markedformore | (no subject)

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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.