He cups the back of Erik's head and locks an arm around his broad shoulders with protectiveness that comes too late--it's years too late, he knows. When Erik was losing everything Charles was still drawing with crayons and hugging stuffed animals. He wouldn't have known what to do, in that place, except perhaps cry. But grown Charles sometimes wished fiercely that some miracle would fling him back there, to where he could act, where too late wouldn't mock him. It all starts there, and Charles knows this wouldn't rip through Erik like it does if it hadn't been the monstrous birthing place of his anger.
"And I would never let it happen," he says, and if his voice is harder than he means it to be he doubts Erik will find fault in that, "I'd protect you. I might fail you a hundred other ways, Erik, but not there."