Present Perfect

Chapter One

Erik wakes up in fragments, each piece slowly coming to, part by part as though carefully testing the outside world for danger. Charles doesn't open his eyes, preferring to let Erik do it for him. The room is whitewashed and golden in slants where the sunlight slips past the blankets they've tacked up as curtains. Blink, grey lashes closing briefly. Amusement. "Wake up Charles."

The spoken words echo through both their minds, and Charles smiles and rolls over, finally opening his eyes when he's lying on top of Erik. "Awake."

Erik's eyes are still half closed, colourless in the dim light. Even this early, the air is stuffy and their bodies are clammy with sweat under thin sheets. Charles right about one thing when it comes to this place: they will not be cold here. Erik traces one finger down the back of Charles' neck. It sends shivers down his spine. He presses his lips against Erik's, tasting sleep gone dreamless since they've started standing guard in each other's heads.

Erik's back arches, his throat temptingly exposed; and it's a pity they have to get up and unmake the spare bed before anyone comes to wake them for breakfast. Charles unpeels himself reluctantly and Erik sits up on his elbows, running his fingers through his silver hair - it's almost down to his cheekbones now. Erik catches that thought and smiles; "I do need to get it cut."

Charles makes a face and Erik gets up, linking his fingers together, stretching them above his head in a stretch. His bones creak as his naked body arches, skin pulling still tighter against too-prominent bones. Charles presses a kiss on his left shoulder. Erik's eyes are still half-lidded, "Just because you have no hair, does not mean I have to make up for it." He kisses Charles back anyway.

It's like every other morning, a routine so engrained they could do it with their eyes closed. Charles unmakes and remakes the bed that is supposed to be his while Erik picks out their clothes. Then to the scullery across the hall to wash and dress - Erik doing up Charles' belt as he does up his friend's shirt buttons. A glance in the mirror and yes, Charles thinks he is finally getting used to his own reflection. Then down the stairs in rough and half-fastened shoes to the kitchen on the ground floor. Charles isn't quite awake yet because he can feel the other minds clawing at his, and digs himself further into Erik's - draw the curtains, lock the doors, away away away, far away. Back to the one and only place he knows will now and forever be safe.

Charles' presence is like a tickle on the edge of thought as they enter the kitchen. It's cool and dark here, despite wide open windows letting in the light and noise of Tel Aviv at seven in the morning. Doctor Allens, the head of their small hospital, is already at the table, and gives them a nod as they come in and sit down. "Sleep well?"

They don't answer, but then they never do. Erik hasn't a clue what to say. Yes thank you because Charles finds any nightmares and strangles them before they get really bad, so all my dreams are aborted before I start screaming and wake your patients? He doesn't feel like lying at this time of the morning.

Allens has stopped expecting an answer, because he just nods at the toast for them to help themselves. There's strawberry jam today, as well as the ever-present marmalade. The room is silent except for the crunch of their teeth and bread. The nurses on the nightshift must have already gone to bed, because apart from them, the only one who comes in is the older nurse who usually does the cooking. She grunts and grumbles as she sits down. "Leave some for the rest of us, will you? God, you're not in the camps any more, slow down. You'll give yourselves stomach ache -"

"We had a letter from Shomron this morning." Allens interrupts in his mild way, pulling out a crumpled sheet of paper - everything seems to get crumpled around Doctor Allens. Even at seven his pressed shirt is a mass of wrinkles.

Erik pauses, crewing more slowly on the crusts. Charles has stopped entirely, watching attentively.

"He's doing well in Haifa, they've moved to a pile of a place on the outskirts, says the quiet's good for the patients." Allens glances over the paper at Erik and Charles. "He sends you his best, and that the girl you were with hasn't shown any improvement yet, but they're still trying."

Erik wishes them the best, but is deeply glad they were chosen to remain in Tel Aviv with Doctor Allens. The man is quiet and patient, while Shomron's loud boisterousness would have driven him insane within a week. He can't imagine it would be any better for the patients.

"Anyway, the funds are coming through to us next week, so that's some good news." The letter is folded, but Allens is still looking at them. "Could I have you two on the first and second floor today? Come to us if you need anything or if there are any problems."

They nod together. Erik wonders what it must look like, they two of them moving as one. Allens looks uncomfortable.

It is the first time he's suggested the two of them work apart, which is ghastly, but with Charles in his head it isn't as unbearable as it once was, and really, they do need to learn how to work apart, if only out of necessity. If he closes his eyes he can travel back along their link and look out through Charles's eyes. It's a strange feeling, but a warm and comfortable one, as pleasant as the constant hum of the metal bedsteads as he starts mopping the floor. They weren't the first ones here and there are almost thirty patients, spread over two floors. With one doctor, four nurses and two aids to take care of them.

It's peaceful here. The whitewashed stone walls are cool, and the netting at the windows glows with the sunlight. Erik starts to relax a little, leaving the floor to dry and closing his eyes. Charles is checking his patients over for bedsores, turning those who cannot move or who are strapped down to keep from hurting themselves. He feels Charles smile and a slow, alien shiver runs down Erik's spine, as though someone had run their finger down the middle of his back. It's good. It's quiet, and peaceful and good. He is glad they came.

He is turning the woman with the chewed hands – now tied down, eyes empty and staring at nothing – when the cry brings him to his knees. It's deafening and piercing and goes on and on and on. He clamps his hands over his ears, only to realise it's coming from inside his head.

No, no no no not again! Somewhere in the back of Charles' mind he's aware of the cold floor under him, and the groans of the patient whose mind burst into his without warning. For a moment he was still in the hospital and then a blink, a heartbeat and he's in the camps again, kneeling on the ground because he can't get up and those are his children - I have children? - and they are being shot in front of him. It doesn't end, it never ends. There's nothing outside of this. He's alone and there's no way out and Erik where are you. Pain and pain and pain and he's watching them die over and over because whenever it ends it just starts again from the beginning. He's back here and he never left and never can leave because it's inside his head like the gas chambers and the flames and now this. Over and over again he's crawling towards them and then the guns fire over and over again and his son falls over and over again and he can barely feel his fingers where they're digging into his face and his head banging against the tiled floor make it stop. Anything, everything but please just make it stop.

Charles is on his knees in the bathroom, with his head in the sink. Erik's holding him from behind, warm, bony arms wrapped around his chest and it's like tuning into a radio station, Erik must have been shouting for a while but Charles can only now hear him.

"- You're not there, you're out of there now wake up! Charles please it's gone it's not there please-"

Charles draws in a breath that tastes like fog mixed with razor blades. He's soaked head and shoulders - Erik must have tried to wake him that way – and shaking so hard his hands are jumping like spiders. Another breath and he slumps backwards on his heels. His head is pounding and everything hurts. He gingerly touches an aching spot on the back of his head and his fingers come away bloody.

"You were banging it on the floor. I could hear you screaming." Erik sits down next to him on the damp bathroom floor. He looks pale and touches Charles's face gently.

"Did anyone else hear?" His voice is so soft he can barely hear it himself.

"No, you were screaming in your head." Erik shakes his head, "It was all I could feel from you, you cut everything else off."

"Good." Charles hugs his knees. The violent images are fading slowly, but he's glad Erik didn't have to see them. Erik slides closer and puts an arm around him. The sick feeling is slowly fading, and the sunlight through the window is warming him.

Erik gently touches his chin and turns Charles' face towards him. "What was it?" His voice is just as soft. "Did... did it happen again?"

Charles nods. He doesn't want to leave the room. Leaving means going back out to the ward, and it could happen again at any time. He can try to bury himself completely in Erik's mind, but the moment they'll separate, it'll happen again, it's only a matter of time.

Erik's rubbing his back, and Charles leans against him, he can feel his anger, frustrated by not having anyone to vent it on. The only person he could blame would be Charles – and he does, although he's trying to crush the thought. If only he could just control himself - Erik doesn't know what it's like, even with their minds connected. He doesn't have to worry about the metal he touches turning back to bite him. The worst it does it not react at all.

"Hello? Are you two in there?" It's Allens. Erik's anger latches on to this welcome target. The doctor was the one who suggested they separate, if he hadn't said it-

"You're being ridiculous." Charles murmurs, then unhooks Erik's arm and gets up.

Allens frowns at them when they emerge from the bathroom. They're both pale and shaken, and Charles' shirt is soaked through. The man whose mind he touched is loose and back to banging his head against the bedstead. Charles wants to vomit at the sight. He got out of this nightmare, but the man doesn't have that option. Allens doesn't know any of this and just straps the man back down before going back to frowning at them, hands on hips.

And maybe he's not as securely buried in Erik's mind as he would like, because he can feel Allens' as well. There's well what else did I expect? And really, the two of them should be in one of the beds, not running around like this, but we're short-staffed as it is, and a quick reshuffling of rotas for the day as they're clearly in no state to do anything until lunchtime at least.

Charles glances at the ground like a scolded child. Allens has been nothing but decent to the two of them, despite Erik's quick temper and his... problems. He can see how much more difficult he's making the man's job. The doctor sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Can you two work downstairs at least? We still haven't finished clearing out the back courtyard and Mrs Gunther thinks we could set up a storehouse in there. She's down there now, but tell her she'll be on the second floor. Understood?"

They both nod, and the moment they're out on the stairs Charles stops and hold his head in his hands, as though his could gather his thoughts manually and stop them from wandering to the rows and rows of beds where can see the ghosts of a thousand nightmares waiting for him.

Erik takes him by the arm and quickly marches him downstairs, and Charles can see him think that if he gets Charles away from these people quickly enough, it won't happen again.

They stop at the kitchen for glasses of water. Nurse Gunther is there and is not too happy to be told to head upstairs. She glares and Charles shudders, clearly picking something up from her. Erik bares his teeth at her and she sniffs, "No better than animals," before stalking upstairs.

The water seems to calm Charles, and Erik takes advantage of the empty kitchen to put his arms back around his friend. Charles gives a low sigh and relaxes for the first time since breakfast. He buries his face in Erik's shoulder, trying to shut out the rest of the world and running their minds into a long feedback loop of each other. Some uncertain time later he looks up. "Do you feel better?" Erik asks.

Charles nods, his hand goes to the bloody lump at the back of his head and starts cleaning himself off at the sink. Erik crosses his arms and bites his lip. "What can I do?"

Charles blinks at him, a mental '?'

"If this ever happens again. What can I do to stop it?"

Charles' hands tighten on the sink, a shiver of terror. "I don't know. Try and get me away perhaps. I don't know how this works."

It's not an answer that satisfies either of them. "Can you make it stop?" Erik suggests finally.

Another quizzical look. "You stop me from having nightmares." Erik explains. "Could you stop them?"

The spike of terror makes Erik shake, Charles looks panic stricken. "No, you don't understand -" it comes in a rush of images. Fragments that must have come from the man's dreams, and some from earlier, old horrors. Don't make me look at it again.

He must have moved to hug Charles again, although he doesn't remember doing so. It no longer feels strange to do so. It feels natural, like two pieces of the same whole. He presses a kiss to Charles' bare head. He won't insist, but he cannot think of another way of dealing with this. Charles' mind is not going to stop working like this if he asks nicely.

I know. Please. I just...can't do it right now. It's just too much. I can't control it like you can. There's a feeling like trying to hold onto water.

Shh, it's fine. It's not, he wants Charles to stop being scare of his own mind, but it's unfair. However they were made able to do these things, whether as part of some SS experiment or from – Erik can't even think of another explanation and sticks for the first one; Erik was the lucky one. There is nothing painful about the welcoming hum of metal and being able to empty bedpans without using your hands. He can feel Charles digging through the shifting land of his mind – painless if alien – trying to shelter himself from the outside world.

The courtyard outside is an extravagant name of a dusty patch of packed hard earth, half sheltered by an overhang – it looks like it was once a garage – the rest cut off from the street by a high wooden fence, it looks new, probably put up when this place was turned into a refugee hospital. The ground is covered in rubbish of all kind, and it looks as though people on the street have been disposing of their trash by throwing it over the fence. Not exactly pleasant work, but it's away from the hospital.

He can feel the people on the street, as they start sifting through the rubbish, but their thoughts are more closed off than those of the patients, and they pass by quickly enough that Charles can only catch pieces of their thoughts. If he focuses on other things, the noise dies down to a low growl of static, like a badly tuned radio.

Charles blinks, there is a radio. Half the wires have been ripped out and the aerial's been bent almost in half, but Erik takes it and frowns at it and it straightens good as new. Erik grins, for a moment the years slip off and he looks about twelve. Look what I've done!

"Do you think you can get it working?" Charles tries not to sound too eager. He could finally find out what is going on in the outside world without actually venturing there. Doctor Allens doesn't buy newspapers and those he's seen haven't been in English.

Erik frowns at it, and Charles can feel him probing the radio in a way that doesn't use hands or Charles' erratic skill but something else, unique to him. "It has a lot of parts missing, and I don't know how radios work." He blinks and looks at Charles. "Would you like it?" Erik doesn't really care what is happening outside their little kingdom of two, and his interactions with the outside world have been overwhelmingly negative, but if Charles wants it...

Charles smiles, and no answer is needed.

Most of the rubbish is gathered to the far end of the courtyard, closest to the fence. There's not much organic waste, which is a relief, mostly broken bottles and old newspapers – one's even in English, Charles puts it aside to look at later. It looks two months old, trumpeting the headline 'War in Europe at an End!" – Erik picks out pieces of metal like a magpie and frowns at the comparison. Charles sees a flash in his mind of an old box with separate compartments for a twisted piece of copper wire, a lump of black iron, a rusty cog, a half-corroded piece of tin. A piece of sorrow, wondering what happened to his collection. Erik shakes the thoughts away and picks up the lid of an old can. The rust sloughs off like a snake shedding its skin, and it begins to spin above Erik's hand, catching the light and flashing like a mirror.

It is only when they've finished clearing out the side of the covered area furthest from the door that they see what this place was actually used for. It was a garage, and there are the remains of an ancient motorcycle buried under the wreckage. It's very old, covered in patches of rust with gaping holes in the tyres, the leather seat cracked and torn. Erik is looking at it very intently.

Charles smiles, Erik doesn't notice, he's entirely focused on the motorcycle. The radio would be a challenge to repair, and he would enjoy having something to do, but this. This would be amazing, a project he could focus on for weeks, just to see if he could actually do it. It would be nice to have proof to show Charles that what they could do would be useful as well as a liability – He realises he's being overhead and ducks his head. Charles rests a hand on his shoulder, it's fine. It's more than fine. Charles likes the idea of having a way of getting out should things get bad again. The motorcycle isn't very large, but it's big enough for both of them. The name on its tank says Ariel. Erik is running his hands over the handlebars, not quite touching, and the rust is falling in their wake.

Charles crouches next to him. "If we finish clearing the yard, Allens is more likely to let you keep it."

Erik blinks, having not even considered the idea they might be allowed to keep the motorcycle. It doesn't belong to anyone.

"It came with the hospital, so I think it belongs to Allens."

"And what would he do with it?" Erik mutters, he tries to put it upright and fails, the muscles in this thin arms standing out like wires. He frowns at the motorbike, and Charles can feel his mind pulling at it, demanding it move. It rocks a little, and Erik manages to get it wedged against the brickwork.

They go in briefly for lunch – a sandwich each and a salad – then out again, and by the end of the day they're both scratched and aching and sunburnt. Nurse Gunther tuts over them as though they were foolish children or the patients upstairs. It grinds Erik's already brittle nerves.

Don't antagonise anyone when we're about to ask for something. Charles glances at him, and he subsides with a sigh.

They will have to start this conversation. It's a little intimidating. They don't seek out company and don't talk unless they have to. Charles begins, "We found a radio."

Doctor Allens looks at them; it's hard to say if he is more surprised at hearing them speak, or what Charles said. "Back there?"

"Yes,"

"And does it work?"

"Erik thinks he can get it working." Charles glances at him when he says this, a mental prompt. Erik nods. He is not sure how to lead into this, so he just does:

"There was a motorcycle too. I believe I could get it working as well."

Allens looks at him appraisingly. "A motorcycle?"

"Yes, if we can have it?" Charles this time.

"I don't see why not, if you can get the radio working it'll be more than worth it, and it's not as though we can pay either of you yet."

Allens is re-evaluating the two of them. Previously they were in a strange limbo place between aids and patients, unpaid except for their keep, but they are useful and Allens is guilty he's spent the last lot of money without offering them any, figuring their keep is enough pay. If they want any of that old rubbish they're welcome to it; and a radio would be helpful.

Charles closes his eyes and tries to pull his mind away, "Thank you." The words echo strangely in the ears of three people. He can't seem to block them out, it's like trying to cover yourself with sand, it just slips off, or sheltering inside a house full of holes where the wind can still cut in. He wants to clap his hands over his ears to block it out but it's not stopping – he can't stop it. Unlike Erik he can't find an off switch and the thoughts just pile in like rain.

"Can we go to bed?" The words reverberate through his skull, but anything's worth leaving, he can't stand it here.

"Best sleep late; we'll have you on night duty tomorrow." Allens waves them off. "Good night."

They wash off and Erik holds him until he's stopped shaking. "I can't make it stop."

Erik hushes him, his arms are warm and now, alone in their little attic, everything is quiet but for their thoughts. Charles' head pounds as he tucks it under Erik's chin.

"You are going to have to face them." Erik whispers.

"I can't." To walk in there is to walk back through the gates. Breathless terror.

"And tomorrow? They will still be there. We have nowhere else to go."

"Then tomorrow. Not now. Please." He can feel Erik's impatience, and his utter faith that if Charles would just go down to the wards he can make them go quiet, that he is strong enough if he would just try and not be afraid. It's almost sweet.

"Tomorrow then. But you have to do this."

Charles can breathe again; he doesn't care when, just not now.

Erik awakens to heat. Charles is kissing him, hot and hard, a slash of tongue across his lips. Erik groans and his hands fist into the sheets. Charles is straddling him, thighs wrapped around his waist, hands on his shoulders. Erik groans, and kisses back, drowning in their entangled minds and lust. His hands climb up to Charles' thighs and smiles when he pulls back, he can taste Charles' panting breaths against his lips. "Are you trying to distract me? It won't work."

"Shh." I don't want to think of that now, enjoy this, and let me enjoy this.

"Yes." Yesyesyesyes always yes. It will never be no.

Charles' hands splay over his chest, fingers in the grooves between his ribs, thumbs flicking over his nipples, pinching and twisting and making him gasp. Charles lowers his head, scoots back and follows his hands with his tongue. Hot and sharp, the room is already warm, and this is fire. He can taste his own skin on Charles' tongue, and Charles' mind flashes with the same lightning in his own.

Don't want to wait. Hurry up. He has no idea which of them thought that, but Charles scoots further back and swallows him down without warning. Erik almost bucks off the bed, his hand coming up to cover his mouth and stifle a shout. His mind is scrambled senseless, flashes of light and electricity and he can taste his own cock in Charles' mouth, and Charles is shivering in the feedback loop of pleasure. He licks up and down and pulls away and Erik gives a muffled sort of noise of protest. The room is warm, he knows that (although thinking is getting almost impossible) so why does it feel so cold?

Charles moves back up his body, and Erik's fingers dig into his hips, demanding. Now. Please. Now. He feels the muscles flex, and Charles' fingers preparing himself. His head drops back against the pillows, half laughing. It feels so good, so very good. There is nothing in the world better than this.

He bucks up again when Charles slides down, inside and through and around and surrounding hot and sweet and so very, very good. Please yes please yes pleasepleaseplease. Charles' head drops back and groans, the sound torn up from deep inside him. Erik's fingers are locked around his hipbones, nails digging in hungrily. His breaths come in coughs and gasps, trying to bites back moans and failing. He can feel Charles clenched around his cock, Charles' hand around his own cock, locked together in a cycle of pleasure, everything hot and burning and so very wonderful.

Open your eyes Erik. Charles' thoughts are stuttered but still amused.

Erik's eyes are grainy and sticky with sleep, and the dim light is harsh against them, the first time he's opening them since sleeping. Charles' body is a golden outline in the light filtering through the curtains, head thrown back and his eyes are closed, the hypocrite. Charles smiles in his mind and lifts himself on his knees, then slides back down again, fucking himself and fisting his cock and projecting everything into Erik's mind, taking Erik's half blind pleasure and feeding it back over and over until it doesn't matter whether their eyes are open or closed, they're both blind with pleasure.

It's so good, everything hot and blazing and peaking until Erik arches a third time, coughs out a cry and comes endlessly. A second peak and Charles follows him, biting his hand to stifle his own cry. He collapses on top of Erik, pulling out and curling up as close as possible, mumbling something senseless and delicious. Erik opens his eyes again, half-lidded and dizzy, and presses a messy kiss against Charles' lips. Everything is hot and sticky and they're going to have to change the sheets again, but Charles is happy, curling around Erik's mind like a cat in front of a fire.

Yes, it was a distraction. Charles smiles, and Erik kisses him again, brushing his thumb over his cheekbones. But it worked, didn't it? And I wanted to- he holds up his hands and interlaces his fingers to illustrate to be able hold myself in your mind, so I could stay there when I try to-

Yes. Charles cannot even find the words in his own mind, and Erik can feel the fear snaking back into his mind through the post-coital bliss. He puts his arms back around him, Charles' skin is damp with sweat, and their bodies press together, fitting perfectly like two puzzle pieces, as though they were meant to be together, and always had been. I will be there. Ready to pull him away if it happened again.

Charles doesn't answer, but Erik can feel him once again try and bury himself in his mind, he tries to hold him in turn, but he cannot use his mind like Charles can, and the thoughts slip away like water. "I love you." He whispers instead.

"You're all that's good in the world." Charles mumbles. It fills Erik up like liquid sunlight.

Charles' eyes open, and they are like summer skies, endless blue around broad black pupils. Erik kisses him, first on the lips, then, when those eyes close again, on both eyelids.

I love you. Both of them together, endlessly.

They don't go to breakfast at once, instead going directly to the second floor. The minds press on him. It's not as bad as yesterday, a constant murmur like conversation just out of hearing, but as he goes in the noise increases and the flashes of screams start to echo in his head.

Charles stumbles, Erik catches his arm, the contact drives the voices away, leaving only Erik's buzz of worry and care. There's more than a touch of frustration there too. He doesn't understand, and Charles is glad of it really. It's a horrible feeling, and enough of Erik's life has been horrible that Charles is glad he's being spared this.

Charles pulls away. Watch the door, please. If he has to face this, he can't drag Erik into it. If he has to walk back through those gates, he'll do it alone. The thought makes him feel sick, and Erik must have caught that because he doesn't move.

The sounds return, he can catch glimpses of the nightmares around him. It's not all of them, but enough, they press in, a flash of a gun, the slam of a door, a scream, endless, going on and on. The cold, clenching fist of hungry that makes Charles stumble.

Stop. He closes his eyes, holds out his hands like Samson destroying the temple – that was from Erik's mind, he realises – and pushes in a way that has nothing to do with muscles.

Stop. Please stop. The sounds die away, but the moment he pulls away they come back, if anything even louder, a cacophony.

Charles stumbles and falls to his knees, Erik catches him before he hits the floor – his brittle bones risk breaking on the hard tiles. Charles pushes him away. He has to do this, he must do this or he will never be able to do anything or go anywhere. He will be a prisoner again.

Please, stop. Silence please. His hands tremble, the sounds drop again. Please, shhh. He tries to soothe their minds, the way he does Erik when his sleeping mind jumps and shudders into a nightmare. Like smoothing out wrinkles in silk. Like wind over water, water on sand. Shh, everything levelling out, the cries fade.

Erik is next to Charles, who is kneeling, arms outstretched as if to fly. And everything is silent. For a horrible moment, Erik thinks Charles has killed them – not because they are dead, it would be a mercy after being trapped in an endless nightmare, but because of what it would do to Charles – but no, they are all breathing. Deep, steady breaths, for deep, peaceful sleep.

Charles' breaths are coming in half sobs, hands trembling where they are still outstretched. Erik kneels down in front of him, and pulls him into his arms where he belongs. Charles collapses against him; eyes still screwed shut, tears beading his lashes.