Charles kissed Jean and Ororo's cheeks in that sequence, the women both squeezing his hands for good luck. Jean murmured that they would be waiting here for good news – because, they refused to believe that things would go badly. Charles was grateful for their positivity in a time when his stomach was tying itself up in knots.

Charles left Jean and Ororo at their hotel in the town just outside of Ironfield, the same town that Charles had been walking to when he met Erik for the first time.

It was now almost a year later that Charles has returned, and the day was bright and sunny, unlike the day he ran away. Many things had changed in that time; Charles was older and wearier, even if he did not look it. His soul, a soul that was as much Erik's as it was his, was tired and withered. The string tied beneath his left ribs tugged painfully, but as the carriage had neared, he could feel it knotting itself back together.

People that loved each other would only part if one of them wished it. Charles had always been the one who, naively, thought that Heathcliff's words had been beautiful. It was funny how he was the one to have caused the pain those words warned him about.

Charles had heard nothing from Erik, not that he had tried to contact him recently. Part of Charles held a fear that Erik had moved on. Unlike Charles, Erik had been in relationships with women before, and many more than one. What if Charles was just another one? One of his mistresses that he fleetingly loved because he abhorred his mad wife?

But Charles couldn't bring himself to believe that, not when he knew Erik. Erik had withheld things from Charles, yes, but the parts of himself that he did let Charles see, they were real. Erik had shown Charles that he loved him, even when he hadn't told him everything. While Charles still loved Erik, he was sure that Erik still loved him.

'He's still calling my name, I can hear it,' Charles thought to himself, heart hammering as he hobbled out of the hotel with the aid of the walking stick Logan had made for him on his nineteenth birthday.

The dirt roads leading up to Ironfield were impossible to traverse on his wheelchair, and Charles was resolved to get there on his own. Charles limped his way to hail a carriage from the front of the hotel, which soon dropped him off at the closest stop along the road to Ironfield. Charles paid them, before beginning the trek up to the grand house.

Charles had always enjoyed this walk, and remembered how he felt when he and Erik would walk it together in the light of dusk. Erik would sometimes tug him behind a stocky tree and press him up against its trunk, sealing Charles's red lips with his own and kissing him until he couldn't breathe.

Now, the walk was laborious, a little sweat building on Charles's brow as he hobbled down the familiar road.

It was when he drew close enough to break through the veil of overlying trees that Charles stopped dead in his tracks, walking stick clattering to the ground.

Ironfield Hall, his home, was a ruin.

What had used to be battlements that stood tall and proud against the horizon were charred black and crumbled, revealing burnt exposed rafters that splintered into jagged pieces. Ironfield no longer had a roof, its walls now mere slabs of broken stone on the ground.

It looked like fire had razed Ironfield to the ground, and Charles suddenly couldn't breathe.

Charles fumbled to pick up his discarded walking stick before hopping and dragging his maimed leg forwards and forwards, numb to the pain as he stared with wide eyes at the remains of the once-grand mansion.

Crows squawked around the caved-in roof, Charles pushing his way through the non-existent door, which had been reduced to black coal.

The inside was as bad as the exterior, if not worse. It looked like no furniture had been spared from the inferno, the wooden banisters of the staircase mere twigs on the ground. Charles wobbled forwards, heart growing more and more frantic as he realised that the estate, the estate where he had fallen in love and had his heart filled and broken, was a wasteland.

"Oh, God," Charles choked out, falling into Erik's downstairs study. It had also been touched by the fire, and was devoid of its books and souvenirs from abroad, his desk black and empty. It seemed like, apart from the fire, looters had ravaged the place bare.

'Where is Erik? Moira? Alex? Where is everyone? What happened? Oh God, I'm toolatetoolatetoolate.'

"Who goes there?!" a sharp voice called out, Charles whirling around at the sound of the voice. Footsteps rushed forwards, before bursting into the study. The man who tore through the room skidded to a stop when he saw Charles, stumbling back with a double take that would have been comical in any other situation.

"Charles?!" Scott yelled, rubbing his eyes like he had seen a ghost. It was indeed Scott Summers, looking different but the same. While before he had always worn a coachman's garb, he now donned a fine suit and spectacles. His hair was neatly styled, longer than it used to be – he no longer looked like a young coachman, but a wealthy lord. Like someone who finally married a wealthy woman like Emma Frost.

Charles was speechless and in shock, Scott recovering first and rushing towards him.

"Charles, is that really you?" Scott asked frantically, pulling at Charles's cheeks, like he expected his hands to go right through him. When Charles yelped at the pain of having his cheeks pulled so harshly, Scott jumped, apologising profusely. "Charles, what are you- Why are you here? When did you return? We thought we would never see you again, we thought you had perished, we didn't know..."

"Scott, what happened here?" Charles asked, hand holding his walking stick shaking desperately. "Scott, where is Erik? Is he... He can't be..."

Charles's mind reeled back to the night he had saved Erik from being consumed by flames in his bed. Erik had left that incident unscathed, healthy, safe and whole, but this time... If this time Erik had died in a fire, when Charles had left him...

Charles felt sick, and swayed on his feet.

Scott saw him begin to topple over, quickly rushing and catching the former tutor, snagging his arm before he fell to the ground.

"Charles! What happened... oh, your leg," Scott said, noticing the walking stick and the way Charles didn't put any weight on his left leg. "Never mind. Here, let's go to another room. The drawing room is one of the only rooms that is still functional. Let's sit there, and I will explain what happened."

Charles weakly nodded, letting Scott help him down familiar yet broken halls to the drawing room he and Erik had shared many chess games together. When Scott led him through the doors, he could hear the clink of their glasses, the scrape of wood against wood as someone moved a chess piece, an occasional laugh, an impassioned voice as they argued, the soft press of Erik's lips against his.

Scott lowered Charles into his old seat, which appeared to have remained in the same spot beside the chess set. There was no chess set in sight, though – it had been taken by looters some time ago as well.

Scott was about to take the seat opposite Charles – Erik's seat – but he must have seen the pain cross Charles's face, and stopped part way. Scott coughed, standing up to lean against a shelf instead.

"Where do you want me to start?" Scott asked, Charles licking his lips. He wanted to know if Erik was alive, but he was afraid to ask the question. If he asked, and Scott said that he had died...

"The beginning. From when I left," Charles said, voice shaking. Scott nodded, rubbing his face and taking in a deep breath.

"We found out that you had left when we heard Erik scream out your name. He had gone to your rooms at around ten that morning, wanting to talk to you again, to try and explain himself. He had knocked on your door for a long time, until he felt like something was truly wrong, and that you weren't just ignoring him. He burst down the door, and that was it. You were gone. He had screamed out name over and over, we could hear it from the other side of the mansion."

'He had been calling for me, and I had heard him.'

"Erik... Erik was beside himself, of course," Scott said, Charles growing pale. "He ordered us to look for you, and took off on his horse himself – but by then, you were long gone. He locked himself in your chambers then, for two weeks straight. Moira had to bring him all his meals, and even then, he seemed to have no appetite. He began to eat more when we all... well, at that point, we weren't afraid of losing our jobs anymore."

"He recovered physically after that, and on the outside, he was the same Mr Lehnsherr. Maybe more bitter and snappy, but his mood had always been changeable. Inside... inside he wasn't the same. We all know why you left, Charles. The master did, too. Before you ask, no, he never blamed you for leaving. He knew he had done you wrong, and he believed that he was paying for his mistake. He never stopped loving you or waiting for you, though. Moira caught him praying, every night – and you know that the master was no Christian."

'He never stopped loving you,' Charles repeated, stomach twisting. Why does that make it sound like he...

"It was about a month after that. His wife... Creed's sister, she escaped one night and took a candle from a sleeping Anna-Marie. She set fire to all the curtains, to the beds, to everything. She burnt Ironfield Hall down, Charles, but before it was completely destroyed she climbed onto the tallest battlement and threw herself off it."

Charles gasped, somehow able to picture it clearly. The ghost – Clara Creed – with her long blonde hair and white night dress, bare footed and wild. He could see her leap through the air, thinking that she was a dove, and falling until she hit the hard stone below. She would have died instantly.

Scott paused, letting Charles stomach the news, only continuing when Charles nodded slowly.

"Moira and the other girls escaped in time, but..." Scott's voice grew thick then, and Charles knew what was about to come. "Peter was trapped in his room, terrified. Alex and the master looked for him, and the master found him and got him out. But Alex... Alex became trapped when the rafters collapsed. He... my brother. He passed that night," Scott coughed, overcome with emotion. "We held the funeral for him the week after."

"I'm so sorry, Scott," Charles said, voice shaking as he closed his eyes. Apart from Moira, Alex was the person Charles was closest with amongst the staff. Alex, the first person he had met when he arrived at Ironfield Hall. Alex, who had smiled at him and made him feel welcome, who had told him that 'so you love a man? What is so wrong with that? Someone people never love at all in their life, and is that not worse?'

"Thank you. It was six months ago now, Charles," Scott said, trying to give Charles a reassuring, thankful smile. "We have begun to heal. Alex... Alex considered you a close friend. Everyone did. After you left, we all missed you, and talked about you often. We all prayed for you to be safe, but we never knew where you had gone, even when Erik had hired investigators. It was like Charles Xavier had vanished off the face of the Earth. Where did you go, Charles?"

"Past the Moors, to a small parish there. I... I was taken in by the inhabitants at Eden House," Charles said softly. "Two of them came here with me today."

"We'd all be glad to know that you weren't alone," Scott said, stepping forward now to gently place his hand on Charles's shoulder.

Charles had to ask the question now, unable to take it any longer.

"Scott, is he alive?" Charles asked, the man blinking.

"He? Oh. The master. Yes, Charles. Yes, he's alive. I should have told you that from the start, I'm sorry," Scott said quickly, Charles releasing a breath he did not know he had been holding, letting out a choked laugh.

"Oh, thank God," Charles shook, folding over on himself, dropping his head into his hands and wiping his wet eyes before turning to Scott again. "Where is he then, Scott? I came back for him. I... I heard him calling for me."

"When Ironfield burned down, we could no longer live here. He relocated to his second, smaller residence a little further into the country. It is called Genosha Manor," Scott explained, and Charles's legs, even maimed as one was, itched to run there immediately.

"It is small, and didn't need many people to maintain it. Only Moira and Lorna went with him and Peter. Moira has written to me recently, though, and it appears that the master has sent Peter to school. Now, only Moira is there to tend to him. Angel found a new situation, and Anna-Marie... Anna felt guilty about not being able to stop Clara, and couldn't bear to work for the master any more. She found new work a few shires over, for a family that lives at a place called Westchester."

Scott jumped when Charles let out a shocked, incredulous laugh. Coincidence, or fate?

"How far is it to Genosha?" Charles asked, Scott beginning to smile now.

"Only a few hours by carriage. If you leave now, you can get there in the afternoon," Scott said, Charles nodding, gripping his walking stick tightly with newfound determination.

"Thank you, Scott. For everything," Charles said, Scott nodding and helping Charles to stand.

"I have to tell you though, Charles. The master, he is not the same man. When he went to save Peter from the fire, he did not come out unscathed," Scott said, and Charles just shook his head, patting Scott's arm.

"Neither am I. Neither of us are the same, now – and maybe, that's why we will be fine this time."

***

Scott did not accompany Charles to Genosha, since he had to return to his and Emma's own home. Emma was currently with child, and Charles did not want to take him away from her side during such a critical time. He had only been at Ironfield to try and salvage what the looters missed, but found that he was too late. Scott had been too kind, still offering to escort Charles to Genosha when he saw how poorly his leg was. Scott only gave in when he met Jean and Ororo when he dropped Charles off at the hotel. Charles doubted that Scott would have left him in anyone else's hands.

Charles told Jean and Ororo about what had happened, and they had held Charles's hands the entire coach ride. When they arrived at Genosha Manor, within the boundaries of the afternoon as Scott had said, Charles was suddenly frozen in fear as he took in the unfamiliar building.

It was no Ironfield Hall, and was a simpler country house, though Charles knew that it would have costed a hefty price because of the sprawling lands that came with it. The manor itself, however, was small compared to the extravagant Ironfield.

The manor was made of a warm-toned stone, in contrast to the dark greys of Ironfield. Rustic glass windows spanned the walls covered with climbing ivy. The manor was not imposing compared to Ironfield, and in fact looked inviting and warm from the orange glow the early sunset was beginning to cast upon it.

Charles breathed in and out with every step Jean took as she wheeled him across the gravel walk way to the manor.

Ororo knocked on the door, before stepping to stand beside Charles, clutching his hand.

Charles's breath quickened when he heard footsteps reach the door, the sound of a lock unlatching loud in Charles's ears. The door soon swung open inwardly, revealing Moira, who was dressed in a dark black dress. Her hands froze mid-motion, the door only half open as she stared at Charles, like he was a phantom.

"Hello, Moira," Charles said, Moira's eyes immediately filling with tears as she opened the door fully, cupping Charles's face with her hands and letting out a sob.

Moira opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off by an achingly familiar, cold and brusque voice.

"MacTaggert! Send whoever they are away! I don't want to be disturbed!"

"Erik," Charles whispered, Moira letting out a quiet laugh, wiping her eyes.

"Charles, you've come back," Moira said, taking all of him in. "I knew you were alive. Others thought that you maybe... But no, no. That doesn't matter anymore. You're here now."

"Yes," Charles said, Moira looking away from him then, finally noticing that he was not alone. "Moira, these are two of the people that cared for me while I was away. They are like sisters to me. This is Ororo, and behind me is Jean. And this is Mrs Moira MacTaggert, my dearest friend."

Moira beamed, eyes a little wet again, and she smoothly curtseyed at Ororo and Jean.

"Charles's family is considered my family," Moira said, smiling at them warmly. "Come in. Charles, as you probably heard, Mr Lehnsherr is..."

"In one of his moods, like always?" Charles supplied, Moira letting out a laugh, a wondrous sound, like she still couldn't quite believe what was happening.

"Yes, exactly. And I suspect, like always, you have a remedy to temper such a mood?" Moira said, eyes twinkling.

Charles nodded, mouth curving upwards.

"Of course, Moira. Now, where is Erik?"

***

Erik sat outside beneath a shaded tree with Magneto lying at his feet. He couldn't see what the tree looked like, and didn't know whether its leaves were whole and green or yellow and sparse. He could hear the wind run its threads through its branches, though, and the rustling was loud.

Whole and green then, he pictured in his mind's eye.

It had been months since Charles had left; almost a year, now. Erik didn't know exactly how long it had been, because the loss was still as raw as it was that first day. Erik could still feel the gaping hole in his chest when he had kicked down Charles's locked door and seen the wide-open window and billowing curtains. The room had been so cold and so empty, so devoid of everything that was bright.

It was also hard to count the days when every day was cast in darkness. After his wife had burnt down Ironfield, Erik had gone blind. He no longer witnessed sunrises and sunsets, and simply spent his days sitting in the library or outside under this tree that he had never seen before.

Erik did not know why he spent so much time in a library full of books he could not see. Maybe it was because the room smelled like Charles, like ink and parchment, or books and dreams. Sometimes when he closed his eyes, his vision not changing at all, he could imagine that Charles was sitting next to him.

But Charles was not. If Charles was here, he would have let Erik rest his head on his thighs, gently brushing a hand across Erik's eyelids, comforting his broken eyes. If he were here, he would clear his throat gently and read Erik passages from Brontë, or poems by Donne. He would read about Heathcliff, and Erik would have made a sarcastic comment about it. About how Heathcliff pined, and how Catherine left him.

Erik had never liked Heathcliff, but he could maybe understand him a bit more now.

Erik felt the breeze change, growing chilly. It would be around now that Moira would come to fetch him for supper, even though he was not hungry. She would offer him her arm, to guide him through thicket and the shrubbery, and he would snap at her for belittling him. She wouldn't say anything, but would make sure her footsteps were loud enough so Erik could follow.

So, Erik sat there beneath a tree that he could not see, waiting for a person that he wished was someone else.

***

Charles saw Erik from afar, and his breath caught in his throat. Scott and Moira had told him – warned him – that he was not the same man that Charles remembered. That he was blind and hurting, much like Charles was.

But, when Charles saw him, he did not see a broken man. No, Erik was still beautiful to him, in every way. His hair was overgrown, falling over his eyes that could not see any way, and his beard was thick and messy. He did not bother wearing a neck tie these days, frustrated that it was difficult to tie without eyes, and he apparently always wore the same brown pants and the same white shirt. What did it matter, now that he couldn't see it? What did it matter, when Moira was the only person to ever see Mr Lehnsherr, the fallen former master of Ironfield Hall?

Erik may have looked different, but the way he made Charles's heart quicken and squeeze was very much the same. Charles still loved him, that had not changed.

Jean wheeled him as close as she could take the wheelchair, the contraption unable to weave between the bushes and thicket. Charles thanked her softly, and she gave Charles a smile, before retreating with his chair back into the manor with Moira and Ororo.

Charles gripped his walking stick, and began stumbling back to the man that he still loved, even when they were worlds apart. Even when the string between their left ribs was stretched, making their hearts bleed, it had not snapped.

No, it was still there, drawing the two closer and closer together, until Charles was standing before him.

Magneto smelled Charles before he saw him, and immediately recognised the man. Magneto rose to his feet immediately, letting out a happy bark, racing over. Charles smiled quietly, bending down to rub the dog's head, the creature barking again.

Erik's head snapped towards the noise, hearing his companion bark and the snapping of twigs under a human's feet.

"Magneto, down. It's just Moira, Christ," Erik snapped, his dog's barking too loud. Magneto listened to his master, but licked Charles's hand once more, trotting with glee back to Erik's side, sitting there with his tail wagging while looking at Charles.

Charles smiled a little at Erik's snappish tone, glad that the man had not lost all of his fire and passion. Charles just hoped that, somewhere buried under all of that pain and hurt, there was still a man that could smile in that singular way of his that showed too many teeth.

Charles grew closer, and Erik's unseeing pale eyes looked in his general direction. While his eyesight was no longer with him, his other senses had heightened. He heard the crunching of twigs and fallen leaves, but the steps were too heavy, the rhythm unlike Moira whom he heard every day. There was no swish of a skirt against the ground, and Erik tensed his muscles at the intruder.

"Who's there?" Erik asked, Charles's heart fluttering. When he didn't answer, Erik's eyes narrowed, the man shifting where he sat. "Who is that?"

Charles sucked in a breath, taking in the man in front of him, before finally speaking.

"Magneto knows me, Sir."

Erik's hand immediately flew out and grabbed at the phantom-like being, unseeing eyes widening. Erik's hand slapped Charles's wrist, making the man laugh a little, before reaching out to meet Erik's touch half-way. Erik's hands sought Charles's, wrapping around his palm and his digits, running his fingers through them with an unmistakeable tremor.

"I know this hand," Erik breathed out, pulling at Charles's hand until it was close enough for him to press his mouth against, breath shuddering against Charles's skin.

"I would hope so, Herr Lehnsherr."

Erik let out a choked noise, kissing the hand in his before dropping his forehead to it, breathing heavily.

"Charles," Erik whispered, the owner of the name letting out a sob-like laugh, falling to his knees, his legs unable to keep him upright any longer. Charles let his walking stick fall to the floor, using his free hand now to cup Erik's cheek, feeling the unfamiliar beard beneath his fingers. Erik's cheeks were wet.

"I am come back to you, Erik," Charles murmured, craning his neck upwards to press his mouth against Erik's. The kiss was not perfect, not in the slightest; Erik's lips were shaking, and Charles couldn't breathe. But, it was a kiss that was real, as real as it could be.

"Are you really here, Charles?" Erik demanded to know, letting go of Charles's hand to grip his face, thumb smoothing over the familiar slope of his cheeks, nose, lips. These were Charles's features, real and warm under his fingers. "I've imagined you like this so many times, but..."

"I am here, Erik. I've come back to you," Charles assured him, kissing him again, and Erik finally kissed him back after loosing a wrecked sob.

"I thought I lost you," Erik choked against his Charles's mouth, Charles letting out a noise from the back of his throat. Charles shook his head, their noses bumping.

"Never, Erik," Charles said, pressing his forehead against Erik's. "I heard you calling for me. You never lost me. I'm here, and I'm not going to leave."

Erik was too overcome with emotion to speak, his body, heart and soul filled to the brim with relief, thankfulness, disbelief, love, passion, everything.

So, Charles just kissed him again and again, before pulling back only a touch, to whisper;

"And don't forget, my love – you still owe me wages."

Erik laughed, for the first time in a long time.

And, for the first time in a new forever.

A/N: Just the epilogue to go now! Thanks for reading :)