Believing

zimothy:

erikfuckinglensherr:

Warnings: Gore, abuse.

—

When Charles met Erik, he was already dead.

Murky grey-green eyes stared out from a shell crater that Charles had taken cover in, thick brown hair mingling with the mud he had been lying in. He was small, but with muscle, no more than twenty, and his uniform was soiled by rain, mud, and blood. Part of the dull green fabric had been eaten away by rats, and a chunk of his ear was missing. His leg had been blown off, shoulder shot, but neither of those things were what killed him. Erik had taken a bullet through his throat.

The gun that did it, Charles thought, had probably been German.

And those eyes.

They had been dead for days, open, staring at the trenches that had betrayed him, killed him instead of rescued him.

He must have gotten wounded during a charge. When the Krauts retreated, they left him for dead.

It wasn’t unusual to see corpses, not anymore. What was unusual was that he was still recognizable.

A half hour after Charles ducked into the dead German’s hole for cover, after the mud and rain had seeped into his boots, his trousers, his underwear, he reached over to the German’s neck to try and find tags. None. So he stuck his hand in the man’s pocket, then the other, and finally he pulled out that small piece of metal.

No name.

Just a number.

It was unsettling to know that the Germans kept their men like this, that they didn’t dignify soldiers with names, but it was more unsettling to know that this man no longer had one.

So Charles named him Erik.

He imagined that Erik must have been a strong man, good at his job, and noble. He would do things promptly when asked, never question orders, right up until someone challenged his morals. Then he would stand up, Charles though, and refuse. Maybe he would throw things. Or shout. But he had a firm belief system, and Charles doubted that he would let anyone change that.

He probably had a rough life, too. Father abandoned him, certainly. Then maybe when he was twelve or so his mother died. He was forced to live with his grandparents, and really, that wouldn’t have been so bad, except that his grandfather was a military man, a Prussian, and so Erik had received frequent beatings, often with a lash.

If Charles could lift Erik’s uniform, he was sure that he would see the scars on his back, those square-shaped knots from where his grandfather would sometimes use the wrong end of a belt.

Those things made Erik strong, orderly, but they also made him scared.

Erik had never had anyone to love because he refused to share his emotions with anyone else. He was worried that his woman would leave him, that she would die, that she would treat him exactly like his grandfather. He was worried that she wouldn’t accept him for him, that she would be ashamed or frightened when she knew what he was, where he had come from, and so he never formed a relationship. There were some friends, sure. There was the occasional drinking buddy. But Erik never had anyone to call his own.

He was lonely.

His eyes were lonely.

Charles imagined what would have happened if he wasn’t a Brit, if he had been born German. He and Erik wouldn’t have known each other growing up, no, but they would both get excited about the outbreak of war, and they would rush to enlist. They would sign up together, in different locations, and they would meet on base. They would be rack mates, go through boot camp together. Erik would always get up before Charles, before anyone, so that he could go running, but Charles would always get to the food first. He would grab his grub, and every day, as he was walking to find a table, he would wave at Erik as the man walked in, sweaty and panting from his daily run.

Erik would always smile back and wave. He would act like Charles was the most ridiculous man ever, like he wanted nothing to do with him, but he’d secretly appreciate it.

No one had ever been that kind to him before.

Eventually, a few days before they were shipped to the front, Charles would wake to the sound of sobbing. He would crawl out from under his itchy sheets, stick his feet on the edge of his bed as he stood up to fling his arms over Erik’s bunk. Erik wouldn’t move, not at first. He would refuse to admit that he was crying, refuse to admit weakness, but eventually he would turn around. He would look at Charles with those grey-green eyes, so big and sad in the pale light. Charles would crawl up to sit next to him, and Erik would reluctantly move to accommodate him.

For a while they would just sit like that. Not talking. Erik would still stare at the wall across from him, now void of Charles, and after a while Charles would work up the courage to card his fingers through Erik’s hair. Erik would close his eyes, and so Charles would wordlessly continue.

After another long while, Erik would look up to him, the side of his face, the bridge of his nose both streaked with tears. He would sit up, and Charles would wipe them away with his pajama sleeve, and then Erik would talk. And he would tell everything. He would tell Charles how his father left him and his mother for dead, no food, no house. He would tell how his mother died six years later, how his grandfather abused him. He would say how he never had friends, not really, and how he’s never had someone. He’s afraid he’ll die alone, in this goddamn war, and when he does no one will even notice he’s gone.

He’ll say how he hasn’t kissed anyone, hugged anyone besides his mother, and that that doesn’t count, and he’ll sit up to pull his knees to his chest and bury his face in his hands.  And Erik’s shoulders will shake from fear and hurt.

Charles would be silent through all of this, but his heart would ache.

At the right moment, he would wrap his arms around Erik’s shoulders, and Erik would fall against him, forehead resting against Charles’s neck. Charles would hold him, just like that, until Erik had exhausted himself, and when he had Charles would lift Erik’s chin and give him a slow, honest kiss. Erik would look shocked, but in the end he would smile.

They’d stay like that until it was almost time for the morning bell, wrapped in each other’s arms. Then Charles would get back in his bunk and lie down and the next day both of them would do their best to pretend that they’d actually slept.

And then they’d be shipped off to the front.

Sent to die.

But it wouldn’t be so bad, not really, because no matter what happened they still had each other.

Overhead, the sky was getting dark. The new moon gave view to thousands of summer stars, the wind blowing just enough to ruffle his bangs. He imagined a midnight picnic by a lake, sandwiches and wine and swimming – lying out on the blanket and letting the warm summer wind dry their soaking bodies. Maybe they would end up cuddling together for warmth, wet arms wrapped around naked torsos, noses brushing together as they leaned in for another slow, passionate kiss. Maybe they would just lie there.

Charles imagined these things with Erik.

And when he finally tore his eyes off the stars, when he finally looked at the mud and the water and the filth, the empty shells and broken metal and cratered earth, upturned grass, uprooted trees, when he finally tore his eyes off the stars and focused on the real Erik, the torn, broken, waterlogged body, Charles started to weep.

you heartless bitch.

how

why.

I.

Iasdlfkasd

uhuuu. I can’t now I have to write angst to battle your angst and are you sure you want to unleash that monster? because you have. If you’re giving me these feels, I’m going to torture all of my followers with the end result.

(Source: ladyfassbender)