This is not the worst moment of his life. Charles tells himself that as though it's a comfort, as though anything is. He spreads out his hands on his desk and looks at the steam rising from his cup of tea and takes a few last moments to be alone before he has to join his children in the kitchen where Jean will never again be sitting, drinking her coffee and rubbing her temples in sleepy irritation. Jean isn't--wasn't--a morning person.

Erik had told him, once, about worst days. It had been the sort of evening when it was possible to talk about things like that lightly, sprawled on the fire escape outside their Manhattan apartment in the sticky summer heat. The setting sun had dyed the sky the acid orange that only smog could produce. Also they had been drinking, which helped; not enough to get drunk, which neither of them really liked, but enough not to mind the heat.

Charles had been lying with his arm dangling over the edge, waving it in mid-air to feel the almost-cool breeze against his hand. Erik had been sitting with his back propped against the wall, head back, relaxed, as if the heat had slowed his restless energy.

"There's a certain relief," Erik had said, "to knowing that the worst day of your life has already happened." He'd run a hand across the bars of the fire escape landing, savoring by association the almost-weight of the fence in his hands, the feel of the gates bending and twisting, never quite enough. Charles knew the memory by then as well as he knew the memory of the first time they'd had sex; Erik brought it out to handle just as much.

He'd thought that was perverse. He'd seen Erik's point, in an abstract kind of way; nothing would ever be worse than seeing his parents herded away to die, trying to save them with every ounce of power his eleven-year-old body possessed and failing. But as always, Charles had wanted to drive the memory away, sure there couldn't be any comfort in catastrophe. He'd edged closer and smiled, sure he could be distracting. It was a casual power he'd taken for granted then.

"So this isn't the worst day of your life," he'd said. "How would you rate it overall, then?"

"On a scale of one to ten, or . . ." Erik had smiled, fingers drifting away from the metal railing to drum on the hot metal platform. Charles watched them, knowing in a minute he'd cover them with his own, and that it would be only a matter of time before they went inside and drew the drapes despite the heat.

"The worst is over," Erik had said when they did, when they were pressed up against each other naked with even the sheet torn off the bed, and Charles had murmured reassurance against his shoulder. There was an undertone of doubt that threatened to spill bitterness into Charles's mouth if he chased it down. He didn't, and let his mouth fill instead with the taste of sweat and shaving soap.

He'd remembered that conversation, not on the worst day of his life, but weeks later, when he'd failed to reach something for what seemed like the hundredth time, and realized that he would never again reach the top two bookshelves, and that he'd have to ask someone else to get the books down for him or let them stay there gathering dust, and he'd gone out into the garden, which he hadn't been bothering to do lately because the door was too heavy and swung back without warning, and sat in the cool damp air and looked across the lawn.

He'd understood, then, the dark and ironic comfort Erik had shown him; that no matter how bad the night was, and frankly it was a fairly bad one, it wasn't the worst day of his life. That had been set in stone the day he'd woken in the hospital, fenced in by the metal frame of the bed and the plastic of tubes and bandages, and fought with all his strength of will not to understand that he would never walk again, and failed.

He's moved beyond that cold comfort now; love and work and friendship and a sense of humor are better ones, and he's become very good at keeping any stirrings of anger or self-pity at bay. He's not sure they're such good cures for grief. His tea's gone cold, and he tells himself again, it's not the worst day of your life.

But he doesn't believe it. Jean is gone, and if Erik were here, the thing he wants most to say, long before I never wanted to hate you and I miss you like I miss reaching for things on high shelves, is you were wrong; it can always be worse. But Erik knew that. He sips his tea, but the feel of bone china in his hands and the bitter cool taste filling his mouth isn't enough to make him not remember.

The worst is over, Charles had said without words, some time after they'd burned away passion and alcohol and lay sweaty and still, Erik's face pressed to his shoulder, listening to the traffic noise outside. He'd heard the answer as clearly as if Erik had spoken: until they come for you.

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Created on ... April 17, 2003