying to keep his answers vague. The principal pauses.

“I’m asking because you gave your teacher quite a scare,” he says slowly. “You were very upset. About what, we don’t know, but this type of behavior, it isn’t like you. What’s going on inside that head of yours? Can you help us understand?”

Charles doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. This whole conversation feels like a test question with no correct answer.

“It was loud, sir,” he stammers helplessly.

“I’m told that you were the one disrupting the class.”

“W-was I?”

“According to those I spoke to, yes.”

Charles blinks in horror, vivid flickers of the incident playing like film beneath his eyelids. He relives his memories like that sometimes—teachers call it his ‘photographic memory’—but today, it’s different. It’s as if he’s watching the incident play out from his teacher’s eyes instead: Charles, the youngest student in the class, hyperventilating in his seat and scratching his own hair out. Shouting at people not to touch him, when nobody is touching him at all. Begging people to be quiet when not one soul in the room is speaking a single word.

Mortified beyond words, Charles simply shakes his head, hands cupped over his ears. The pain is coming back in full force now, working in tandem with the panic rising in his chest. He’s frightened that his skull might split at the seams if he lets go. That would be a very unfortunate mess for the janitor to clean up later.

“Why don’t you tell me about what’s really going on here, Charles?” the principal presses again.

“No, s-sir. It’s fine. I can go back to c-class. I’m ready to go back to class.”

“This is something we need to discuss, whether you like it or not. Take a moment to gather yourself. When you’re ready, we may continue.”

The principal hands him a tissue to wipe his tears with. As if to respect Charles’ privacy, he begins to stand up. Charles shoots a hand out.

“Wait!” he cries.

The principal stares, perplexed and concerned. I’ll talk, Charles wants to say. Just please don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.

Because Charles cannot stand the thought of being left to suffer by himself in this stuffy, bright room. It’s not like the mansion, where he can hide himself under a bed or inside a wardrobe to muffle the voices. He’s exposed and vulnerable here. His own mind will torture him if the principal leaves now.

But all he can do is continue to cry, and he feels very stupid for calling attention to himself when he’s not ready to speak. He swallows back a sob, aware that tears don’t make progress in adult conversations.

The principal sighs again. He stands up, and pats him on the back. “You’ll be alright, Mr. Xavier,” he says. “Give it ten minutes, and we’ll try again.”

Then he heads out the door, leaving Charles by himself.

The voices are quick to take advantage of the silence. They erupt in his head like a shower of broken glass, leaping to talk over each other at once:

He’s a good kid! Never had a problem once! Where is this coming from?

What will his mother say?

If she says anything at all.

That’s what breaks my heart, truly.

He seemed fine until today.

How long has this been going on?

Something’s not right with him. That’s what I think.

Hey, you have a kid two grade levels above his peers, something’s bound to go wrong in a head screwed on that tight.

He’s always been beyond his years. Some kids are old souls.

Charles weeps. He is faintly aware that he’s still scratching himself, strands of hair falling away in his fingers.

He wants desperately to be held, but he’s not even sure by who.

───────

Many, many years later
October 2002

Erik’s already having an awful fucking time when he receives the word about Pietro.

Everything has gone wrong since he opened his eyes this morning. Erik woke up exhausted, having spent the entire night arguing with his husband (again), and that developed into a pounding headache behind his eyes. Even caffeine couldn’t save him. He burnt his toast twice, he left the house without his hat or sunglasses, and he dropped his keys into the gutter on the way out of the car. The principal made a snide comment about his tardiness when he signed in. And now the second graders at recess are fighting over the stupid basketball, because seven-year-olds somehow still do not know how to fucking share.

Elementary school is the worst place to be with a headache and a bad mood. Erik works part-time as yard duty here, then coaches the fifth graders during P.E. and after-school soccer. None of it is a particularly challenging job. It’s just a challenging environment.

On days like these, he finds himself wishing he’d quit soccer at eighteen and settled for a Bachelor’s degree. Then he could be working a calm, normal job in a calm, normal office. But even the idea of being stuck behind a desk makes Erik nauseous. Working as a concept is pissing him off, come to think of it, and the fact that Charles is currently sitting at home doing nothing pisses him off extra.

It’s that time of the year again: his husband is home from overseas, and will be until February. He returned early this year, flying from London in September so that he could attend teacher-parent conferences in person. He claims it’s part of an effort to be more ‘active’ in the children’s education, but for now, Erik’s not putting any stock into the promise.

Amidst his various frustrations, Erik doesn’t even notice when one of the receptionists from the front office comes out onto the grass. He’s in the middle of leading P.E. for a whole bunch of fifth graders who aren’t even officially on his team, which means he’s one minor inconvenience away from destroying the nearby playground by the metal in its structure. The kids won’t stop accusing each other of cheating. His neck hurts. He’s sunburnt to shit without his hat. And the ring of sweat around his chest is starting to itch.

The receptionist waves to him from across the field, obviously looking to catch his attention.

“Coach Lehnsherr!” she calls around cupped hands. “Coach Lehnsherr! There’s a call for you in the front office!”

Erik pretends not to hear her. Watching these idiots ‘play’ is stressing him out. If this is any indication of what he has to deal with after school today, there’ll be a lot of work for the X-Men to do.

“Mr. Lehnsherr!” the receptionist repeats desperately.

“Very busy here!” Erik barks back.

“They said it’s urgent!”

“I said I’m busy!”

“It’s about Pietro!”

Erik’s heart skips a beat. He groans, puts his face in his hands, and hopes he’ll die there.

The receptionist starts over, perhaps to further explain the situation, and now even the players take pause at her approaching presence. One-by-one, they skitter to a stop, right in the middle of their game, and shuffle into a claustrophobic swarm around Erik.

The fifth graders always love an opportunity to eavesdrop on Coach Lehnsherr’s family drama. Erik’s widely known at the district for having lots of kids—lots of kids with lots of problems—and everyone consequently knows about his seven-year-old son at the elementary school across town. Pietro is a cheerful little mutant with superspeed, ridiculous goggles strapped to his head at all times, and silver hair like his father. He comes to the after-school soccer practices sometimes. He goofs around with them during breaks, and is generally well-liked by the older kids.

Yes, Pietro is plenty friendly. The main problem with him is his classroom behavior. His hyperactivity and inattentiveness make him especially prone to wandering astray, both physically and mentally. The one-on-one aide hired by the district tends to keep him out of trouble, though lately, Erik’s been receiving a lot of phone calls home.

The start of a new school year tends to be an upsetting change for Pietro. They see a spike of misbehavior every year. He generally doesn’t acclimate to a new teacher until as late as November.

That’s probably what’s going on today, and the fact that this is still a pattern somehow makes Erik want to kick the ice cooler into next Sunday. Pietro’s acting up, again? What the hell could be wrong now? It’s never Wanda. It’s never even Jean, who’s had a very hard life for a girl so young—she’s the one with a reason to act like an unhinged, traumatized orphan. But of-fucking-course it’s Pietro’s spoiled ass throwing a fit every other day.

“What’s the problem now?” Erik hisses at the receptionist, trying to keep his voice down near the children.

“They didn’t tell me any specifics,” she apologizes. “The principal is waiting on the line for you right now. You should go right away.”

“Has anyone considered calling Charles for this sort of thing? He’s home the rest of the year, you know.”

“I’m just the messenger, Mr. Lehnsherr. Come to the office as soon as you can. We’ll send someone to take over P.E. for the rest of the period.”

“Fine.” Erik sighs and waves the receptionist off before he has the chance to misdirect any more of his heat-borne anger toward her. He blows his whistle.

“Alright, losers,” he calls to the students, pinching his nose. “Courtesy of my idiot son, P.E. is over early today. Again.”

The children protest and whine, but Erik has nothing nice to say to them right now. Knowing his luck, he’s not going to be back in time for after-school soccer practice, either.

***

As soon as Erik arrives—sweaty, achey, and road-raging about the shitty parking situation at Pietro’s school—he’s swarmed by even more children.

“Guys, look! It’s Pietro’s dad!”

“Pietro’s dad is here, guys!”

“Hi, Pietro’s dad! What are you doing here?”

“Did you come to see Pietro?”

Erik barely bites back his sarcastic reflex—no, I’m here to see the fucking Dalai Lama—while Pietro’s classmates continue shouting over one another. He winces as they press in on him.

“Piet’s having a really bad day,” they say.

“Yeah, he’s in class with Ms. MacTaggert right now.”

“His aide didn’t come to school. That’s why he’s all upset.”

“Ms. MacTaggert told us to stay outside while she talks to him.”

“Which means extra recess for us!”

“Are you gonna take him home early again?”

“Can you play soccer with us?”

“Pietro’s Dad, why are your armpits wet?”

One of the boys try to tickle his underarms, and Erik jumps. The children giggle at the exaggerated reaction.

“That’s enough,” Erik snaps, pulling his arms close to his body. “Go play somewhere else, okay? I have important things to do.”

“Okay!”

“Bye, Pietro’s Dad!”

“Tell Piet we hope he feels better!”

The children rush off, and Erik lets out a long sigh of relief. Sticky motherfuckers.

He wonders if those boys are actually Pietro’s friends, or if they’re kissing up to the adult. It’s hard for him to tell when children are being sincere. He doesn’t have much to compare it to, since it’s not like he had any friends at that age.

When Erik opens the door to the classroom, it starts to make sense why the principal phoned home.

The empty classroom is a maze of jumbled desks, overturned chairs, and student water bottles scattered all over the floor. No corner of the classroom has gone unscathed by Pietro’s little meltdown—even the stapled wallpaper has been torn asunder by little hands, and now the wall that reads Unit 1: How We See The World is split in half. The poor teacher will probably spend all afternoon repairing the damage done to her hard work there.

Several adults stand in a circle at the back of the classroom, hovering above the teacher’s desk, their arms crossed and their faces troubled. Erik immediately recognizes Pietro’s second grade teacher, who is just as new to Pietro as he is to her; the principal, a short and stocky man in a suit whose name Erik could never be bothered to learn; and Pietro’s IEP manager, Moira MacTaggert. All three of them are humans, and already on Erik’s bad side for it. They turn in unison to face him.

“Oh, thank God you’re here, Mr. Lehnsherr,” MacTaggert gasps, clapping her hands together and rushing toward him. “Come this way. We’ve tried everything, but we just can’t get him out.”

“Hm? Is he stuck, or something?” Erik strides over, concerned that this will turn out to be a huge waste of time. He’ll really fucking lose it if the school called him all this way to unlodge Pietro from some piece of classroom furniture—that boy has an irritating habit of jamming his head between the metal bars of things that weren’t meant to accommodate a child’s cantaloupe-sized skull.

“Oh, no, he’s not stuck! Just hiding under the teacher’s desk,” MacTaggert laughs, a little nervously. “He’s been down there for about an hour now, though. He won’t move, or talk to anyone at all. I know Mom told us in the last IEP meeting that she didn't want us to use restraining holds with him anymore.”

Erik nods bitterly at the memory of that meeting. Magda had easily overruled his request for the aides to get a bit more physical when Pietro disobeyed. Magda is a much bigger proponent for child rights than Erik is.

“Another shut-down?” Erik asks.

“Seems like it. Melt-down came first, though, like it tends to.”

“Great. Just great.”

Erik stomps over to the desk, and the other adults in the room back out of his way without being told. Erik bends around to look beneath the table. “Alright, Maximoff—”

Erik cuts himself short. He is quite displeased to discover not one, not two, not even three, but four children squatting on the ground beneath the desk.

Jean, Wanda, and Lorna all stare up at him with wide eyes. Pietro’s the only one who keeps his head down—knees tucked to his chest, arms tightly wound around himself, a sister on either side of him. Ten-year-old Lorna, the oldest of the group, crouches a considerable distance away from the others. She’s clearly hanging out here for no other reason than to waste time with her siblings.

“Hi, Tateh,” Jean says.

Erik blinks back at his daughters in shock. He straightens back up and turns to the adults, who wither slightly under his glare, like they know they’re in trouble.

“What the hell are they doing here?” he demands.

“We really don’t have a lot of options to work with when he shuts down like this,” the principal apologizes. “His aide called out sick today, and Marya’s employer didn’t send a sub replacement. That’s just what happens when we work with privately-contracted agencies—”

“It’s my fault,” the teacher interrupts, shaking her head. “He was crying so much, Mr. Lehnsherr. I didn’t know what to do. When he asked for his sisters, I couldn’t say no.”

“And if the boy asks for a fucking milkshake, are we just going to give it to him?” Erik cries. “Why are we rewarding him for the shut-down bullshit? And where’s Lorna’s aide, anyway? Why isn’t he here?”

“Your language, please, Mr. Lehnsherr. Levine is out today.”

“And no substitute for him, either? Are you shitting me?”

“Mr. Lehnsherr—”

“No, this place is a fucking circus! I’ve hired thirteen-year-old babysitters more competent than the clowns at this district!”

“We can discuss adequate procedures for the future at another time,” MacTaggert interjects, stepping between Erik and the principal as the designated peacekeeper. “What happened happened. No sense in arguing about it now. Let’s focus on helping your son.”

Erik takes a deep breath and relents. Personally, he doesn’t give a fuck what the girls do or don’t do at school—but he’s trying to save himself another argument with Charles down the line. Charles has been on his ass about the girls’ attendance for weeks now. He doesn’t like that they run to Piet’s rescue every time the boy exhibits a maladaptive behavior. It’s sweet that the siblings have such a strong bond, but the girls have got their own educations to worry about.

He comes back around the table and crouches down to their level.

“All four of you need to get out from under there, now,” he says tiredly. “Especially you, girls. Let the adults handle things like they’re supposed to. Come on. Out.”

“He was crying for us earlier,” Wanda protests pitifully, brushing the dark hair from her face as she looks up at Erik. “I could hear him crying in my head. He was calling us.”

“He was calling out to me, too,” Jean chimes in.

“And me!” Lorna says fiercely, hurt to be left out. “Just ‘cause I’m not psychic like you guys, doesn’t mean I wasn’t invited.”

“Oh, yes. He was definitely asking for you, too, Lorna,” Jean assures. She lovingly pats her older sister’s hand, though Lorna pulls away from the touch. Jean doesn’t seem to notice. “We could all hear it in our heads, Tateh. It was impossible to concentrate. We told the teachers about it, and they said it was fine to come talk to him. Only, he won’t talk to us. So we’re just keeping him company now.”

Erik feels his heart twist at the girls’ explanation. He looks over to Pietro, who’s still all curled up, pretending not to hear the conversation around him. Erik sometimes wonders if the boy even realizes that people are talking about him. They do it all the time, and he always acts like he can’t hear it.

But he can.

Erik inhales sharply.

“Right, Maximoff,” he groans, kneading the space between his eyes. “I know you can hear when your teachers tell you to do something, kid. Ignoring them is not an option. This is the second time this week I’ve had to come get you because of something like this, and I’m not gonna lie, you’re on my last nerve. You promised me and Mameleh that you were ready for second grade. Whatever’s going on with you right now is kindergarten bullshit.”

The girls watch their brother anxiously, but Pietro doesn’t budge, not even a little. He doesn’t make a single sound to acknowledge anything Erik has said.

“He says he wants Dad,” Jean reports, two fingers to her temple. Erik elects to ignore this, knowing he will have nothing nice to say if he does open his mouth on the subject.

“Pietro, the longer you drag this out, the angrier I’m going to get,” Erik warns. “You know I hate when you do this. It’s your choice. You can come out from under there, right now, and deal with a regular amount of consequences, or you can ignore me for another fifteen minutes, and see what happens then. I guarantee you won’t like it.”

Pietro shifts slightly, turning his body away from Erik. Erik feels his hands starting to shake now. How humiliating, that even he cannot discipline his child; it’s hard not to feel like Pietro is belittling him in front of the entire IEP team on purpose.

“Pietro,” Erik repeats sharply. “I am talking to you.”

“He says he wants Dad.”

“Jean. Stop talking in his fucking head.”

“But—”

“No, Jean, he needs to learn to stand up for himself, and he can’t if people are always talking for him!” Erik snaps. “Pietro. Hello. You want Dad? Do you see Dad anywhere? Huh? Do you?” Erik rattles the desk in his frustration, and everyone except Pietro flinches. “No! Nobody bothered giving him a call, because even when he’s in town, all he does is sit around on his ass at home! So you’re stuck with me! Tough luck! Last chance to get your butt out here!”

He waits a very generous ten seconds before deciding compliance is not forthcoming. Fuck the IEP. He seizes Pietro by the wrist again.

A sharp cry bursts out of Pietro as he comes to life and twists away, clinging to the desk for purchase. He’s not particularly strong, but his superspeed makes him slippery. If he wanted to, he could bolt from the room entirely. Erik snatches him with his other hand before Pietro can get any ideas about that.

“Come on—out! I’ve had it! You can say goodbye to all your little video games, the GameBoy, the GameCube, I’m throwing it all straight in the garbage when we get home! I don’t care what Dad says! He’s spoiled you for too long!”

Erik gives a final yank to Pietro, prying him off the desk and hauling him like a ragdoll onto his feet. Pietro starts to sob. The sound of his crocodile tears only grates on Erik more. Nothing Erik’s doing is violent enough to draw pain—Pietro’s probably just frightened, like he always is.

He pushes his son out into the open. “There! Stand up! Go get your backpack! We’re going home!”

“Stop it, Tateh!” Jean cries, scrambling out from under the desk along with her concerned sisters. “You’re scaring him!”

With no intentions of retrieving his backpack, Pietro promptly makes a beeline for the door. Ms. MacTaggert, who is all too familiar with his tendency to elope, already stands like a bulwark at the door. Erik thrusts a hand out and locks it with his magnetism.

Pietro cries in frustration at how good the grown-ups have become at thwarting his escape plans. He jiggles the door knob insistently. He kicks the door with his sneakers. He even looks back at Lorna in desperation, like she’ll blow the door down on his behalf if he begs. When none of that works, he begins to hit MacTaggert with his tiny fists, though not with any real force—more like a cornered animal fighting tooth and nail to keep itself safe.

“No, Pietro, no. Hands to ourselves,” MacTaggert scolds, stern but patient. She puts an arm out to hold him at bay. Pietro flings himself onto her, collapsing into a wailing hug.

Stunned, MacTaggert rubs a hand over his trembling back. Pietro sobs, sniffles, and buries his face into her blouse. His superspeed makes him vibrate like a tiny car engine, and it would be funny—or even endearing—if he wasn’t rubbing the snot from his nose all over her.

“Oh, sweetheart, I know,” she sighs. “There, there. You’re gonna go home soon, okay? Dad is taking you.”

Pietro peeks out at Erik while still embracing his protector, face swollen and dripping with tears. He looks back to MacTaggert pleadingly—as if to say, that’s not Dad. That’s Tateh.

And Tateh’s not very nice.

It’s that look that lights Erik’s final nerve aflame, that look that makes him see red. He can’t fucking stand it. Pietro will always prefer someone else over him, be it his sisters, Charles, Magda—even the teacher. Erik gets nothing for his constant toil. He is the only one who cannot seem to build rapport with the boy, try as he might.

He’s spent years telling himself the disconnect is because of the telepathy. It’s because Jean, Wanda, and Charles can connect with him on that plane of existence, and that is the only mode of communication Pietro keeps open in times like these. But seeing Pietro latch onto Moira Mac-fucking-Taggert, a human?

He slams his fist on the topside of the desk, causing Pietro to flinch in MacTaggert’s arms. Pietro gives her another one of his pitiful, puppy-eyed looks.

“What are you looking at her for?” Erik explodes. “Get over here, now! I’m not happy with you!”

MacTaggert shakes her head sympathetically at Pietro, a gentle hand guiding him out and toward Erik. Pietro stiffly drags his feet over like a lamb being led to the slaughter. Erik seizes him by the hand, tight, so that he doesn’t get any ideas of running away again.

He snatches Pietro’s Charizard-shaped backpack off the wall and drags the boy outside without another word to the staff. He trusts that the teachers can deal with the girls on their own.

***

In the car, Pietro is dead-silent.

He tends to get this way after being yelled at, but today, taking into account that the shut-down occurred before Erik even arrived, it’s almost unsettling. Pietro is a born motormouth. Something must have gone really, really wrong earlier in the afternoon.

Not like Erik would get an answer if he asked.

The silent streak scares Erik as much as it sets him off. Pietro has so many nice things. So many resources, accommodations, and support systems—everything that Erik never had. Everything that Charles never had. Things were atrocious for mutant kids back in the seventies and eighties. They had it so much worse. They would have given anything for a teacher as understanding as Ms. MacTaggert.

And yet, here’s Pietro, hiding under desks and destroying classrooms.

Erik tears into his son for the length of the car ride home. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore; he’s just ranting to let off steam at this point. Lecturing Pietro for disrupting not only his day, but for the girls, the teachers, even the other kids who couldn’t learn because their classmate was too busy throwing a preschool tantrum.

Truth be told, Erik can feel himself being a bully. But he can’t seem to stop. Half of him is hoping he’ll say something so outrageous that Pietro snaps out of this bizarre silence. Just to fight back. To say something snobby. Lorna always fights back. Jean always has something brutally honest to say. Even Wanda will tell you what’s wrong in a pinch.

But Pietro likes to take shit lying down. And that’s not conducive to surviving in the real world.

Once they pull up to the mansion, nothing has changed in Pietro’s demeanor, but at least Erik has talked himself out. His hands are shaking around the steering wheel, his heart racing as he tries to think of how to handle this further.

“Go to your room,” he growls. “And stay there until I can figure out what to do with you.”

Pietro unbuckles his seatbelt and slides languidly out of his seat. He gives the door a moody kick, leaving his dirty shoe print on Erik’s car interior, then dragging himself and his backpack out into the garage.

Erik waits for Pietro to disappear into the house before he loses his shit. For real this time.

He seizes the steering wheel and begins to throttle it like it owes him money. He slams his fist down on the horn over and over, shouting, crying, swearing, screaming louder than he has in a good long while, all in a frenzied mix of German and Yiddish and every other language he’s ever learned in his life, cursing every holy name under the sun for damning him alongside four of the world’s neediest, most difficult children. He was set up to fail—this whole family was. And it’s not fucking fair.

He feels his car bearing the brunt of his rage, the aluminum in the doors crumpling out of shape, the many intricate parts under the hood warping beyond repair. He’s an inch away from crumpling the vehicle with himself in the front seat, too—not even out of a desire to perish, but simple, self-destructive impulse.

Eventually, his vision clears. The boiling rage drains from his blood, and it’s all out of his system. He sags his forehead against the abused steering wheel, softly sobbing.

He feels small and pathetic. Not only is he a hopeless excuse of a father, but he’s the asshole who completely embarrassed himself in front of multiple teachers today.

He wipes his face with a shaking hand. He gets out of the car like nothing happened, and follows Pietro inside.

Having picked up on the commotion, Charles pokes his head out from his study. His hair is neatly combed, his button-up shirt freshly ironed, as if the idiot has fucking anywhere to go today.

The sight pisses Erik off all over again. He can’t think of the last time he had enough free time to make himself look that nice.

Charles, despite being a telepath, fails to pick up on the mood, so excited is he to have company in the house again. “Hello, love!” he greets brightly. “You’re home early! I saw Pietro come through, too—he seemed quite upset. Tough day at school?”

“No shit,” Erik snarls. “Go away. I have this handled.”

Charles shrinks back, hurt, but he doesn’t protest further.

Hoping that things have somehow improved in the past ten minutes, Erik storms upstairs to check on his tantrumming son.

He knocks on the door. No answer. He lets himself in, unable to locate Pietro for a brief and terrifying second, before realizing he is the lump on the bottom bunk, curled up in a ball beneath several blankets.

He isn’t crying. He’s just lying there. He’s not sleeping, either; Erik can tell, because as soon as the door opens, Pietro rolls over to face the wall.

Erik sits on the bed with a groan, craning his neck to fit beneath the bunk. Pietro remains stubbornly in fetal position, gripping the sheets tighter, as if to prevent Erik from ruining his nest.

Erik practically feels like he’s begging. “Jesus Christ, Pietro, what is wrong with you today?”

Pietro curls up tighter. Erik puts a hand on what he presumes to be Pietro’s head. A tiny hand pokes out to slap the intrusion away.

“You have to talk to me, son. I can’t help you otherwise.”

Pietro slaps Erik away again.

“I can’t read minds, Piet. Your teachers can’t read minds. We have no idea what happened unless you use your words. You are old enough to find them and use them. Tell me. What—happened?”

The bedding rustles as Pietro readjusts. His eyes peer out of his cocoon, big and brown, full of tears. But he says nothing.

“Was someone mean to you?” Erik tries again. “Is that why you hid under the desk?”

No answer.

“Did someone try to hurt you? You know I’d talk to the principal if that was the case. I want you to feel safe at school.”

Still as a statue.

“Is it because Miss Marya was out sick? She’s coming back tomorrow, Piet. And even if she wasn’t, life goes on when your helper isn’t around.”

Complete silence.

Erik sighs. He scratches the back of his head, then clasps his hands.

“Right, then,” he mutters. “Two can play that game.”

Erik stands up. He turns to the gaming setup that Charles recently installed in the twins’ room: the small television set, the GameCube plugged into it, the several controllers scattered about the carpet, the tiny shelf full of different video games. He unplugs the TV with a loud yank of the cord.

Pietro sits up now, alarmed—proof to Erik that he is clearly capable of providing a response to the conversation. Erik doesn’t miss a beat. He unplugs the game console, gathers up the controllers, magnetizes the TV into his arms as he wraps the cords into a careless bunch. He chucks all of it out into the hallway.

Pietro begins to cry in earnest now.

“You’re not getting any of this back until you decide to grow up!” Erik announces. “I’ve had it with the coddling in this house!”

Erik kicks the game controllers out into the hallway for good measure, then storms out. He leaves the mess right there in the hallway.

Erik flops face-down on the bed and puts a pillow over his head. It’s childish, but he’s sick of acting like an adult. He’s not very good at it, anyway.

It’s not long before he hears footsteps coming down the hall. Before he even looks, he knows it’s Charles. And Charles is not happy.

His husband lingers at the doorway, peering inside without saying anything. The silence aggravates Erik further. Everybody’s having a hard time finding their words today, it seems.

“What is it now, Charles?” Erik grumbles, head still under the pillow.

“We need to talk about Pietro,” Charles says coldly.

“The fuck we do.”

“Don’t give me the bloody attitude. I saw what happened at school. And just now, too.”

“Congratulations, you’re psychic.”

“You should be ashamed.”

“I am ashamed. Will you leave me alone now?”

“Look at me. You cannot be acting like this.” Charles steps into the room now, pulling the pillow from his head, and Erik peers out in disdain. “Throwing his stuff into the hallway, yelling at him for having a stress response to his environment—that’s a horrible way to treat a child. A child with special needs, nonetheless. I can feel his little heart racing from here! I’ve never seen him this terrified of you!”

“Of course you haven’t,” Erik laughs. “You’re never home.”

Charles puffs his chest out the way he does before he dies on a very stupid hill, if only for the sake of contradicting Erik. He ignores the comment about his work-life balance and, like usual, flaunts his useless psychology degree: “Every behavior has a function, Erik. These shut-downs that Pietro’s been having—they’re a visceral response to something stressing him out. He’s not being this way on purpose. His brain is shutting down because it’s overwhelmed, and he’s looking for a way out of the stressful environment.”

“Exactly,” Erik replies. “He’s doing it to escape schoolwork, Charles, and it’s fucking working. We take him out of school, you go over and baby him after a shut-down—of course it’s going to keep happening!”

“But he’s trying to escape schoolwork for a reason,” Charles protests. “The work is too hard. He can’t concentrate. He’s falling behind. He needs more support. MacTaggert is going to hold him back a grade at this rate.”

“I am just trying to discipline this kid for his own good. You spoil him with all these things you buy. The video games, the Pokémon shit—”

“Having nice things doesn’t make him spoiled—”

“—and you shelter him, too! His precious little life is easier than anything I could’ve ever imagined at his age!”

“He’s a little boy! Life should be easy for him!”

“You won’t be saying that when he’s thirty-two and living in the basement!”

“It wouldn’t kill to hug a bloody child while he’s crying,” Charles cries. “Do you have any idea how scared and alone he feels right now?”

“Oh, you do not want to go down this fucking road with me,” Erik says nastily. “I’m sick of you acting like you think you know Pietro, just because you think you were Pietro—we all get it! Nobody hugged you when you were a kid! I’m sorry you didn’t grow up with the love and affection you desired, okay? But Pietro has always had more than enough of it to go around, so don’t act like that’s the fucking problem!”

Erik regrets saying it almost at once. Charles stares, stricken, frozen in place, blue eyes glassy and full of hurt. Erik can feel the pain he inflicted as clearly as a boulder in his stomach, or lead in his mouth. Charles presses his mouth into a thin line so that he won’t cry.

It was a low blow. They both know that.

“Never mind. Just go,” Erik mutters, rolling over. “I’m done talking about this.”

Charles shakes his head, merely disappointed now. It’s worse than if he had chosen to retaliate with something equally cruel.

“Isn’t it tiring, Erik?” he asks quietly. “To be this fucking angry all the time?”

He leaves without so much as slamming the door behind him.

***

So maybe Erik overreacted a little bit.

He can’t take any of it back now, though. He has to set a firm foot down here. Pietro cannot learn it’s acceptable to shut down whenever he wants to get out of doing work at school. He cannot go silent whenever people ask him questions. It’s for his own good. His own good…

But there’s only so much tossing and turning that Erik can do before his conscience gets to him. He forces himself out of bed and reluctantly plods down the hall to Pietro’s room. He doesn’t have much of a plan, but he figures he’ll put it together along the way.

The first thing he notices is that Charles has cleaned up the mess in the hallway—the GameCube, video game controllers, and television set have been neatly rearranged upon a nearby table, presumably for Erik to deal with later. He can’t help but glance at it while he passes by. He didn’t do as much damage to the console as he’d feared, but that doesn’t do much to resolve the guilt in his chest.

The next thing Erik notices is that Charles is in the bedroom with Pietro, and he has left the door open a crack.

Erik hides himself in the threshold as he peers inside and strains his ears to pick up on the conversation.

Conversation might be a generous word. Pietro still isn’t talking—at least, not out loud; perhaps there is a telepathic exchange that Erik is not invited to. Charles sits on the side of the bed, a sobbing Pietro on his lap. The boy is wrapped in his favorite blankets. Charles holds him tightly, so tightly, like the world is ending and he needs to be as close as he can to his stepson.

Erik feels himself wilting. His Charles has always been so fucking empathetic. It’s the loveliest thing about him. Erik wishes he could be like that, but he can’t, and so instead he marvels it within Charles, admiring it like a preserved art piece in a glass case. He wishes he could have it in his pocket all the time. Especially when Charles goes overseas.

How very kind of you to join us, Erik.

Erik flinches at the telepathic contact. He feels stupid for hiding back here—for being caught, more like—but his feet feel glued to the floor.

That’s alright. I don’t believe Pietro is ready to talk just yet.

Is he okay? Erik asks.

He will be.

I’m sorry.

I’m not the one you should be saying that to.

Charles puts a hand over Pietro’s forehead and beckons Erik toward the memory of today—a vivid time-lapse of the afternoon’s events, viewed through the eyes of their son.

Pietro’s sitting in class. He’s working on a math assignment with his table group. It’s boring, way too hard to complete without his aide, and even more confusing with his classmates’ mixed ideas about how to solve the problems. He scribbles idly on his paper, but when even that loses his interest, he takes to leaving his seat constantly, spinning in his chair, turning around to talk to people who aren’t in his group—until the teacher is so fed-up that she puts Pietro in a seat all by himself in the corner.

The activity is even more confusing now that he’s working by himself. He feels like everyone is staring at him back here, too. Giving up entirely, Pietro takes his Pokémon cards out, under his desk, sneaking peaks whenever he thinks the teacher isn’t looking. A couple of well-meaning girls wander over and ask to see his cards. He happily shows them. But now they’re being so loud that the teacher comes over and yells at him for distracting the class. She takes his cards away. He starts to cry. They were special cards that Charles brought back from one of his trips to Japan.

Everyone’s looking at him cry, but he can’t stop crying, no matter how hard he tries, and a couple of kids even begin to laugh, so he hides under the desk. He refuses to come out. The teacher asks nicely. Four times. The fifth time she asks, Pietro throws his water bottle, hoping that’ll clue her in to leave him alone. But instead, she calls MacTaggert for back-up.

MacTaggert has little luck in coaxing him out. Since she has an established connection with Pietro, at least in comparison to his new second-grade teacher, she thinks it’s okay to try grabbing him next. He’s typically fine with being touched, or even hugged, but being grabbed so suddenly always scares him, no matter how much he likes the person. He runs out from under the desk. He knocks everything off the tables as he passes them by. He jumps up on the teacher’s desk to get away from MacTaggert, holding onto the wallpaper and tearing it as she pulls him off the furniture. His classmates, who are frozen in place at the scene, are hastily excused from the classroom for an ‘extra recess’…

Underneath Charles’ fingers, Pietro melts into the touch, wriggling closer and sobbing.

I didn’t mean it, he weeps. I didn’t mean to be trouble.

“Oh, love, I know. It’s hard when teachers can’t understand you, isn’t it?” Charles says softly, smoothing his hair. “That’s all it was. A miscommunication. A little thing blown out of proportion. We live and we learn to understand one another better next time.”

Pietro nods, hugging Charles so tight he grunts in pain. Is Tateh gonna be mad at me forever?

“No feeling lasts forever, even for Tateh,” Charles replies.

But Tateh stays mad for a really long time. Even longer than Lorna does. Especially at me. ‘Cause he hates me.

“Oh, my friend, no, that’s simply not true! Tateh could never hate you! Think of it this way. Remember how Ms. MacTaggert taught you kids about Big Feelings?” Charles asks, and Pietro nods. “Well, Tateh has Big Feelings, too, just like you. Only they’re a lot bigger and meaner. He can’t control them very well.”

Pietro sniffles, looking up dolefully. Really? Why?

“Well, he’s a lot taller than you, right? There’s a lot of space in his body for all the Big Feelings to grow extra big over the years.”

Ohh.

“You feel a lot of excitement and fear. Tateh feels a lot of anger and pain. And the problem is, nobody ever taught him what to do with all those Big Feelings. He didn’t have Ms. MacTaggert or a class helper to show him what to do. So it takes a lot longer for him to calm down—but he will, eventually. I promise that I’ll be here to keep you safe until then. That sound alright?”

Pietro nods, perking up a little. Without any warning, his little voice comes alive in the next instant, and Erik almost can’t believe how seamlessly Pietro transitions from silence to talking again: “Oh, oh! Can we teach him how to use the Feelings Wheel? It’s, like, this big poster in Ms. MacTaggert’s classroom, and it has all the feelings on it, and when you’re upset you sit in the beanbag in time-out for five minutes then point to which one you’re feeling once she asks—”

“That sounds like an excellent idea, Piet,” Charles grins. “Maybe you could draw a Feelings Wheel for us here at home. I think Tateh would benefit a lot from that.”

“Okay! I’ll ask Jean to help!” Pietro claps his hands. “We gotta teach him to get his anger in control, Dad. I don’t want him to hate me anymore.”

“He doesn’t hate anyone even when he’s mad, love,” Charles points out. “And besides, his anger is his to work on, just like your Big Feelings are your own. Until then, all you can do is remember he loves you no matter what.”

Pietro narrows his eyes suspiciously. “And how do you know that? ‘Cause you’re a telly-path?”

“Because your Tateh always comes when you call him,” Charles answers matter-of-factly. “Isn’t that true? No matter how busy he is, no matter how angry he is…he comes to you when you call. He’d do that for you, for your sisters, for your mum, for me—he would never let anyone he loves struggle alone. Maybe he isn’t perfect. Maybe he needs a little help from me or your mum here and there. But he will always show up in the end. And he wouldn’t do that unless he loved you with all his heart, Piet.”

Pietro’s face crumples with relief. He curls back up, pressing himself against both Charles, seeking more of that comfort.

Erik takes a step back from where he stands behind the door. He feels sick now.

He turns and hurries back to his room.

***

“I’m sorry, mate. It looks like he’s sleeping.”

“But I want to give it to him now.”

“Shhh. We shouldn’t disturb him. Your tateh gets grumpy when he’s napping.”

“But he’s been napping forever.”

“I know. Look, it might be better if we—hey, Piet, wait! Come back here!”

The next thing Erik feels is a solid weight crashing down on him. It lands right on his gut and squeezes a cartoonish oomph out of him.

Of course, it’s fucking Pietro.

“Tateh! Tateh, wake up!” Pietro hollers, wriggling and crawling. “Wake up, Tateh! It’s time for dinner, anyways! Wakey, wakey, wakey, sunshine, eggs and bakey—”

He crawls all over Erik, trying to give him a hug, and Erik, in his sleepiness, is helpless to return the embrace. He feels Pietro wiggle right into his arms, like a dog demanding to be held.

Well. Looks like Pietro’s all back to normal.

Erik is a little relieved, actually, too relieved to even be mad. He groans, sits up, blinks the sleepiness from his eyes as he struggles to recalibrate. Pietro isn’t providing the smoothest transition from sleep to reality—he’s excitedly shoving something, a ratty piece of lined paper, into Erik’s face. It’s been folded sloppily into the shape of a star, an origami trick that Wanda’s taught him (and has yet to master).

“This is for you!” Pietro yells, cramming the paper into his eyes. “Here you go, Tateh!”

Erik recoils like he’s being offered a dead fish, wide-awake now with both a hyperactive boy and a piece of trash all up in his personal space. “Oh, wow,” he says, flat despite his best efforts to sound excited. “This is very nice. Thank you.”

“Open it! It’s a secret letter! Dad and I wrote it together!”

Erik grimaces. He looks to Charles for help, but Charles just smiles, his eyes sweet again and no longer filled with the hurt of earlier. Tentatively, Erik unfolds the shitty paper star.

“You wrote this?” Erik says skeptically.

“Yes!” Pietro chirps.

No, he didn’t, Charles chuckles. I wrote it all. The handwritten parts, at least—everything except for the signature and the post-script.

That cracks a small smile out of Erik. He runs a thumb over the letter, admiring Charles’ perfect penmanship in contrast to the note’s childish writing style.

They’re all his thoughts, though, Charles says. Words from both his conscious and subconscious. I was simply the one who helped him structure them into grammatically correct sentences. Rearranged them so they flowed better than his usual rambling…I don’t know. I hope it was a productive process. See for yourself.

“Read it!” Pietro shouts, shaking Erik by the collar of his shirt. “Read it, Tateh, read it, read it, read it, read it—”

“Okay, Piet, I’m reading! Stop shouting!”

“Read it out loud,” Pietro whispers.

“Oh, Piet, are you sure?” Charles asks, looking hesitant himself now. “Tateh can read in his head.”

“No! I wanna hear it again!”

“Well, okay then…”

Erik frowns, but Charles just shrugs, unwilling to help him out of this one. Erik straightens the paper and puts one arm around Pietro’s vibrating body as he reads the note aloud.

Dear Tateh,

Dad and I are writing this letter to you because he says communication is important—and also because you kept telling me to use my words, but I couldn’t find them earlier. Lucky for you, Dad helped me put them on this paper for you to read instead. Hurray!

I wanted to say that I’m sorry for not talking to you today. Dad told me it hurt your feelings, which I did not mean to do. I WANTED to talk. I just couldn’t. I don’t know why. No matter how hard I tried, my mouth wouldn’t move when I told it to. It was frustrating and scary because I usually LOVE talking!

Dad told me that when there’s too much going on, sometimes brains just crash, like video games or computers. I think that’s what happened to my brain. Everyone was yelling and being mean to each other, and making a really big fuss over me. I didn’t like it. Plus, the classwork today was frustrating and confusing without Miss Marya. I’m not smart like Jean or Wanda. I just want to play soccer with my friends at recess and that’s all.

I didn’t mean to make everyone so mad. I am sorry again for being a bad kid. I promise the principal won’t call you again.

Love,
Pietro

P.S. I drew a Pokémon on the back of this paper for you. It’s called MAGNEMITE. He is metal-type like you.

It gets hard for Erik to read toward the end. His voice cracks, and he has to pretend that he has something in his eye. He turns the paper over to take in the ugliest little drawing he’s ever seen: a floating orb with a single eye in the center, two cartoony red magnets stuck to its sides as if to represent arms. It’s colored rather sloppily, with the special glitter pens Charles brought home the other day.

Erik’s feeling a million horrible things at once. First is guilt—how could I make my son feel this way?—then jealousy—why did he tell all this to Charles, not me?—then betrayal that Charles would try to make him feel this shitty about it. What a pretentious way to tell him off! A letter, written in the voice of a second grader? Really?

And then, he feels sad. Because of course he deserves the telling-off. He deserves a lot worse than this.

“Well?” Charles prompts, nudging Erik on the shoulder pointedly. Pietro, too, watches with anticipation. “Is there anything you would like to say, Tateh…?”

Erik is having trouble swallowing the lump in his throat, but he catches the point. This is where he’s supposed to say sorry. He can think of countless ways to say it: I’m sorry I yelled. I’m sorry you’re stuck with me. I’m sorry we don’t get along. I’m sorry you’re always having such a tough time at school, and that even the easiest things seem so hard for you. I don’t know why that is. I’m sorry.

Oddly enough, he feels like the one who’s lost his voice now.

Erik looks down at his son—his precious, innocent son who forgives too easily.

Erik clears his throat, feeling like there’s not enough air in the room.

“Pietro,” he croaks. “Um…”

Pietro smiles up at him, hopeful and excited, nothing behind his eyes except for the desire to make his tateh happy.

Erik tries again. “I’m…”

He’s not a bad kid. Oh, God, Charles, he thinks he’s a bad kid.

“I’m…um…I’m…well, uhh…”

Charles tilts his head at Erik, eyebrows raised.

“I’m…so…s-sor…sorry.”

Erik feels like he’s vomiting up the word. Charles beams approvingly, but even that isn’t enough to make Erik feel like anything has been made better. Apologies are just words. And words can’t make up for shit.

“Are you crying because you like it so much, Tateh?” Pietro asks.

Erik laughs and wipes his tears with the back of his hand. He squeezes Pietro in his lap, kisses the crown of his hair, and closes his eyes as he buries his nose atop Pietro’s head.

“Yes. This is the nicest letter I have ever received,” Erik murmurs. “I like the drawing on the back, too. Th-thank you.”

Pietro hums happily at the physical affection that he had been seeking out all day long. “You’re welcome! Magnemite doesn’t learn any metal-type moves until his gen-three move-set, but he’s still metal-type. Like you. He evolves into Magneton, which has the Magnet Pull ability and keeps other metal-types from switching out in battle, like Skarmory in gen-two—”

“You know, Piet,” Erik interrupts quickly, before his son can get too carried away. “I appreciate your—your letter. But you’re not the one who should be apologizing.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes. I was…not nice. I didn’t understand. Where you were coming from.”

“Oh.” Pietro shrugs cheerily. “That’s okay, Tateh.” He smushes his face against Erik’s in an aggressively affectionate attempt to be as close as humanly possible. “I forgib you. I lub you, Yayeh.”

“I love you, too, Pichu.”

Charles sits down beside the two of them, and Erik leans tiredly into him, the three of them turning into one big cuddle pile.

Thank you, he tells his husband.

You’re welcome. But writing the letter was actually his idea, Charles replies, winking.

Still. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

Struggle?

Yeah, probably.

Charles holds them both. He does it so effortlessly, care for others. It’s built into his personality. Erik can’t imagine a version of Charles without the compassion that just radiates out of him so freely.

Suddenly, he remembers why he and Charles ever made a good team in the first place.

Chapter Text

1978
New York City

Growing up, Erik can count all of his friends on one hand. And that’s even when he includes his mom.

It’s no skin off his nose. He has no intention to spend his precious time watching the world through a glass window, longing to someday become a participating member of the rat race—to live within the confines of a socially-constructed facade, a mask, a homogenized version of his former self, all on the infinitesimal chance that the masses will find him palatable. No, Erik won’t be indulging that lifelong act.

Conformity is a load of bullshit. He’s known that ever since he was old enough to learn about the numbers on his mother’s forearm.

Erik’s actually quite grateful to exist on the outside of the proverbial glass. It frees him from the expectations of the world. He’s got nobody to please, nobody to impress—and at the end of the day, he enjoys being unapologetically unlikable. He never wants to fit in.

Most of the boys in Erik’s class are loud, annoying, stupid, or all of the above. Erik would sooner eat his own socks than sit next to any one of them at lunch. Just feeling their breath on his skin during a soccer huddle makes him want to strangle someone with a tetherball chain. Luckily, the feeling is mutual: his classmates largely ignore him, nobody on the soccer team ever passes to him, and everyone, even the teachers, has given up on trying to befriend him.

Being alone is not the same thing as being lonely, Erik thinks. But his well-meaning mother often confuses the two. Edie Lehnsherr, bless her soul, constantly harps on him to change his sour attitude and make some friends for once. Soccer was supposed to teach him teamwork, and yet, here he is, practicing alone against a brick wall, drilling by himself in the grass, diligently keeping track of his free kicks in a college-ruled notebook that nobody else is allowed to look at. Years of soccer, and not one friend to show for it.

(There’s no I in team, but there is an I in Erik, his father likes to joke.)

Unfortunately, Edie is friends with all the other soccer moms, and as a group, they’re constantly brainstorming ‘fun’ things for the boys to do together. Erik finds himself being dropped off at unfamiliar houses for impromptu play-dates, or stranded at the birthday parties of kids he hardly knows. He even winds up at the soccer team sleepovers—though those usually end with him freaking out so badly that Jakob has to come pick him up early.

Nobody has fun when Erik is there. Not Erik, and not the other kids. But the mothers are fully convinced that they’re doing the good deed of the century by including the lonely mutant kid in their sons’ social lives.

Be nice to Erik, they always say. I know he’s not fun to play with, but he’s been through a lot.

‘Been through a lot.’ The phrase feels reductive, though Erik supposes there’s no concise way to convey the information otherwise, no single descriptor without all the baggage. It’s true enough, anyhow. He has been through a lot. He’s not sure if he’ll ever feel the same again—few people do, he imagines, after their little sister dies.

It happened last fall. It was sudden and unexpected, just before her seventh birthday; everyone at school was shocked by the loss, and Erik himself has barely wrapped his mind around the concept. One minute, he was someone’s big brother, and the next, an only child. Now he takes the school bus home alone. He does his homework across from an empty seat in the kitchen. He plays chess against himself. And he has nobody to help him keep track of his free kicks in the backyard anymore.

In hindsight, he probably has Ruth’s passing to thank for all the pity and attention he gets from the soccer moms. Acting like he’s fragile, giving him special treatment for existing, reminding him everyday that he survived a horrible tragedy.

The faux benevolence deeply enrages Erik. All these grown-ups who keep picking the scab…it’s not even their scab to pick!

The performative kindness is no different at school. They have a full-school assembly to eulogize Ruth amongst her classmates. The school hosts a district-wide Jog-a-Thon fundraiser, all proceeds going toward leukemia research. There’s a big memorial service in the local park, where teachers cry and tell stories about Ruth like they knew her personally. All of it makes Erik so angry he punches holes in the drywall when he gets home.

At least Erik’s family has the decency to mourn in private. After they bury his sister, they begin shiva, an entire week of grieving where they cover the mirrors and say prayers in Hebrew and have guests over to pay condolences. Erik isn’t allowed to go to school, and neither of his parents work. They don’t even shower. They just sit and be sad together.

He knows it’s what his parents want, but even then, the whole thing feels shallow and rehearsed. He doesn’t recognize any of the visitors who claim to be his relatives. They hug him way too tightly, like they’re long-lost friends instead of strangers, and try to talk to him about how small Ruth was last time they visited. The attempt at familiarity only makes him angrier.

Erik is careful not to cry about Ruth in front of his parents. If he wakes up in the middle of the night, damp with his own tears, he blows his nose and wipes his face clean before calling his mother. And when she asks, he pretends that the bad dreams had nothing to do with the hospital they left his sister in: a sterile prison flushed with chemically white lights, every room scarily identical to one another, the acerbic smell of cleaning supplies and rubbing alcohol stinging his nostrils.

What a wretched place, hospitals. He can’t imagine living his last moments in one.

Those nights, his mother sleeps in his room. She doesn’t ask further questions about his dreams. They just curl up in Ruth’s old bed and cling to one another for comfort, exhausted to the bone, beside themselves with mutual, unspoken sorrow.

Everything else slowly falls away. He forgets what Ruth’s face looks like. He forgets the sound of her voice. He forgets things that can’t come back, even when he looks at Polaroids or home videos. Little changes happen around the house until there’s no trace of her left: her tiny Mary-Janes are removed from the shoe rack at the front entrance, her clothes are taken from the closet and given to yet another charity, and they sell her old bed frame.

Shiva is over. There are no more visitors, memorial services, or fundraisers. The world moves on.

Erik doesn’t want to be left behind, not by his parents, at least, who are pushing forward in life the best they can. So he compartmentalizes the rest of his grief quickly and neatly. He re-enters society with his head held high and his eyes dry.

He’s not going to pick the scab anymore.

***

But all of that rage has to go somewhere. Lying dormant beneath the surface, the pain metastasizes steadily—resentment burgeoning as he sprouts in height, rage filling him from the tip of his head all the way down his awkward, lanky legs.

He forgets what it’s like to exist without the constant ache in his heart. He tells himself he’s always been this angry, destructive person.

The anger only ever gets him into trouble, Erik knows. The anger tricks him into saying things he doesn’t mean: losing his temper in public, terrifying his peers and teachers with unrestrained outbursts of pure power. He crumples desks when he’s mad. He hurls chairs at the teacher when she tells him to line up with the group. He short-circuits all the lights in the entire building while arguing with a classmate about how to do a math problem.

His teachers begin to wonder if the general education curriculum is the appropriate placement for a mutant like him. There isn’t a department for mutant education in most public schools, so nobody knows what to do with him. Everyday is another battle to get Erik Lehnsherr to sit in class without destroying something.

He’s eleven when the anger issues finally become impossible to ignore.

He can’t even remember what made him angry that day. Maybe he was being bullied; maybe he was being mocked; maybe his classmates were running their mouths about Ruth, mutants, or Jewish people—or maybe nothing at all was wrong. Maybe he just snapped at a classmate because he’s a miserable little shit like that. He has a history, after all.

He only remembers being angry. Being so filled with rage that it consumes his everything, like the entire world is ending, like everything has been taken from him and this fury is all that is left. The wrath crescendos inside of him until his vision grows fuzzy at the corners, his chest becomes filled with electricity, his hands shake, his teeth grind together, and he has do something to get all this excess energy out, soon, soon, or else he might do something he regrets, something he doesn’t mean—

And of course, that’s exactly what happens.

There are vague flashes of that day in his memory: his classmate, Noah, crumpled in half on the black asphalt; a hand clasped over his mouth in pain, blood pouring down his chin, wailing like he’s being eaten alive. It’s a sound so awful that it instantly jolts Erik back into his body. He rushes over and falls to his knees beside his classmate.

Several other boys wander over to see what’s happening. Erik’s hands hover helplessly around Noah’s body, unsure of what to do. He faintly registers the ominous hum of several metallic objects nearby: the wire fence around the schoolyard, the chains of the basketball hoop overhead, the steel water bottles lying forgotten on the sidelines—

—the metal fillings of Noah’s teeth.

Two molars with silver fillings.

They lie now on the asphalt, bloodied and glinting in the sun like tiny pebbles. Two human teeth. Just there, on the ground, for everyone to see.

Did he do that?

Nobody moves. Erik continues to tremble. Everyone is staring at him, and he blinks back plaintively, feeling like an evil monster or rabid animal that’s finally been cornered by the armed townspeople. They look terrified of what he’ll do next.

The teeth, Noah’s fucking teeth, are still on the ground.

The worst part turns out to be the way his mother takes it.

It would be easier if she got mad at him, screamed at him, blamed him for being a mutant—but she doesn’t. She simply bursts into tears when the principal explains what happened. She throws her arms around Erik, telling him over and over that it’s going to be okay, as if he is the one who had his teeth plucked out by the metal fillings, as if he is the victim here.

He’s utterly gutted by the forgiveness he doesn’t deserve. He hugs her back, crying openly for the first time since they buried Ruth.

“Mama,” he sobs. “It—it was—it was—it was an accident.”

That much he knows.

For his misconduct, Erik is suspended for two weeks. The principal also suggests that he might better thrive at one of those new-fangled ‘integrated’ schools in the neighboring city, an institution with mutant students who have also failed to find community within their own home districts.

It’s the polite way of saying: we aren’t going to expel you, but don’t come back.

Before he can enroll elsewhere, his parents are required to meet with some important-looking people in uppity suits. They have a private meeting involving the principal and Erik’s teacher. Then they come back to the house, look around, and sit down at the kitchen table—Erik’s kitchen table.

They ask to have a little chat. Everyone sits down. Erik is shaking so badly that the cabinets and dish rack rattle behind him. His mom takes his hand and the shaking stops.

The suits tell Jakob and Edie that their son is a mutant, the dangerous kind, and even at an integrated school where mutations are more broadly accepted, someone with Erik’s violent history would still pose a threat to the safety of staff and students. He should expect to be treated accordingly.

“Treated accordingly? How do you mean?” Edie demands, suspicious at once.

“Well, we don’t normally resort to this with children below high school age, but Erik is a special case,” the suits explain. “We’d most likely go with an inhibitor during school hours. For safety reasons, you understand. Once he adjusts to the feeling, I think it could be a productive means for him to flourish academically and socially.”

Erik doesn’t know what an inhibitor is, but the mere word sets both of his father off. Jakob slams his fist on the table.

“You want to put a muzzle on my son? As if he is an animal?” he bellows. “It was one mistake. You people are afraid of a little boy. A little boy who can spin a coin in the air!”

“Your son is not going to be a little boy forever,” the suits say patiently. “What he did was no magic trick. He cannot grow up repeating these offenses, or he could wind up in prison.”

At the mention of prison, Erik resumes his shaking. Prison? Why are the police getting involved? Are they going to take him away? Rip him apart from what little family he has left? Is he truly that bad?

Edie fiercely takes him by the shoulder.

“Do not treat my son like a criminal,” she snarls. “He is just a boy. He has a lot of anger built up in his heart. His little sister passed away, aleha ha sholem, when he was still so young—where do you think all of that grief goes? Up in the air? Please! Use your brain, if not your heart!”

At the mention of his sister, Erik is immediately consumed by guilt. His parents often use her death to justify why he has grown into such a strange child—why he has no friends, why he plays alone at recess, why he’s more interested in reading about soccer strategy than bonding with his teammates. They seem convinced of it from the bottom of their hearts, and the brief prayers in Yiddish prove they aren’t trying to insult Ruth’s memory on purpose.

But Erik knows the truth. He isn’t a good kid. He does do bad things. And it has nothing to do with whether or not his sister is alive.

───────

41 Years Later - August of 2019
Santa Ana, California

2019 FIFA Women’s World Cup Highlights.
List by David Charles Haller.

Summary: Women’s international football. 24 teams from 6 confederations played in 9 venues in 9 different host cities. 146 goals were scored over a total of 52 matches, for an average of 2.81 per match. There were 1,131,312 spectators in attendance, approximately 21,756 per match.

Top Goalscorers.

• Lorna Dane (United States) scored 6 goals, breaking the record set for mutant women’s football in 2010.

• Hisako Ichiki (Japan): 4 goals.

• Illyana Rasputin (Russia): 4 goals.

• Xuân Cao Mạnh (Vietnam) had the most clean sheets (8).

Other Notable Stats.

• Total yellow cards: 219. Average yellow cards per match: 3.42

• Total red cards: 4. Average red cards per match: 0.06

• Highest average possession: Brazil (58.0%)

David runs his fingers up and down the numbers in his dog-eared notebook. He’s taken a neon highlighter to all of the Even Numbers, which means there’s lots of yellow on the pages, and that makes his heart feel like it’s going to fly away.

Even Numbers are his favorites. They’re good luck. He can’t prove it with scientific theory, but it’s definitely true. He gets a special gut feeling about them.

His notes are as updated as can possibly be, but most days, he’s copying them from ESPN Dot Com on the computer at home. It’s not as fun as keeping record of the numbers in live time. That’s why he’s excited to see Lorna play In Real Life today.

David wishes that he was invited to watch Lorna’s games more often. Charles and Erik go all the time together, and they leave him out of their plans, since the games are typically out of the country and ‘too far’ for David to handle the travel requirements. He winds up stuck at home with his mother, where he’s forced to watch the game through their not-so-nice television.

He’s only allowed to be here today because the game is in California. And that’s still a long drive. It took them five days to reach the west coast, even with Erik speeding mostly every leg of the trip.

Charles says that it’s hard to keep David happy when they travel, but he doesn’t think that’s true. David loves a good road trip. It’s several hours of consecutive silence where he gets to listen to his own music in his earphones and watch the beautiful views out the window. Plus, it’s not the first time they make the week-long drive to Los Angeles. Lorna’s apartment is out there, and they visit her all the time.

He puts in the extra effort to be well-behaved for the entire forty-nine hours of driving. He doesn’t pester for snacks at any of the gas stations, and he doesn’t interrupt a single time when The Adults Are Talking in the front. But when he points this out, Charles is dismissive at best. Perhaps you can handle being in the CAR, he says, but FLYING is very different, I can assure you.

Apparently, before David was born, Charles was very big on flying. He used to fly all around the world. It makes David even more upset that they don’t do it together now, but his step-siblings reassure him by saying that Charles never took them on trips abroad, even when they were kids, no matter how much they (or Erik) begged. Pietro points out that Charles used to travel explicitly For Work, not For Fun. Which means he’d spend the entire soccer season gone. Nine months out of the year, overseas, away from his family.

Hearing that makes David feels a tiny bit better about his own grievances.

They’re a nice bunch, his step-siblings, and not just because they’re good at comforting him whenever Charles does something annoying. They’re odd. Like him. They’re pretty much the closest thing he has to friends. He’d even venture to say that they’re his only friends, but if he said that part out loud, it’d cause a whole scene with Charles.

David once tried to assuage matters by pointing out that he prefers the company of his step-siblings to his classmates, but that only sent Charles into Rambling Mode. Wouldn’t you like to play with some boys your age, Davey? It’s important for children to Make Friends with their own peers. Pietro is FIFTEEN years older. And so on. As if it’s David’s fault that they waited so long between children to have him.

Besides, it’s not like playing Pokémon with his twenty-six-year-old stepbrother is what makes David a social pariah. He’s just a mutant. And autistic. And non-verbal. He’s the only person who meets all three of those criteria at school. So of course Making Friends looks different for him.

Even then, he attends a school with a decent mutant population—and in general, schools these days are a lot more progressive than they were when his father was a child. He can’t think of a time he’s ever been explicitly bullied on the basis of being a telepath, or anything like that. It’s more like he gets left out of everything. Conversations, group projects, afterschool hangouts.

And it’s not even like it bothers him. He could be a part of a group if he really tried. He just can’t be assed.

That’s the thing: kids his age are very boring. Nobody ever wants to talk about trains, sports stats, or Lego Star Wars. They have zero interest in learning how to divide numbers down to their Prime Factors. And the ones who play soccer don’t care about the numbers—which is the only part of soccer David likes.

To be completely fair, his peers are capable of being kind when they do interact with him. The boys will pass him the basketball at recess if he walks by their court, and they all cheer in earnest when he makes a shot. They hold his hand if the alarm for a fire drill takes him by surprise (it’s always loud and painful on his ears) and he appreciates having someone to guide him to the place they need to be, especially if the drill happens while the aide is on break. Oh, and the girls always give him the unwanted snacks from their lunch bags.

The kindness is appreciated. But when it comes down to it, they don’t understand him as a person.

Grown-ups have always understood him the best. That’s another reason why he’s so happy to be traveling with Erik and Charles this week: Erik is one of his all-time favorite grown-ups. He would even go so far as to say that Erik is his most favorite grown-up, period—only second to Pietro, of course, since Pietro is his Best Bud—but that would upset Charles even worse than the whole step-sibling age gap thing.

Whenever he gets too chummy with Erik, Charles gets jealous. It’s weird, because he feels jealous, and even projects it outward by accident, but he doesn’t say anything about it out loud.

Instead, he just grumpily reminds David that parents shouldn’t be considered Best Friend Material.

David can sort of agree with him on that one. First of all, Erik isn’t legally his parent—he’s still not married to Charles, so for now, he’s just a cool grown-up that lives in the same house as them. Second of all, Charles is nowhere near Best Friend Material.

He’s actually at the bottom of David’s Friend List right now.

That is not to say that David dislikes his father. Not in the slightest!

Charles is just…

…well, he’s fine.

He’s just a bit overprotective.

And finicky.

And bossy.

He’s especially bossy about the AAC. That’s the name of the special iPad that David carries around to communicate. David doesn’t technically need it to talk anymore—what with his telepathy manifested and all—but Charles, like always, has a dumb rule for everything.

The rule in question: David is not allowed to use his telepathy in public. Particularly big, crowded places.

Like a soccer stadium.

He’s expected to keep his AAC tablet on him at all times, so that he can still have a voice, but the use of telepathy in such a highly populated area, especially one filled with non-mutants, is too ‘risky’.

That’s Charles’ main reason for making this rule. It boils down to the vague idea of Causing An Accident. What kind of accident? Who knows. He just goes on a long, droning ramble about how being a psychic is a big responsibility, how it’s an inherently dangerous way to exist, how your body itself becomes a weapon the day your powers manifest and you should approach others with that caution in mind. David isn’t sure how any of that is supposed to help him feel more comfortable about Making Friends, if that’s Charles’ end goal. He breaks the rule all the time and nothing bad ever happens. Maybe a few secondhand migraines here and there—but it’s not like anyone dies.

He’s learned it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. Better to nod along in the moment than fight about it.

And God knows they’ve fought about it. Many times. The AAC is clunky, outdated, and difficult to form complex sentences with. It was an essential tool when he was little, but now, he’s ready to ride his bike without training wheels. (That’s a metaphor. He heard it from Erik. He’s not actually riding a bike of any kind.)

Whenever Charles and David argue, everyone has some sort of advice to give. Erik tries to explain that it’s a Dad Thing to be bossy. If he doesn’t want to follow Charles’ rules, he should at least try to understand where the concern is coming from.

Some personalities just clash, is what Jean tells him. You’re still young and growing your personality, so that’s why you butt heads with Dad all the time. But that’s okay. Erik and I didn’t get along when I was your age, and look at us now! Trust me, Davey, you and Dad will get there. It just takes time.

He knows his family is right. But Charles still annoys him.

He wants to get along with his father, really, he does. All the arguing just seems to happen before he can stop it.

Maybe it’ll get better one day, but that day is definitely not in the foreseeable future.

For now, here they are: finally in Southern California, parked in the lot of a Hyatt hotel, packing the van with a bunch of junk they probably won’t actually end up needing at Lorna’s game today.

Seated oh-so-patiently in the back seat, David turns to a fresh page in his sports notebook. He reaches for the ruler in his backpack—a special metal ruler he keeps with him at all times—and begins to outline a new table for today’s stats.

While he’s working, he passively tunes in to the conversation happening behind him.

“Did you grab the sandwiches like I told you to?”

“I already said yes, you twit.”

“Are you one-hundred percent sure?”

“Yes! Look, they’re right here. I love you, but you’re doing too much. Normal people eat hot dogs at the stadium, you know?”

“Since when are we normal people?” Erik shoves something particularly heavy into the trunk, which makes the entire van jolt on its suspension. “Okay, checklist, checklist…What about shoes? Has David got shoes on?”

“You missed the drama while you were out buying bloody sandwich ingredients,” Charles laughs. “It took us thirty minutes for one shoe. But yes, he’s got them.”

“I’ve been telling you to buy the boy some Crocs. Those things are catnip for autistic kids.”

“He has a hard enough time Making Friends without clown shoes, Erik.”

“I’m just saying, Pietro loved them at that age.”

“Ah, yes, I remember. He had girls lining up down the block.”

Erik snorts and slams the trunk shut with his powers, ignoring the button under the the handle that automatically (and gently) closes the boot. The entire van jumps again. It’s sort of comforting, how he slams the trunk too hard every time he does it.

David perks up excitedly as Erik comes around the bend. Erik sticks his head in through the van’s open door, carefree joy folded into the crinkles of the crow’s feet around his eyes. He sticks a hand out to him.

“Ready to go, little one?” he asks.

David squeals and kicks his feet in affirmation, then reaches for the iPad kept carefully beneath his sports notebook. The automated voice reads out his choice of words:

Erik. Erik. Erik. Erik.

“Yep, that’s my name,” Erik chuckles. “Happy to see me? As if we haven’t been stuck in the car together all week?”

Erik. Erik. Erik. Erik.

“You need anything before we hit the road, or you just playing around?”

David pushes the button on his tablet more insistently. Erik! Erik! Erik! Erik! ERIK! ERIK!

“Ah, okay. We’re playing.” Erik lovingly pinches David’s ear lobe between his fingers and withdraws from the van. “Alright, professor, let’s get going!”

“I told you not to call me that! You’re not a professor unless you teach college courses—”

ERIK! ERIK! ERIK! ERIK! ERIK!

“He hears you, mate, alright?” Charles says tiredly, sliding himself into the passenger’s seat with a reproachful glance backwards. Erik folds the wheelchair after him and tucks it behind his seat for him. “Once is enough, David. Remember what we talked about. It gets too loud for Dad if you keep pushing the same button over and over.”

“Oh, he’s perfectly harmless,” Erik scoffs. “You’re just jealous that he likes my button more than yours.”

“Don’t indulge this behavior, Erik. He gets mixed signals when I tell him to do one thing and you reinforce another.”

“Jealous.” Erik slips into the driver’s seat with another roguish grin, giving Charles a kiss on the cheek to show that he’s only kidding. Yet, at the same time—in classic clueless Erik fashion—he keeps digging the hole deeper. “This is a problem of your own making, anyways. You’re the one forcing the poor kid to use the iPad.”

“I’m not forcing him, I’m encouraging him,” Charles retorts. “And you know just as well as I do that it’s for the safety of others as well as himself!”

“You’d save yourself the headache if you just let him communicate the way he’s naturally inclined to,” Erik shrugs. “But I’m not here to undermine your authority. I just think it’d be a lot better around here without the extra screen. Quieter, too.”

“Quieter for you. You’re not hearing his Subconscious Thoughts around the clock.” Charles immediately reaches his hand backwards to pat David on the knee. “Sorry, Davey. There’s nothing wrong with your Subconscious Thoughts. It’s just a bit loud for Dad.”

“Like yours are any quieter. I can hear them all the time, and I’m not even psychic,” Erik teases. “Isn’t that right, Davey? Your dad has a loud head that everyone can hear for miles around?”

David shrieks with a giggle. He reaches for his tablet and jams his finger into the button.

Charles! Charles! Charles!

“Yep, that’s your dad! Charles!”

CHARLES! CHARLES! CHARLES!

Charles laughs along with the teasing, but he really does look tired. It might have to do with the fact that he dislikes being called CHARLES by his only biological son—but that’s his name, so why would David call him anything else? The DAD button is for explaining how they know each other.

“You two don’t know when to quit, do you?” Charles sighs.

“You’re just too easy to get a rise out of,” Erik replies. “And you’re adorable when you’re annoyed.”

“My behavior is about to stop being ‘adorable’ if you keep it up any longer, so—”

CHARLES! CHARLES! CHARLES!

“David, please!” Charles says desperately, twisting around to properly face the backseat now. “What? What is it that you need?”

CHARLES.

CHARLES.

CHARLES.

LOVE YOU.

The exasperation on Charles’ face falls away at once. His blue eyes well up with tears, but he’s quick to hide his reaction with the scrub of his hand, and when he looks back up, he forces a smile.

“Oh, mate. I love you too,” he croaks. “I’m sorry I’m short today. I just—”

“You’ve always been short,” Erik says. “A good head shorter than me, in fact. Do you think you’ll ever hit that last growth spurt?”

Charles groans and rolls his eyes. David claps his hands in glee, and that’s all the validation Erik seems to need for his little dad joke. He smiles wide like a shark.

“Anyhow,” Charles resumes, “David, I love you too. Please don’t worry. Erik and I are just bantering, alright? Banter is different than fighting. I know it’s hard to tell sometimes, but we aren’t arguing for real life.”

David tilts his head. He hadn’t even been thinking about that. He’d know immediately if Erik and Charles were truly fighting—their psychic link turns a different color when they’re angry at each other—but, he supposes he appreciates the clarification. Charles wouldn’t be Charles if he wasn’t over-communicating all the time.

LOVE YOU, he tells his father, one time only, so he knows it’s sincere.

“Yes, I love you very much, mate. Now, do you think the two of you can quiet down, so that I can—”

LOVE YOU.

LOVE YOU.

LOVE YOU.

LOVE YOU.

Charles slumps over in defeat. David giggles, turning the volume on his tablet even louder, deeply reveling in the fact that it makes Erik smile all the wider. Annoying his father is one of his favorite activities, and he’s happy to have someone who enjoys it just as much as he does.

Malicious Compliance, Erik calls it. If David has to follow The iPad Rule, he’s going to be as obnoxious as possible about it.

***

Once they park in the stadium lot, Charles and Erik take forever to unload the van. They tend to meander a lot like that now that they live together. Always talking like they don’t see each other around the clock. Moving at a snail’s pace like that’ll buy them more time to hold hands and be all over each other.

David doesn't mind their overt affections. He tends to take his time doing his own thing, too. He’s happily dawdling about, balancing himself on a cinderblock in idle thought, when he hears the first sign of trouble.

“Uh-oh,” Erik says. “I know that face. What did you forget?”

“It’s nothing!” Charles says quickly. He’s embarrassed that even after all the fuss Erik made earlier, he’s still forgotten something. He’s also looking sideways at David—he knows he’s listening—and is trying to find a way to communicate without the younger boy eavesdropping. “Erik, can you check under the front seat?”

“For what?”

Charles must send a signal telepathically, because Erik suddenly straightens up, then rushes to the front of the van. David surveys the scene inquisitively. Charles keeps glancing at him.

Erik searches for a good minute or two before coming back with empty hands. He shakes his head.

“Well, that’s just great.” Charles sighs deeply, rubbing his eyes. He’s cussing in his head, but making an effort not to do it aloud in front of his child. “Nothing to be done about that, I suppose. It's my own fault as well.”

“I’m sorry. I checked our bags, too.”

“Not even a spare pair of ear plugs?”

“Nope.”

Charles sighs again. He turns to David now, who’s rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, wondering how much longer they’re going to stand in the scorching asphalt with no shade around.

“I’m sorry, Davey,” Charles says softly. “I’m afraid we forgot your headphones back at the hotel.”

David stops rocking back and forth.

“‘We’? Who the fuck is ‘we’?” Erik demands. “I didn’t forget to pack anything. I even told you—”

“Okay, fine, I forgot the bloody headphones,” Charles snaps. “I’m very sorry, David. Do you think you’ll be alright without them, just for today?”

David frowns. He pats his hand on his chest and glances anxiously at the van.

“Check for yourself if you like, kid,” Erik says. “The headband on them is metal. I’d feel them if they were there.”

David wanders over to the van. He peers under the front seat himself.

“I told you to double-check for them, Charles.”

“I thought they were in the duffel bag!”

“That’s why you should check!”

As David continues his fruitless search, he becomes distantly aware that he’s whining to himself. His hands are doing The Flappy Thing—waving back and forth, crooking close to his chest, wiggling with nervous energy. He’s not usually aware of when he does it, but his aide at school is trained to watch out for an impending melt-down if the behavior appears at a bad time.

It's definitely a bad time.

Charles materializes behind him, looking truly apologetic.

“I know, mate,” he sympathizes, rubbing David’s back. “Maybe there’s a Target nearby. Or we can go back for them, though we might miss a bit of the game if we—”

David jumps, his heart skipping a beat at the very idea. He urgently smacks his palm against his chest. It’s going to be very loud in the stadium without any ear protection. That magnitude of sensory overload is already unbearable with ear protection. But the numbers! He has to keep the numbers in order. They’re already here, and Lorna is playing, and it’s going to be a perfect ninety-eight degrees today. Ninety-eight can be divided by two, which is forty-nine, and that’s a perfect square (seven times seven). There’s no way, no how they can miss this match.

“Right,” Charles sighs. “We’ll stay, then. Do you think you can Tough It Out?”

David stomps his feet in painful indecision and resumes The Flappy Thing. Charles extends a soothing hand. David squeaks in alarm and scrambles out of reach, ducking behind Erik’s legs.

It’s not personal. He’s not trying to choose Erik over Charles. Really, it’s not personal. Charles just has a bad habit of hugging people without warning, and he can’t handle the possibility of a surprise hug right now.

“Charles, how about you go back for the headphones, and I’ll wait here with him?” Erik suggests, putting a protective arm around David’s back. “That way he doesn’t miss any of the game.”

“No, no, that’s alright. It’s a long drive, and I wouldn’t want to leave you two alone.”

“Why? What’s the worst that could happen?”

“You know well what could happen! Do I really need to remind you? He’s not your responsibility, anyway. He’s mine.”

“I know what I signed up for, Charles. It’s not that big of a deal.” Erik puts his free hand on Charles’ shoulder, an attempt to calm both boys at the same time. “How about I drive back and you stay with him?”

“I can’t make you miss any of Lorna’s game on behalf of my own carelessness,” Charles despairs.

“I really don’t mind—”

Charles cuts him off with a fierce look. Maybe he reprimands him telepathically, too, or maybe it’s just a particularly stern look. Either way, Erik backs down. He sighs, and kneels down to make himself David’s height.

“Alright, little one,” Erik says. “Your dad has a plan. You ready to listen?”

David doesn’t move from where he’s buried in Erik’s shirt, but he also doesn’t pull away. He begrudgingly puts his Listening Ears on.

“Okay, Davey. We’re going to stay here at the stadium, all together, so we don’t miss a minute of the game. You’re going to write all the numbers in your notebook. And then we’ll say hello to Lorna right after. That’s all it is—two hours at most. But if it gets to be too much, at any point, you tell me right away, and I’ll wait with you in the car where it’s quiet. How does that sound?”

David makes an indignant sound. He’s not sure if he can make it the full two hours. He really, really, really wants to. But it’s not up to him.

“I know you’re always trying your hardest,” Charles says soothingly. “I’m very proud of you for always trying new things. So if you can’t make it to the end, there’s no shame in that.”

“Yes, your father is right,” Erik agrees. “He’ll take you back, no questions asked.”

David reluctantly lets out the breath he’s been holding. There’s still a weight on his chest, tighter than usual, but he’s almost gotten used to it by this point in his life. He can deal with it. Just for two hours. That’s all he has to do.

He’s not going to ruin anyone’s day today.

He peers up at his father, and gives him a shaky Thumbs Up.

Without his headphones, everything feels off. The people seem bigger, the smell of scattered popcorn and cheap hot dogs stings his nostrils, and the scorching heat beating down on them is no longer a welcome bit of Californian sunshine.

The very ground rumbles with music and sound. People are shouting, jumping, and pushing against each other. They all look like they’re having a good time. And they probably are. They don’t depend on stupid pair of headphones to have a good day.

David wonders if his father ever gets tired of the wheelchair, the same way David gets tired of having to wear the clunky headphones everywhere. He’s aware his plight is very different than needing a wheelchair to walk: his ear protectors almost feels more like a preference sometimes. But he has to wear them. Or things just go wrong.

He wishes he could be more like Erik. Erik never wears headphones, and he doesn’t need a wheelchair to move around. He can do anything he wants. He’s made of steel like that.

Charles, in the past, has explained to him that both the headphones and the wheelchair are absolute goods. They’re called Accommodations for a reason. They enable him and David to do things they normally couldn’t; Charles couldn’t get up to see the soccer game without his chair, and David probably wouldn’t be able to go to school if he didn’t have ear protectors, since the world is a very loud place.

Having Accommodations is supposed to be good. But sometimes—like right now—David wishes he and his father didn’t have a need for them in the first place.

He’s prepared the best he can be: iPad on a strap around his arm, tissues from the car stuffed in his ears, Charles and Erik on either side of him for protection against space-invading strangers. The wheelchair grants them at least a five-feet radius of personal space, and Erik is very tall, easy to spot in a big crowd if they get separated.

Charles won’t stop casting worried, sideways glances at him. He’s not being as subtle as he thinks he is. Annoyed and overwhelmed, David pretends not to notice the concern, but then his father starts flashing a thumb, sticking it up and down in an alternating pattern.

Thumbs Up or Thumbs Down? is what the gesture means. It’s their unspoken signal to each other whenever they’re in loud, crowded places—has been since David was in kindergarten.

I’m OK, David thinks.

Charles insistently holds his thumb in the air, pretending not to pick up on the obvious projection. David is just as tenacious in pretending not to notice the persisting Thumbs Up-Or-Down sign. If his father wants an answer, he can tune in like a proper telepath.

What’s the point of having superpowers if you’re too afraid to use them?

Overhead, a myriad of matinee screens flash various advertisements, sponsors, and announcements. David cranes his neck and watches them anxiously. He needs to be alert in case the screens change to show player numbers. His notebook is in his backpack right now, so he’ll be caught off-guard if they start too soon. And he can only write properly if he’s sitting down.

They really need to pick up the pace, but Charles’ chair can only move so fast through a crowd.

Their seats are just about as far away as can possibly be. Lorna always gets them free tickets to the front-most row, which is at the bottom of the stadium, practically on the field itself. Charles holds a hand out to balance David as they pass through the disability-friendly row of the bleachers, though even with his help, David clumsily bangs his shins all over the metal seats. Every whack sends a bright red flare of alarm through his father’s Subconscious Thoughts:

Oh, he’s going to bruise. He bruises so easily.

Still so clumsy for his age. Need to tell Sarah. Add more gross motor targets to his plan.

My little boy.

Now he’s thinking about how small David used to be, how he used to fit perfectly against Charles’ chest in a special harness designed to carry babies without using hands. He’d wheel around with him everywhere. It was so much easier to protect him back then. In the rose-tinted goggles of nostalgia, he thinks he’d give anything for David to stay that age forever.

David huffs crossly and makes a point to sit beside Erik instead. This time it is personal. He doesn’t need all this fussing from his father, and he doesn’t enjoy being held hostage to all of these sappy thoughts, either. He’s not a little boy anymore. He’s not interested in being strapped to his father’s chest for the rest of his life.

Things become a bit more tolerable once he finally settles down, gets his notebook out, and can finally stop worrying that the game will start too early. The stadium’s noise becomes muffled to a dull hum as he smashes his palms into his ears. His eyes glaze over. Erik’s shoulder beside him is a reassuring presence, even if it’s not touching him.

And then, more people show up.

Charles perks up with the most enthusiasm he’s shown all day, waving to the mob of strangers on the side of the bleachers.

“Hank! Over here!”

David’s blood runs cold. Hank? Uncle Hank?

No offense to Uncle Hank. As a person, he’s fine. It’s just sort of a surprise, and David can’t handle surprises very well. He’s been under the impression that this weekend was going to be Family Only, and Uncle Hank doesn’t really count as family, even if they do call him that—he’s not actually Charles’ brother, just his best friend. They call him their uncle because apparently he was there in the hospital the morning after David was born, or something like that. He visits Westchester once in a while, usually when they host Chanukah or Pesach celebrations at the manor, and he’s the one who installed most of the wheelchair-accessible modifications into the mansion. Also, he sends a gift on David’s birthday every year.

But most important of all, Uncle Hank is one of the few people who knew Charles in The Nineties, otherwise known as The Good Ol’ Days. Charles was still a famous soccer player back then. He wasn’t married to Erik yet. And he didn’t have any kids at all—not even Jean, Lorna, or the twins.

Uncle Hank has been with him through thick and thin since then. He was even the sports physician on the scene when Charles broke his spine, ribs, legs, arms, and collarbone in front of everyone.

So their bond is very special.

Just as David’s starting to warm up to the idea of Uncle Hank joining them today, it becomes quickly apparent that Hank’s got some friends in tow. A bunch of complete strangers and their kids.

Wait. Kids? Other kids?

David immediately shrivels up in disgust, hugging his knees to his chest and hoping Charles will forget that he’s here at all. Fortunately, Charles seems fairly occupied for now—he rushes up to meet Hank, latching on to him like a blood-sucking parasite, the two of them rocking back and forth with silly grins on their faces. They’re saying things like it’s great to see you mate and it’s been too long and did you get new glasses?

It’s a good thing Hank enjoys a suffocating hug. At least someone out there wants to be Charles’ best friend.

“How’s your pain been?” Uncle Hank asks.

“Much better,” Charles answers, finally releasing the poor man from his death grip. “There’s bad days like everything else, but the medication you recommended works wonders. I sleep through the entire night now.”

“Awesome. Great. You look great. Healthy. I’m glad.” Uncle Hank gives Charles a shaky clap on the back, looking like he might get emotional, and then he turns to Erik. Suddenly, the look on his face is a lot less smiley.

He clears his throat and pushes his glasses up his nose, sounding more like a stern schoolteacher when he says, “Erik.”

Erik tips his chin curtly. “Hank.”

“I didn’t expect you to be here today.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s my daughter’s game.”

“I meant here with Charles.”

“Did he forget to tell you I moved back in?”

“No, no, he told me.” Uncle Hank’s eyes flit down to Erik’s bony fingers. “I just don’t see a, uh, wedding ring, so I guess you could color me curious. You two still legally separated?”

“I live with him,” Erik says coldly. “I am his partner. That’s all you need to know.”

“I wasn’t questioning it.”

“It sounds like you were.”

“Hey, I don’t care as long as Charles is happy.”

“And he is.”

“Good.”

Erik clenches his teeth. Hank stares back, unintimidated.

David remains curled up in his seat, still trying to make himself as small as possible, otherwise unfazed by the onslaught of emotions between the two men. Uncle Hank and Erik act like this every single time they see each other. It’s normal. Cat and dog.

The other men in the group greet Charles with just as much fanfare and hugging, so they must not be strangers to him, even if David can’t recognize a single face. Maybe they’re old teammates. But if Erik recognizes any of these people, he doesn’t act on it. He stays stubbornly seated, remaining hidden in Charles’ shadow, scowling ferociously until a few of them finally acknowledge his presence.

“Lehnsherr! Holy shit, man, is that you?”

“He-e-ey, Lehnsherr! Bring it in, old man!”

Erik slowly rises to his feet in greeting, and before he can say no, the men sandwich him in a group hug. It’s obvious to anyone with a brain—apparently, just David—that he’s not a fan of the surprise attack, but they don’t let go, just rumple his hair and poke at his stomach while jeering. Erik barely wriggles free with his dignity intact.

“Seriously, Lehnsherr, how are you?”

“We haven’t seen you guys since, what, ‘96? Not getting any younger, I see!”

“Jesus, Lehnsherr, is this your grandson?”

“He’s my son,” Erik snarls, teeth still bared. 

Everyone laughs when he says this. David wonders if it’s because they know he’s not Being Honest. If they know the truth, they politely play along.

“Old factory’s still up and running then, is it?”

“He’s Xavier’s spitting image, I’ll give you that! IVF technology is crazy these days.”

“Oh, good luck to your daughter today, and all that.”

“Yeah, she’ll do great.”

At last, the strangers begin to move away, back to conversing amongst themselves. Erik doesn’t say anything else, not even goodbye. He lowers himself back into his seat with a rattled sigh. David tilts his head curiously as Erik meets his eye.

Why did you LIE? David asks. I’m not YOUR son.

Erik shrugs.

CHARLES says LYING is BAD.

He still doesn’t say anything. His mind is closing up, the way a castle pulls its bridge from over the moat. David can physically feel the withdrawal.

Because Erik doesn’t like these people, either.

“We have to be nice to people we don’t like sometimes,” Erik says stiffly, gruffly. “It’s just…part of Toughing It Out. It makes Charles happy. Okay, little one?”

David obediently gives a Thumbs Up, but Erik is already somewhere else. His knee begins to bounce and his eyes fog over, like even though his body is there, he’s found a way to leave the conversation somehow. He looks scarily empty. And he only ever looks this way around Mother’s Day, Baba’s death anniversary, or when he and Lorna go to visit her mom’s grave.

Not good.

David anxiously looks around for his father. He’ll know what to do. Unfortunately, lost in the whirlwind of his own social endeavors, Charles doesn't seem to take any notice of Erik’s dampened mood. He’s too busy hugging people and blabbing about The Good Ol’ Days. David’s stomach flips in a panic as he realizes it’s all up to him.

He wonders if holding Erik’s hand will cheer him up or make him more upset. It’s kind of hard to tell when someone has their walls up, so maybe he should just leave him alone. Jean has told him many times that it’s not his job to make sure either Erik or Charles are happy, anyway.

He doesn’t get long to consider his other options before Charles wheels over and excitedly takes David by the hand. He’s followed by a small gaggle of children—two boys, one girl—who look just as unhappy to be forcibly introduced.

Oh, great.

“…and this is my son, David!”

Charles goes on to introduce the sons and daughter of his old teammate, some unimportant athlete that David couldn’t care less for. The names themselves go in one ear and out the other—except for the girl, who’s named Sydney, and that only stands out to him because he didn’t know that was even a girl’s name. He has a classmate called Sid, and Sid is a boy.

David already knows they’ll have nothing in common. He doesn’t even have to be a telepath for that. He gives the other kids the most unnerving look he can muster, hoping they’ll be scared off on their own terms.

It doesn’t work.

“Hi, David,” Sydney says shyly. “What are your powers?”

David sucks on a hangnail that’s been bothering him.

Charles laughs. “I’m sorry, love, he’s a bit shy. Don’t take it personal. He’s psychic—a telepath, actually, just like me. He’s come quite far in developing his powers these days.”

“Can he talk in other people’s heads?”

David eyes his father warily, daring him to keep up the dumb iPad Rule even now. He already knows Charles won’t make exceptions. Not even for another group of mutant kids.

“Well, he can,” Charles says nervously. “But it’s something we’re still practicing. Mostly, he talks using this.” He gestures to the iPad. “That’s called an AAC device. It stands for Augmented Alternative Communication, which means—”

“Is there something, like, wrong with him?” asks the older boy. “Why can’t he just talk?”

“There’s nothing wrong with him.” Charles is surprisingly patient. “He has autism. The iPad facilitates functional communication.”

“Oh,” the boy says.

“Can I try it?” the younger boy asks, reaching his grubby hands out toward the iPad. David pulls away and barely stops himself from biting like he used to in third grade.

“Now, I know it looks like a fun toy, but it’s a learning tool, not for playing with. Think of it as David’s Voice,” Charles explains, a bit more stern now. “We don’t touch it, play games on it, or take it away. David’s Voice stays with him at all times. Does that sound agreeable?”

“Aw, okay.”

“David, why don’t you say hello?”

Feeling like a show monkey, David takes his iPad out. He makes sure it’s at maximum volume before he starts typing.

I

HATE

ALL

OF

YOU.

“David!” Charles says sharply.

Sydney just giggles. “So, he’s kind of like a robot?”

“Robots aren’t real, stupid,” her brother tells her.

“I said like a robot,” she snaps.

Charles shakes his head. “Actually, comparing autistic people to a robot is a harmful stereotype. David may communicate unconventionally, but that doesn’t make him any less human than you. As a matter of fact—”

ROBOT, David types. ROBOT. ROBOT. ROBOT.

“David, please—”

I

AM

A

ROBOT.

Sydney squeals and claps her hands. “That is so freaking cool!”

Charles sighs in exasperation, but that just means David’s doing a good job at the Malicious Compliance thing. Plus, it’s making Sydney laugh a lot. She has a funny-sounding laugh. He thinks he likes making her laugh.

David, I’m serious, Charles warns. Behave yourself. I want you to Make Friends today. It’ll help you take your mind off of things.

Why do YOU get to talk in MY head if I’M not allowed to talk in YOURS? David whines.

Because I’m a grown-up. And grown-ups have had lots of time to learn how to control their powers.

That’s not FAIR.

Accidents can happen to anyone, David. There are a lot of fragile minds around you. We don’t want another incident like what happened in Dr. Poole’s class last year, right?

David’s foot kicks the floor irritably at the memory. It’s not his fault he gave his fifth grade class a major migraine. He was just overwhelmed that day. Nobody even broke any bones, and they all got to go home early, so he practically did them all a favor. It was a One Time Thing.

I’m being bossy for a reason, Charles pleads. Please just listen to me. And try to be nice to the other kids. I think it could be good for you to get out of your Comfort Zone.

I’m ALWAYS out of my COMFORT ZONE, David cries. I don’t even HAVE a fucking COMFORT ZONE!

It’s the foul language, really, that sets his father off—and David knows this, because he does it on purpose. It’s a trick he learned from Erik and Pietro. Kids using the F-Word gets on Charles’ nerves like nothing else. He clenches his jaw and simmers in quiet disdain.

But no matter how hot the anger burns inside of his soul, Charles always acts calm on the outside. He cares about public appearances—way more than David ever will—and he knows that David is willing to push this quarrel to the absolute limit if he must. The only way to preserve peace in front of innocent bystanders is to Let It Go.

Alright, Charles sighs, his voice exhausted and defeated. You don’t have to Make Friends, David. You don’t have to speak a single word to anyone if you don’t want to. Just do your own thing. But can you at least mind your manners? Be polite while we’re here?

FINE, David scowls.

I'm sorry for pushing you so much. I just want the best for you.

David shrugs. He suddenly feels like he might cry. He cries Angry Tears a lot, but it’d be embarrassing to do it in front of a girl, even if it’s a girl he doesn’t know. He doesn’t move as Charles turns back to the children, clapping his hands like nothing is wrong.

“Anyhow, can I trust you all to get along with David? Even if he is a little different?”

“Yes, Uncle Charles.”

“Can we go get hot dogs before the game starts?” one of the boys asks.

“Oh! Can David come with us?” Sydney asks excitedly.

Charles looks back at David, who’s immediately projecting NO with every fiber of his being. He’d rather eat a million of Erik’s tasteless turkey sandwiches. He’d rather eat dirt.

“I don’t know. The game is starting soon,” Charles says, uncertain.

“Awww, we’ll be fast!”

“Yeah, we’re hungry.”

“Pleaaase?”

“David?” Charles asks. “What would you like to do?”

David looks pleadingly at his father, hoping that Charles will decide to be overprotective, hoping he’ll scold the kids for wanting to go off on their own. He needs his father to say no for him. But the one time it matters, he doesn’t. He just smiles. All full of hope. Like maybe this time, David will be eager to Make Friends.

He remembers what Erik said then. About being nice to people you don’t like. If only because it makes Charles happy.

David frowns.

He turns to Sydney and takes her hand.

“Yay!” Sydney cheers. “Let’s go, David! Come on!”

He looks back at Charles one last time. Maybe Charles will change his mind at the last second. But he doesn’t. He keeps smiling and smiling.

Go on, have a good time! he thinks. If you need me for absolutely anything, I’m one ping away. I love you. I’m proud of you.

The pain in David’s chest only gets bigger.