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Rating: PG-13 for M/M references
Pairing: Magneto/Xavier
Fandom: you know that one, don't you?


Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel INC. I'm not making 
money, nor do I have any, so don't sue me…Please. I'm just borrowing 
them, and I promise to dust them off and put them back when I'm done.


This is my first attempt at X-men fanfic, so please tell me what you 
think, I can take it…





        *Any dream worth having is a dream worth fighting for.*
        Isn't that what we thought, so many years ago, my friend? 
That if it wasn't worth the effort to fight over, it wasn't worth 
anything at all. So many dreams, so many things that we wanted to do 
together, planned on doing together. We were so happy, so content 
with each other. The mere sight of you could make me smile.
It isnt working…
        That's what you told me that night, when we were staring at 
the small fire, barely enough to keep us warm. But that was never a 
problem, was it? We could solve that problem easily enough, but then 
it began to change…
        We cant hide here…
        Something else you screamed at me, when I tried to tell you 
that there was nothing you could do, that one man cant change the 
world. What did you think we were hiding from anyway? A world that 
wouldn't understand that we loved each other just as much, and 
perhaps more, than any man or woman could?
        No. What we were hiding from was something more dangerous 
than that, more isolating.
        I remember when we first told each other what we really were. 
More than men who loved each other, more than people who wanted to 
help. We were more different than that. Much more.
        The pain, the fear, then afterwards the relief, that after 
years of knowing, knowing that I was different, that I was flawed, a 
freak of nature that had no reason to exist, that somehow I would 
never find another person like me. The relief that came from knowing 
that somehow I wasn't really alone at all. That there was someone 
else like me, even if your abilities were different, someone who knew 
what it was like to fear, to feel alone…
        You said that was all we had, remember? You shoved that in my 
face, then froze when you saw how deeply it had hurt me. Tried to 
apologize. Even though I didn't move when you took me in your arms, 
when you apologized, I felt you, could hear in your voice that you 
were truly sorry.
        But that didn't make a difference, did it?
        That's when it started, the drifting. I don't know how two 
people could become closer while flying apart, but we did. The 
debates became arguments, bitter, heated arguments as we tried to 
bend the other to our will. Working together, once so much a joy, 
became agonizing. Every glance became a dagger, every word poison.
        And I don't doubt that we loved each other more in those 
moments than at any other time.
        Our desire for each other didn't dwindle, as I feared it 
would. If anything it became more heated, more passionate than 
before. I wish I could say it was because we were finally letting go 
of those small inhibitions. That once we showed each other that we 
were capable of anger, of disagreeing, and not killing each other 
with it, that we could do anything without fear.
        I know it was because we were desperately clinging to each 
other, neither willing to let go.
        But we had to, didn't we? I was hurting you just as you were 
hurting me. You thought I didn't know about them, didn't you? Your 
little late night romps after one of our fights. Just as I prayed 
that you didn't know about my little drunken indiscretions, cheap men 
and women who didn't give me anything but a moments diversion. And 
that added to our frenzy, didn't it? To some extent I think it did. 
The need to reclaim each other, to show the other what could be found 
only in our arms, even as we sweated away the scent of someone else.
        And then it happened, that final fight. I would trade my soul 
to take back what was said, what was done. I hope you feel the same 
now as well. The words, those small blows that hurt more than a fist 
would have. We knew how to hurt each other, didn't we? Knew where to 
hit, where to dig to drive the other crazy. And then tears, from both 
of us, each begging the other to reconsider, to think about what they 
were saying, what it meant, what we had. We were so blind, weren't 
we? Too blind and too proud to reach out for the other, too afraid of 
appearing weak.
        What a silly thought to have. We had seen each other in the 
depths of depression, in the heights of passion, and everything in-
between. How could we possibly fear being weak?
        I'm still surprised that we survived that last argument.
        You stormed out then, after the last blow was delivered. And 
I sat, and thought. Not that anything came of it. I was too angry, 
too hurt to do anything but pack my duffel bag and leave. Everything 
you had given me I left behind, the silk caftan, the small journal 
with my name embossed on the cover, everything that meant something 
to me, that would remind me of you, of us.
        Everything except the photo, and the ring.
        I still remember when you gave it to me. You swore you 
weren't proposing, that it was just something you wanted me to have. 
But we bother knew better. In your own way you wanted to let me know 
that this was something more than a passing fancy, something more 
than a fling in a strange country between two foreigners. It was 
nothing, really. A small circle of gold with a single diamond chip in 
it. That didn't mean anything to me, though. What meant everything 
was the engraving, so delicate it broke my heart:
        Love is eternal.
        One small word, that. Why couldn't we say it to each other? 
Where would we be now if we had? Would things have gone this far? 
Each time we have fought over the years I remembered those three 
words. Not quite "I love you", but meaning the same thing.
        I hate rambling like this, you know. Living in a house full 
of telepaths isn't the best place for private contemplation; even if 
they claim I am as quiet as a ghost. I know they feel something, 
sometimes, when I'm not really in control of what I'm feeling, like 
right now. I still wear it, you know. That ring. Over the years I had 
to move it to my pinky ( who thought that your hands could grow so 
much in so little time?). It sits there, a warm presence. I fancy 
that I can feel the engraving, so worn away, nothing more than a 
phantom of what it was. For the longest time I wore it on my ring 
finger, until too many people asked if I had been married, or if I 
was a widower. I feel that I am both, even though my spouse is still 
living. Do you know how much you could still hurt me? I know you've 
thought about it, revealing our secret to the world, betraying the 
trust my students have in me. How could they fight you, knowing that 
I loved you? That I still do?
        I won't sign this. Just like I didn't sign all the others, 
nor did I mail them. I keep them tucked away in a place where 
everything unsaid and undone between us waits.
Perhaps, when this is over, when we have time between the fighting 
and the hatred, perhaps we can start again. An old mans fantasy, I 
can almost hear you say the words. But aren't we entitled to 
happiness after all the bitterness that has fed us for so long?



"Professor?"
        Charles Xavier looked up at the soft question. Jean Grey 
stood in the doorway to his study. He knew she was worried, that she 
sensed his unease, his pain. Tucking the letter into a drawer, he 
looked at the clock. "Dinner already?"
        "Yes sir," she answered, "If you want to eat in here Ill fix-"
        "No," he answered, maneuvering his hover chair around the 
desk. "I'd like to eat with the family tonight. Its something I 
haven't done in a long time."


FIN.




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