markedformore | (no subject)

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charles

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The official mandate of the police states that Erik must serve his time, find some method to quell his anger, and offer disclaimer to any minors that might come into contact with him. He is violent. Erik is well-aware that he can be violent, but he'd like to believe that he is not violent on a constant basis. It was simply the circumstances of his situation. Charles' house was under attack for the second time in a short basis. He wouldn't tolerate that.

Still, he finds that there is a ray of light in these 'punishments'. Today, he had lingered at the outskirts of the speeches and listened to each candidate make their promises and try and charm a small country. And then, there was Charles. Erik has never been so fond of the man as he was the moment Charles swiftly declared that this rock would never be his home. Erik is well-aware there had been more to his speech, but he didn't care that much about that.

He waits outside the mansion with a stolen bottle of wine from the now-closed Catscratch, as if tempting the police to name him a thief as well. It is nearly time for his court-appointed meditation session, but he feels as if with enough wine and conversation, he can steer the hour away from such inanity.

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This year's speeches lacked the fireworks of the previous election, but there had been an excitement to the day all the same, a greater sense of community interest than Charles had anticipated given past experience. He's still a bit high from the rush of adrenaline that always come with public speaking, from commanding a captive audience, if for only a few moments. There's a spring in his step as he makes the climb towards the mansion, for while his victory is far from assured (he had lost last time, after all), he remains optimistic about his chances.

Besides, it's not the end of the world should he lose again.

Not expecting to be greeted before he so much as steps inside, a surprised laugh escapes Charles when his eyes land on Erik waiting outside the door, a bottle hanging from his fingertips. Given that they've had something of a trying month -- a trying year, really, if he's honest, though the past few weeks have truly been something else -- he's perhaps the last person Charles would have assumed eager to celebrate. Slowing to a stop, he cants his head to the side, biting back a smile.

"Is this your idea of a party?"

Erik lifts up two glasses, a smirk playing on his lips as he pours carefully and generously in order to have enough for both of them. "For your inevitable celebration," he insists. "Or," he adds, extending the first glass to Charles. "In great weariness of your inevitable defeat. Either way, I'm proud of what you said and I think you deserve a reward for it. So, drink."

The pride of a convict is perhaps not the sort of approval Charles ought to be seeking, all things considered, but it's so rare that he and Erik agree on anything of importance that he can't allow himself to be anything but grateful for the show of support. Taking his glass, he raises it in a toast.

"Cin cin."

Erik takes the alcohol and the glasses and settles into a sitting room, pleased enough as he smirks at the other man. "We're supposed to be embarking on one of my calming sessions," he notes evenly. "I'd rather talk about your speech. Honestly, Charles, you gave me chills of inherent delight when you announced this would never be your home. I don't think I've ever agreed with you more on a point."

Erik, he of a displaced home more times than he can truly count, feels as if he ought to know about this. Idly, he scratches at the bandages that still cover his wounds, pulling them a bit tighter as if trying to cover up the memory.

"While I can understand why those with families would be reluctant to leave, I don't know that I understand the desire to settle down in the first place," Charles admits, taking his usual seat opposite Erik. They will have to get to business sooner rather than later, but for the moment, he can indulge in the celebration of his ego.

"Carpe diem, perhaps? But it's such a wartime mentality for a place that typically promotes peace."

"Habit," Erik presumes, stretching out his legs as he indulges in the drinks of the hour. They ought to be good, given their original home. He bites his tongue to prevent a comment over peace, that menacing and unobtrusive thing that keeps trying to wind its way back into their conversations. "I'll tell you what I think," he says curtly. "Your only true competition is the Captain. Perhaps the girl."

"Miss Granger or Miss Jones?" asks Charles, lazily arching an eyebrow as he peers at Erik from over his glass. He can't afford to get too inebriated -- they do still have their session to attend to -- but he does allow himself to relax in his chair, sinking into the backrest. "Not to mention which Captain. There are two of them."

"Granger. The one with the unruly hair," he says sharply, crossing his ankle over his knee. "And the tall Captain, with the unfortunately charming face." He only says that because he seems to have other things going for him, but Erik's sure that he'll earn a number of votes from nothing but pure physicality.

People are shallow in that way.

"Do you want this, at least? Truly?"

He has half a mind to ask if Erik thinks him ugly with a remark like that, but Charles lets it slide, dismissing the thought for the trivial nonsense it is, particularly given Erik's follow-up.

"Of course," says Charles, expression sobering immediately. "I meant every word I said on that stage, Erik. I want to help, in whatever way I can. And given that I made it this far into the proceedings, I'm confident that at least ten others would like me to as well."

"Or ten others would like to see you fall on your face," Erik replies with a smirk, wondering what sort of reaction he can prod out of Charles tonight. He sips at the liquor, though he's well-aware that it can make his tongue sharper with every additional drop. "Is that all you'll do, though? Your golden promises to an eager public?"

"I may remind you that I made no promises," points out Charles, gaze narrowing. "I find such a practice unwise when he have no idea what resources we'll have from one day to the next -- even my optimism must be tempered by a certain pragmatism. No, I'm more concerned about ensuring fair and balanced judgment when there are decisions to be made, facilitating dialogue between those who carry different ideals..."

He trails off, giving Erik a pointed look. "I'm well-versed in that, as you well know. Particularly if you signed away your support simply to see if I would fail."

No longer in the mood for his drink, he sets it aside, and it's with a composed, if distinctly business-like manner that he adds, "We ought to begin your meditation."

"I was the first man to sign your name to the nominations and signed your bid without a second thought," he notes evenly, uncrossing his legs in order to sit forward as if meditation suggests somewhat far more intensive -- a battle, perchance, that he must be ready for. "I wouldn't go to such lengths just to see you fail. In fact, I'd be rather upset if you did."

"You've a funny way of showing it," Charles remarks, his annoyance not yet fading. He wonders if he and Erik aren't destined to do this dance forever, their friendship always tangled in some spat or another. The time they'd spent recruiting seems so simple, in retrospect.

"Tell me, Charles," Erik coaxes, as though he is the therapist and not the patient in this particular session. "How would you have me act? I won't follow you blindly. I don't think that you would ever want such a thing. I nominated you. I signed your petition. What more would you like?"

"You could try to be more optimistic about the motives of others," says Charles, his patience in this matter only surface deep. "I've done plenty here to warrant a show of genuine support from people other than you, my friend."

"Yes," he agrees, frank and honest in that. "You have." Whether others on this rock are aware of that fact is what Erik believes remains to be seen, but if they offered their show of support with Charles, then he believes that they might be improving. "Cynicism is easy," he confesses, sitting back in the chair. "Suspicion doubly so. It prevents me from settling into a lull where history might repeat itself. Still, rationally, I am aware you would not let that happen. I won't simply sit back and be passive, though, Charles."

"I said nothing about being passive," Charles replies, frowning. Politics weren't a natural fit for him -- back home, he doesn't know that he would have ever pursued such a venture, his talents perhaps lying in other areas of public speaking -- but they did allow for a certain degree of say in matters. Optimism, in other words, is not synonymous for backing down.

"But opening your mind to the idea that not everyone is out to get you is certainly a start. For all its faults, Erik, this island is very accepting, though the circumstances of that acceptance are not ideal."

He has often wondered how different things might be if they weren't stripped of their powers upon arrival, if hiding would have still been necessary. Given the treatment of those souls down in Rapture, however, he also wonders if that isn't answer enough.

"I am aware of that," Erik speaks softly, casting his gaze to the ground beneath his feet as he attempts not to look at Charles as he cards through his feelings and beliefs on such a topic. "But I am afraid that thirty-two years of persecution or fear thereof has rendered such a belief rather innate," he admits, looking up as he presses his fingers harder to the edge of his glass.

And always, the question begs itself; would they still feel this way if they knew what I could do?

"Perhaps with time that will change," Charles murmurs, gaze locked on Erik. It's a foolish thought, he knows, but sometimes optimism is a fool's game. He would rather cling to hope all the same.

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