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For Charles Xavier, pain is a constant companion. Most days he has a dull ache in his lower back and the inklings of a headache before even getting out of bed. Those are the good days, the easy days.
But sometimes, his body rebels against him. The dull ache in his back morphs into a stabbing pain, his muscles locking up and spasming. No amount of gentle stretching or moving gingerly can soothe the inflamed muscles. Anyone else would turn to the wonders of modern medicine.
But Charles is not just anyone. Other than the occasional celebratory drink, he refuses to use alcohol or drugs. He won't -- can't -- do that here, in Erik's home. Their home.
Erik doesn't fully understand. But he tries.
When the two of them first arrived after Paris, Charles was having one of his worse pain days, mostly due to the extensive travel and stress of the last few weeks. And as his physical pain increased, the strain on Charles' mind did too.
On his good days, Charles was able to shut out mental distractions. He'd had lots of practice at that, living in a school with so many youngsters over the years. You learn mental shields are necessary unless you want to be bombarded with teenage angst every waking hour. But those mental shields deteriorated anytime Charles had a flare.
So when Charles wheeled onto Genosha's dock with Erik at his side, the presence of so many minds - and so many new minds, at that - was overwhelming. He shut his eyes as the thoughts and emotions of Genosha's refugees flooded over him.
Charles?
Ah, there he was. Erik crouched to speak softly to him. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to." Erik took one of Charles' in his, and only then did Charles notice the force with which he was gripping his armrests. "We can go to the house, would that help?"Yes, please. Thank you, Erik.
"Of course." Vaguely, Charles was aware of Erik waving off anyone approached them, but he focused his attention on the paved path in front of him. Erik's cabin was blessedly removed from the busiest parts of the island. The pavement turned to gravel, then to soil, and then Erik was leading Charles into his home.
Erik's home was modest, but sturdy. It was clear to Charles from the use of metal that Erik must've built most, if not all, of the house himself. Which meant that Erik was responsible for the gradual ramp at the front door, and the low table at which Charles now settled himself. Removed from the hubbub at the docks, Charles was at last able to clear his mind a bit. He focused on Erik, who was puttering about the kitchen with a copper kettle and two mugs.
Despite the humid weather, Charles eagerly accepted the warm mug from Erik. Tentatively, he took a sip from the tea before arching an eyebrow at Erik. "Chamomile?"
Erik nodded with a wry smile. "And lavendar. We get monthly shipments from the mainland, but I figured you'd prefer it fresh from the garden." Erik looked out the kitchen window. "Henrietta told me those are good for muscle pain." Erik reached a hand out to brush a thumb over Charles' knuckles. "That's what this is, right?"
Charles closed his eyes for just a second, focusing on the calm touch. "Yes, but it's not just that--" he cut himself off, unsure how to explain. Erik continued the gentle contact, but stayed silent. Not rushing or presuming. Just listening.
Charles tried again. "Usually, I'm able to maintain shields, or walls, that filter out unnecessary mental noise. But that takes a lot of energy. Whenever I have a flare, those shields are so much harder to maintain. If the flare is bad enough," Charles paused, rubbing his temple with his free hand, "then everything comes in. Every voice, every emotion, every sensation from the people around me."
Erik nodded. "What can I do? I might be able to find some medication--"
"No." Charles cut him off gently but firmly. "I think we'd both prefer it if I remain sober."
Erik met his eyes and gave him a knowing look. "Okay." He brought the hand he was holding to his lips, kissing Charles' knuckles. "Tell me how to help you, liebling."
"Um," Charles winced as a mother and child walked past the house, the little girl giggling at a high pitch. Erik squeezed his hand.
You can just project to me, if that's easier.
Charles nodded, flashing some information over to Erik.
Okay, don't worry, I've got you.
Erik guided Charles through the house to his (their?) bedroom. Pulling back the quilt on the bed, he gently helped Charles transfer and lie down, checking in with him as much as possible.
Are you comfortable?
Do you want another blanket?
Do you want another cup of tea?
Once Charles was settled, Erik went to each of the windows in the room, drawing the linen curtains closed. Charles could hear him retreat back into the kitchen, and then the sound of the sink running.
Then Erik was crouched at his bedside, a fresh cup of tea in one hand and a hot water bottle in the other.
Can you turn over for me?
Charles obliged, and Erik gently lifted the hem of his shirt. This okay? Charles nodded as another round of muscles spasms shook him. Please, Erik.
Erik hands, warm from the hot water bottle, pressed gently against Charles' lower back. A soft touch at first, relearning the muscles after so many years. Charles' breath hitched as Erik pressed the heels of his palms more insistently into his back.
Still okay?
God yes.
Erik took his time working out the knots in Charles' back, using enough force to release the tension stored there, but mindful that Charles might not be able to feel it even if Erik pushed too hard. His hands ghosted over the circular scar marring the base of Charles' spine. His fault. When he was satisfied with his work, Erik wrapped the hot water bottle in a towel and pressed it to Charles' back, then moved to crouch by Charles' head.
Your tea is on the nightstand, here. There's some plain bread here too, if you think food might help--oh and I have another towel if you want to cover your eyes.
Charles smiled, at last feeling composed enough to speak aloud. "Can you stay?"
"Of course, liebling." Erik quietly pulled a chair to Charles' side, and sat with him, holding a book in one hand and gently massaging Charles' scalp with the other. "Take all the time you need."
After that first flare, Erik made sure he was better prepared. He read about paralysis, chronic pain, and sensory overload. Whenever Hank visits Genosha, Erik is waiting for him with a sheet of questions about whatever he doesn't understand.
Charles finds his own routine as well, joining their neighbor Henrietta in the garden most days and occasionally giving special presentations at the island's school, spending his evenings writing while Erik makes dinner.
Retiring doesn't make his pain go away, but that doesn't matter. Charles has Erik, who encourages him to embrace accommodations for both his body and mind. And when one of them inevitably fails, Erik is still there to help him through the pain.