Charles backed away from the metal bender, whose fists were clenched with anger. He could see Sean in his peripheral vision, and a ball of fire igniting a building. Glass crunched as easily as if it were paper, and it showered the street like debris from a bomb. A piece hit the professor in the face, and he felt blood trickling down his cheek. He raised a hand to touch it, and winced when he lodged the glass further into the cut.

Erik smirked, and shook his head disapprovingly. "Not as smart as I thought you were, Charles?" Charles didn't respond. He wouldn't give his old friend the satisfaction. The time for forgiveness was over. It had wasted away in front of him when he witnesses Erik watch children burn. He could forgive Nazis. He could understand vengeance on his mother's murderer. But this man, no, this monster in front of him was a cold blooded killer.

The smaller man's eyes widened and he stumbled slightly over a felled cobblestone. Screams pierced his ears from all directions, and he wished nothing more than to run, to where it was all safe.

But nowhere was it safe. His mutants, his protégés were relying on him; they held their very lives on his shoulders. Charles fought down a surge of nausea.

"Why do you continue to run?" his enemy asked softly. "You had your chance to join us. Because you refused, all your precious students will die. Why not make it easy? The longer you run, the worse it will be, I promise." Charles closed his eyes, and let out a breath.

It was over, he realized. Erik's forces far outnumbered his own, and neither could stand up to the force the United States could deploy. Mutants in their eyes were just that: mutants. Freaks with no purpose just waiting to be disposed of.

"What if I give up?" whispered Charles. "Will you let them go?"

A car to his left imploded, and the glass shattered. He flinched. Erik scowled, and the professor's back hit a wall. He gasped; this first sign of weakness seemed to please the metal bender.

Charles scraped his nails along the wall. His power left him defenseless, and the helmet rendered it useless. Erik never was one for a fair fight.

A hand caught his chin, and gripped it tight. The smaller man clenched his eyes shut, refusing to acknowledge the gaze of the murderer in front of him. Erik growled, and something sharp hit his stomach. His mouth opened, and he choked on his own saliva.

Erik's voice was a deadly whisper. "And why would I let your pawns go? They'll never live in peace. As long as I'm here, with or without you, they'll always try to stop me." Charles inwardly screamed. It was no win situation. He would die, his students would die, and Erik would stop at nothing to bring the mutants into power.

His knees buckled. If not for the hand holding him up, he would have collapsed to the wrecked cobblestone road.

Erik's other hand touched his hip. "On the other hand… if they honestly believed that you were on my side, no one else will die," he trailed off, fingers lightly tracing a path down his thigh. Charles knew exactly what he had in mind.

He stopped moving completely, and shut down. NONONONONONOTEVERNOTAGAIN, his thoughts were jumbled and panicked. Erik gave an angry cry, and slapped Charles hard across the face. The professor shot across the ground, but didn't make a sound. Angry red fingers already began to show on his cheek.

As soon as he hit the wall, a foot hit his chest, and another, and another. Erik kicked him furiously, and stopped only when he heard a snap.

"That feel better?" The polish man asked in fury. "I suppose if you're that selfish; willing to give up thousands of lives to save yourself. You're no better than a Nazi." No response.

Inside, Charles was crying. No better than a Nazi by refusing to let himself be violently assaulted and abused in the worst way possible. Turning his own attraction against him? No, he couldn't deny the attraction he felt towards the man.

Ever since Charles's arms had wrapped around the polish man's chest under the water, and dragged him to safety, he couldn't help but notice the slight angle to Erik's cheekbone, the smoothness of his lips, and the invitingness of his dark brown eyes. And with every chess game, the notice had flourished.

Now, in the time of war, when he couldn't afford any weakness, his only secret was his demise. His fear of being touched. Of being dominated, and hurt, and abandoned. Like a pet left out in the rain.

He could say the word, not even in his head. It was too big a reminder, and a distraction. Why waste time dwelling on the past when you can move forward. The young man had reminded himself. Or tried.

It all came back in a rush when he felt Erik's fingers touch his collarbone. Memories of rough fingers scraping his back, and leaving purple bruises on his wrists. Charles felt his lip bleed, unsure whether it was a dream or real life. He hoped it was a dream. He would wake up and brush it off as a fluke. A cup of tea and a good book would set it from his mind.

Dream Charles and Real Charles didn't fight back. They didn't move when angry hands ripped off his shirt and left reminders littering his pale flesh. It wasn't real, the attack. He really had problems with others touching him, that's all. He should invest in one of those classes where everyone has a trust buddy, and the lights are always off.

The professor felt his body shake when he heard a zipper being pulled down. It was an odd sensation, like he couldn't directly connect his thoughts with his physical self. His senses were dulled, and the smashing and screaming in the back of his mind could have been from a show off the telly, or children roughhousing in the garden.

Dream Charles smiled at Real Charles, and whispered, 'It's okay. It's only lasts for a minute. Then they leave, and you're alone again. Just bear with me, alright?" Real Charles nodded.

Dream Charles was young. Very young, Real Charles realized. It was him when he was a child. A child just entering puberty, for sure. His face held slight traces of baby fat, and his large blue eyes were framed with soft tousled curls. Dark bruises littered his neck and chest, barely concealed under a heavy sweater.

Dream Charles smiled softly. "You're lucky. That man won't touch you more than once. He's not crazy like… y'know…" he trailed off, and Real Charles nodded. He knelt to hug the boy, who immediately returned it. It wasn't a hug to a stranger. It was a hug from the one person he trusted more than anyone else. Himself.

Real Charles cried out in pain when he faintly realized the familiar pain of being pushed into. His body, separated from his consciousness, was still awake, and aware. A faint tugging around his navel drew his attention to his dream self.

"I don't want to leave," he murmured into his younger self's hair. They hugged and hugged, and shared the pain they both knew.

The child Charles pulled back reluctantly. "He's almost done. I think he might really finish the job. Are you okay with that?"

Real Charles's eyes widened in realization of what that meant. He was going to die. In moments, dry sobs wracked his chest, and he was barely holding onto his body. He wasn't going to let Erik have the satisfaction of killing him. He was going to leave on his own terms. You can't live on without the will, he reasoned.

Both smiled sadly, the connection holding on by threads. His hold onto reality was severing, and the mutant—past and present—held hands.

The tugging on his navel grew more pronounced. Determined not to go back, they tightened their grip. It was unbearable, the pain in his stomach, in his chest; it wasn't physical pain. Someone wanted him to come back.

Dream Charles frowned, and with a sudden movement, let go. His own scream echoed in the mind reader's ears as he was thrust violently back into consciousness.

He screamed. He screamed until his voice gave out all at once, and he coughed. He choked, and choked, and a pair of hands found his bare chest. Someone wanted him alive alright. His rapist.

All movement froze. All choking stopped, and so did all breathing. He said it. Rapist. Rape. He was raped.

Beautiful blue eyes opened, and gazed into dark brown ones. I can't forgive him. I can't forgive either of them. This is truly worse than death.

Even with this thought, he cursed himself for falling again. Falling into those dark brown eyes. The eyes of his rapist. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't the person. Those eyes weren't of a rapist. They were of a child, an innocent child whose parents were gone and was alone in a large and cruel world. Much like himself.

Charles raised a weak hand to cup Erik's face. "I'm sorry, my friend." And he stumbled to his feet.

He was better than this. It was degrading, and humiliating, and painful, and wrong. That didn't stop the fact that he was Professor Charles Xavier. He was a genius with a wonderful talent because of two men who's intentions were beneath him.

The injured man stumbled forward, drawing his shirt from the ground and slipping it on. He redid his trousers, taking care not to jostle his ribs, and for the first time realized the silence. It was quiet. No explosions, no screamed, no shattering of glass. He touched the glass in his cheek again, and dug it out with a fingernail. It stung, and the cut continued to bleed.

In the square, in front of the river, were his mutants. All of them. And some of Erik's too. They stared at him solemnly as he passed, and all were silent.

The crowd parted like a wave, and at the bridge he reached a beautiful blue woman and a large blue monster. Both were roughed up, but walking and alive. His heart swelled.

Raven held her hand out to him, but Charles shook his head.

"Is Magneto dead?" she asked quietly, her voice echoing in the thoughts of every mutant.

Charles swallowed down a sob. I'm stronger than him, he reminded himself. "No,' he said aloud, addressing Raven. "But I might be."

The crowd's confusion was nothing to Raven's face. It warped from slight confusion to shock to anger to horror. Every emotion fighting in the professor's chest to rise was displayed so accurately on her face.

She didn't move to hug him, her glimmering eyes falling on the bruises on his face and arms. "I trusted him, Charles! I trusted him." Her voice cracked, and he took her hand.

"I trusted him once too."

They stood like that for several moments, when the crowd parted behind him. Charles turned, ignoring the unbearable pain in his ribs. Erik stood there, arms down, and eyes empty.

Mystique took the opportunity. "You bastard!" she screamed. "You fucking bastard! I thought you were truly trying to help us! You only wanted to help yourself, and—" she broke off, and collapsed. Charles looked at her, and back to Erik. Several mutants darted to help their overcome sister.

"I'm sorry, my friend," Charles repeated his earlier words. "I understand why I'm not capable of helping anyone. I can't help myself, let alone a group of mutants. It's their choice what they do now. I'm finished."

Erik's eyes showed a spark of horror, before becoming empty again. "Charles…" he said with a warning tone. The professor brushed it off.

"That's inappropriate for this conversation, Erik. Decide what to do soon. I can't help you with that." He turned away, and truly took in the damage done. Not a building for a mile radius was left unscathed. He could see American's on the other side of the river, their guns trained on him. Once they realized the threat was gone, it was over for everyone.

Charles felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Azazel. "Where to boss?" he asked. The professor looked surprised. He was sure the teleporter would side with Erik.

He paused. "Tell everyone to link hands, and bring them to the school. Don't let the soldiers know what we're doing. They want to kill everyone. Leave no one." Azazel nodded, and turned back to the group.

It was quick moving. Hands found others faster than could have imagined. Erik looked lost, but a green woman grabbed her shoulder.

Angel looked at him, and her eyes widened. "No!" she screamed, and dragged several others along with her in her fight to reach his hand.

It was too late. The whole group disappeared in a red flash, and he was left alone on a demolished river bank with 100s of American soldier's staring him down with their guns.

There was no movement. He closed his eyes, and prepared for the fire. Charles cleared his mind, exhaled. Safety's were released, and the bullets left their shells the same moment a red hand touched his shoulder, and both were jerked away from the scene.

Charles cried.