Charles says this with a serene smile on his face, as if he isn’t weak from the cancer and as if he isn’t small, bald and vulnerable from the failed chemo. Erik clutches his hand, shaking harder than he has in his entire life, and bites back a sob.

“Charles,” he croaks, lifting that frail hand to his lips and pressing a kiss wet with tears caught in the corners of his mouth to Charles’ knuckles. “Charles, please,” he begs, because Charles can’t leave him, not after they’ve fought for so long to keep him alive. Charles’ smile widens, squeezing Erik’s hand as best he can - though the effort makes his entire arm shake.

When the next seizure takes him, he doesn’t wake, and Erik prays, prays to every God he’s ever loved and every God he’s never known, that this is some terrible nightmare, and he’ll wake up to that place that Charles speaks of, and this will have never happened.

His prayers go unanswered.