A/N: Some unusual Charles-angst prompted by theonionistheonewhocires of Tumblr, "He couldn't handle that smell anymore, every time he caught a whif of it he thought of Erik. It killed him, each and every time. He wanted to get rid of it but he couldn't bring himself to destroy the only reminder of Erik he had," and written out by me with an odd idea coming to mind. Enjoy?

Charles sits in his chair and idly fiddles with it: a nearly black, metal bishop of a chess set.

Now, normally the chess pieces he owns are wood or marble or glass, but this one particular one was always Erik's favorite. He loves using the bishop, and why Charles could never tell, but it became a joke between them.

"Why don't you simply fashion yourself a bishop of your own that you could control without touching, since you seem so keen on snatching up my pieces with it anyhow?" Charles had teased, but to his surprised, Erik showed up the next day in Charles' study with an object in his open palm: a perfectly crafted bishop, identical to the other bishops of Charles' favorite wooden set, and yet it was made of a dark metal, and molded just right.

"It took me half the night to make it, but I finally did," Erik had said with a smug grin in his eyes. "May I use it? I won't cheat. I just thought your idea was a good one."

It was a horrible idea. Because, now that it's been left behind, it's a constant reminder of Erik Lehnsherr, the man who exited Charles' life just as abruptly as he had entered it, and in that span of time, he became all Charles thought about, all Charles truly loved.

And this blasted piece of metal smells just like him; metallic, musky; and it even feels like him after a while; warm from my hands, smooth in places but rough in others, and heavy and strong, Charles thinks bitterly.

Except he can't bring himself to destroy the chess piece as wide as his palm; after all, if it were gone, what reminder would Charles have of his friend, his love?

Nothing. Not even clothes left in the drawers of a guest bedroom, not so much as a photograph. This stupid, wonderful chess piece is all Charles has.

He wants to be rid of it desperately because he spends half his day each day with the damn thing idly winding through his fingers or rolling in his palm or nestled in the pocket on his lap, added weight to his useless legs, but he can't bring himself to actually ditch it. To toss it out or melt it down into nothing would be like killing off a piece of himself.

So he hangs onto the thing — the strange, unique, irreplaceable, unusual object — and wishes, hopes that it either loses its scent and starts to smell like nothing or something else, or that Erik somehow comes back for it, giving Charles an excuse to see and have the real thing again.