Letters sat crumbled on Erik’s desk as he stared at the blank page. It had been months since the incident in Cuba — six months, eleven days, and fourteen hours exactly. Of course, he didn’t know who was counting — not him.. obviously. The metal pen hovered in the air, ink dripping on the page, feathering into the cotton paper. The words wouldn’t come, not properly. The idea haunted him, the idea he wouldn’t be forgiven by the man who gave him hope for the first time in years - decades.

The words didn’t come, not on the fourth, fifth — fifteenth try that night. It was perhaps impulse, the way Erik found himself packing a small bag. A change of clothes, some cash. Enough that it would be a quick trip; just a check in on an old friend. Something the Brotherhood didn’t need to know about. He took the bus, transferring four times before he finally arrived to a walking distance.

Erik inhaled, sharp, uncertain. Then exhaled, anxiety still crawling through his bones as he knocked. There wasn’t an answer, not that he cared for it. The formalities were done, the lock clicking to let him in as the metal hummed underneath his fingertips. “Charles,” he called, feeling the telepath brush his mind a long time ago. “I need to speak with you.. urgently.” An apology on the tip of his tongue. A need for the other lingering in his shaking hands. Something rattled under his nerves. “Are you here?”