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Erik comes to the mansion for Christmas.
"I told you to stay out of my head," is the first thing he says to Charles as he bursts through the front door, and Charles is left wondering what he could have possibly meant until that night, when he finds Erik fast asleep, that ridiculous helmet nowhere in sight, and Charles remembers the weeks and weeks of dreams he's had, where he finds Erik over and over, always somehow different. Sometimes they're young and Charles can walk, can chase after Erik when he leaves; sometimes they're old, Erik's hair is grey, and they're sitting over chess, trading verbal blows that still sting just enough; sometimes they're how they are now, and Charles yells and screams and begs and Erik just stands, stoic and silent like a statue; and every time Charles wakes sad and angry and alone, and he curses his stupid heart and Erik's stupid choices and just wants him to come home.
Word travels fast that Magneto has come for the holidays. The students are, as a whole, largely wary of him, and Charles thinks that such a decision is a wise one, until he wheels into the kitchen one morning and finds Erik with the youngest two students, teaching them words for fruits and vegetables in German, Polish, Russian, and the children are watching him with wide eyes, repeating the silly sounds with bright smiles. Charles stays silent in the doorway until Erik looks up, meets his gaze and holds it for a heartbeat, two, three, and then Charles rolls away, leaving Erik to this moment of happiness.
Erik finds him later, sitting on the balcony, watching the snow.
"I'd rather not do this now," Charles says without turning. He hears Erik sigh.
"How'd you know what I was going to say?" Erik says, and Charles can't answer it, not really. Because he has respected Erik's wishes, has stayed out of his mind when he's consciously able, but he can't turn off the way he can pick up the surface thoughts that roll off Erik like waves, emotions and half-finished sentences swirling in the air around them both. Erik has never really quite understood Charles's gift, anyway.
Charles spins, meets Erik's stare head on. "I have followed what you asked of me to the best of my ability for years. If my heart - if my powers choose to do as they wish when I am not exercising the utmost control of them, I will not apologize. Constantly hiding this for so long is immensely exhausting, and I'm tried, Erik."
Charles pushes past Erik into the bedroom, and Erik follows, silent. What can he say to this man, his first friend, his greatest love, his most painful enemy? They are well beyond apologies, now. Some things cannot be forgiven or forgotten, he knows.
Perhaps, whispers that ridiculous, hopefully voice in his mind, and for half a moment he's so certain it's Charles, but it isn't, not exactly. It's him, the part that's been unearthed by Charles and his unwavering optimistism, and Erik thinks, maybe, some things can be forgiven, if you're a certain kind of man.
"It's Christmas," Erik says.
"You're Jewish," Charles replies.
"Yes," Erik agrees. "It's still Christmas."
"If you're looking for a Christmas miracle," Charles begins, stops when he turns and sees the look on Erik's face. "You are," he says, soft, and the anger Erik has become so used to hearing in his tone has vanished.
Erik holds up his hands. "I'm not looking for your forgiveness. Not forever," he says. "Just - maybe for today. Tomorrow."
Charles is torn - the part of him that's been waiting for Erik to come home is thrilled, ecstatic, finally appeased after years and years, and the part of him that's bitter and angry wants to refuse him, wants to keep him beyond arm's reach because he's tired of being hurt over and over.
In the end, though, he knows what his answer will be. What it will be, every time.
"Of course," Charles says, quiet, and it sounds like a confession, like an admission, the truth ripping into him like it does every time he lets himself think about Erik. "You don't really have to ask."