plotted starter for whichever one of Erik's family members wants to pick up the conversation and explain that this idiot fell asleep and let his tea go cold @wcrriorhearts / @mxndwitch / @survivcrsguilt
Erik Lehnsherr does not get sick. Itâs a statement of fact, an acknowledgement of the way the world is; the mutant has had injuries aplenty, but he could count on one hand the number of times he has been genuinely ill. Meaning that, when his heart starts to fail, he is quick to notice.
Itâs to be expected really, at his age. Auburn hair has long since greyed, and the strands around his temples are most definitely heading for white. Muscles and joints are not what they once were, and on bad days it can be painful to work with his hands; his days of sewing are long gone. His limp is more pronounced now than it ever was, and he frequently relies on the manipulation of magnetic fields to move about the island with any kind of ease. Erik has reached an age that, to most, would be entirely unthinkable. He knows the time he has left is short.
And still, he goes on. The mutant is not afraid of dying â hasnât been afraid of that since the age of sixteen â but dying means leaving his family, his loved ones, and he will take every moment with them that the universe will allow. He will wring as much time from this life as he can, will hold on with everything available to him, until he is forced to let go. In the meantime, he is determined that his family will have no cause to worry, or to fear. And if his heart needs a little encouragement from his mutation every so often, then what of it? Nobody needs to know.
The unexpected wetness on the back of his hand jolts Erik awake, confused gaze taking a moment to focus on the world around him. Heâs at home, in his favourite armchair, and Persephone is sitting at his feet, licking his hand in a way that means sheâs hoping for either food or a scratch behind the ears. The mutant blinks a couple of times. Did he fall asleep in the armchair again? How embarrassing. A quick glance towards the familiar voices he can hear in the kitchen. Hopefully they didnât notice his little nap.
Calloused fingers receive another lick, and with a small smile Erik obliges the request, lifting his hand to rest it on top of Persephoneâs head, gently scratching his thumb behind one of her ears. His other hand reaches out to retrieve his cup of black tea from the nearby table, but instead grasps only air â it takes a couple of attempts before he realises the mug is no longer there. Forehead furrows. âDid someone take my tea?â











