Retrograde

Second part; getting more distracted now by thoughts of sex. Porn in the next chapter! For now, enjoy Suzaku's tangible bitterness.

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Suzaku had never had much in the way of living space: his father had not been one for extravagant palaces, believing that a humble home made for a humble heart, and his room had been small even before the arrival of two Britannian royals had forced him into even tighter quarters. The transition after his father's death (after his father's murder) to a single cramped room in the military dormitories with two bunk beds and three roommates had been easy enough; Suzaku had only needed to accustom himself to the constant sound of other people breathing, other people snoring; the occasional green recruit assigned to his room who spent entire nights crying from stress and fear.

He had never expected anything more for himself. Certainly he'd never wanted more. He and his father (his dead father) (the father he'd murdered) had agreed on very little, but this one belief they shared: that all a man needed was space enough to curl up on his side, warmth enough to get him through a cold night, food enough to keep hunger at bay. That anything more would only be distracting. The lavish trappings of his new position were unfortunate and unavoidable, part and parcel of this latest step he had taken towards becoming the Knight of One, but nothing he had ever looked forward to.

So he had told himself many times.

Yet, when he opened the large double doors that led into what were now his personal chambers, Suzaku could not deny the palpable sense of relief he felt. There were no bunk beds; there was more than one room; the walls were papered and adorned with beautiful paintings; he had actual windows, with actual velvet curtains, drawn shut now against the coming night; and furniture: sofas, armchairs, end tables in this one room alone. And most of all, everything belonged to him. No roommates, because every Knight of Rounds had his or her very own chambers and would not need to share with him.

It was beautiful. It was excessive, unnecessary, and thoroughly distracting. That he was standing in the doorway, staring at it, devouring it with his eyes like a starving man, was personally disappointing. Twenty-four hours ago, Suzaku might have been disgusted with himself for even noticing. But he had so many other, better things to be disgusted with himself for right now.

Behind him, Zero (her murderer) (Lelouch) was panting wetly around his gag. The long walk from the Emperor's audience chamber had no doubt exhausted him, and in more than just the usual way.

It had been -- a very public trip through the palace halls. At almost every turn they had taken, another shocked maid or startled palace guard had been there to greet them, each one doing his or her best to stare without staring at the newly-knighted Eleven and his prisoner. More than once, Lelouch had faltered under the weight of their eyes, struggling with his inability to shield even an inch of his naked body from their curiosity. More than once, Suzaku had twisted his "leash" to keep him moving, ignoring his muffled protests but wondering each and every time whether the dark-haired boy recognized any of these people: whether they recognized him, as the child they had once served.

He is who you think he is, he'd almost said, more than once.

But it didn't matter anymore.

(nothing mattered anymore, not to him) (thanks to him)

The only relevant thing was the present, where he had closed the door and they were alone -- alone despite the dozen tall candles and the brightly-polished metal and the lingering scent of freshly-varnished wood that meant servants must have only just finished preparing this room. Alone except for, in spite of, one another.

And in the present, Suzaku found that he was very aware of the silence, the raw sound of Lelouch's breathing that kept breaking it. Much too aware of his own clothes, the familiar skintight flightsuit and the less familiar air on the back of his neck where, for some reason, he had started to sweat. Suzaku unfastened his collar, taking a gulp of air to steady himself.

"You might as well sit down," he said at length, his voice thick. He didn't turn around. He wasn't sure what he would... do, if he did.

More silence in reply. It shouldn't have come as a surprise. Of course Lelouch wasn't going to do as he was told. However exhausted, however much he probably wanted to sit down, Lelouch had always been so damned stubborn. Even when they were kids together (stop it) (don't think it) (don't be nostalgic about him)--

The silence broke, mercifully giving him something else to think about, but not with the soft shuffling of tired footsteps. Instead, it sounded like Lelouch was making another futile attempt to speak, one that soon descended into a cough, and then a fit, and then -- what was unmistakably the sound of the man choking on his own spit. He couldn't even be trusted to breathe right.

Agitated for so many reasons, Suzaku spun around to face him and tore the gag from his mouth, fast enough that Lelouch couldn't flinch away from his hand but still controlled, still careful, so that it wouldn't hurt. Because (yes) (think this) when it did hurt, he wanted it to hurt for a reason. He wanted it to be on purpose.

"S - Suzaku..." The name spilled out, slurred and breathy. It was, and wasn't, Zero's voice. Lelouch twisted to wipe his moist lips on his own shoulder and then the fine lines of his face settled into a disgusted expression at the necessity. "God, this is unbearable. At least fetch me a handkerchief."

Suzaku raised his eyebrows but said nothing, letting this silence stretch between them. The gag couldn't have been very comfortable. A simple electroshock collar would have been better for him, but riskier for their intended audience. Best to keep him muzzled so that he couldn't forget the pain, the way he had forgotten the geass, and try to speak. The spectacle of him attempting it and being shocked repeatedly might have even made him look brave.

And brave was the last thing he had ever been.

Lelouch was watching him closely, probably trying to read him. "So that's how it is," he said after a moment, looking away. The line of his shoulders went rigid, straight and proud. He seemed to be rallying; bracing himself against what he thought was coming next. He even lifted his chin. "Fine, then. Get it over with."

It was, Suzaku realized with some disbelief, an order.

(coward) (Princess Euphemia's murderer) (the man who had not been satisfied with simply assassinating her: the man who had wanted to kill her dreams, too, to destroy her utterly in the eyes of her people) (filthy coward)

Even in chains: even naked. Even thinly disguised as resignation. Who did he think he was? Where did he think he was, that he could still be giving orders? On some level, it was almost sort of -- funny.

"Get what over with?" Suzaku asked, quiet. "What is it, exactly, that you think I'm going to do to you?"

What one thing did he think would possibly have been enough to repay him for all of the things Zero had done?

He took a step forward, beginning to close the distance between them, and Lelouch held his ground, eyes cinching shut, the set of his mouth pale and pinched. Waiting to be struck. Waiting to be beaten, waiting to be broken. As though he knew he deserved it.

(and he did, he deserved so much more) (but why) (why did he seem to know it)

For a heartbeat, Suzaku hesitated, uncertain.

Then Zero said, without opening his eyes, "I was hoping you'd be forced to kill her," and everything inside him went cold. "I was hoping she'd stay alive in the hospital room just long enough. Under my command, you know, she would have strangled you with her bare hands if she'd had to... And, because of me, you would have had to stop her. By any means necessary."

His shoulders were shaking, and it took Suzaku a fraction of a second to process that, to understand that his former friend was actually laughing at him, at the thought of Princess Euphemia with her hands wrapped around his neck, at the thought of what he

would have had

to do to her to make her stop.

Suzaku didn't remember moving, but he knew he must have, because suddenly he had Lelouch up against the wall, the other boy hissing from far too little pain. He would have bruises there tomorrow, from where the chain had lodged in his back, because his skin was white as snow, the mark of the nobleman he no longer was, and from their childhood Suzaku knew (didn't want to know) that it was delicate. It would show every mark, every flush of sickly purplebrown. God, it would have been easy to beat him until he lost consciousness. Easy to beat him until he died.

"You bastard," someone whispered. It must have been him, but it was so hoarse, so choked, that it sounded nothing like him. "How could you do that to her?!"

Zero (because it wasn't) (but damn them both, it still was) (Lelouch) smiled at him. "Easily," he said, light and soft. "Very, very easily. I only had to say the words. 'Kill all the Japanese,' I told her, and she did it, with a smile on her face and a song in her heart. Poor, sweet Euphy--"

"Don't you dare say that name!"

Never in his life had he been so furious. He couldn't breathe, could hardly see, and his hands were white-knuckled on Lelouch's (Zero's) shoulders. The world had become a hot, hazy place and everything seemed to be happening too slowly to stop any of it. Suzaku found himself again very conscious of small things: of every inch on his body where Lelouch was touching him, bare skin searing through his clothes to warm the flesh beneath; of Lelouch's chest heaving against his own in fear or excitement or both; of the darker specks of purple in Lelouch's violet eyes; of the fine thin hairs on the back of his own neck that were now literally standing on end.

Finally, in a small thin voice, Lelouch said: "You don't seriously -- expect me to obey you."

His lips were so pale, but they also looked slightly swollen. Suzaku wondered distantly whether they had ever been kissed. Would Lelouch have told him, even when they'd been the best of friends?

(if they had ever been the best of friends)

"I do expect it," he murmured. For the life of him, he couldn't make his voice any louder. "I own you now."

The words landed like a blow, but Zero was quick enough to counter. "I have never recognized that man, Suzaku. Not as my father, and certainly not as my lord. Ha! I renounced my title when I was ten, so he can have it, but I am not his to sell." It was, Suzaku knew dimly, an appeal to his better nature. "I am a human being, and he has no right--"

Unfortunately for him, Suzaku had very little of that left. "No," he interrupted, smooth and certain again. The white-hot anger of a moment ago had cooled to a numb indifference. "You're not. You were a monster, worse than an animal. But now, you're nothing."

No longer a noble, no longer a citizen. Not even as low as a Number now. What a fitting pseudonym he had chosen for himself. Because zero was exactly what he had become.

The mask cracked, ever so slightly, and Suzaku saw the seed of something new in wide, violet eyes. Lelouch squirmed against the grip on his shoulders, but of course it made no difference. "Suzaku..."

"Do you know what His Majesty told me to do to you?" Suzaku asked him, eyes drifting again to the dark-haired boy's mouth. "Do you know what his exact instructions were?"

As he watched, the seed blossomed. It was... fear. Real, human fear. And he was a monster, too, because the sight of it was very nearly intoxicating. He wet his lips, bent his head to Lelouch's ear, and whispered:

"Just to keep you alive. Other than that, I can do whatever I want."

They were close enough that he could feel the shiver, but Lelouch turned his head aside and hardly sounded flushed at all when he murmured, "And what is it that you want, Suzaku?"

(to be innocent children again, far from all of this) (to have her back) (to look in his eyes and see nothing but Zero)

Slowly, so slowly, Suzaku drew his head back. "To start," he replied coolly, "I think I'd like you to stop calling me by my given name, as though you still think you can pretend we're friends."

(to hurt him)

It cut deep, even though they both knew it shouldn't have, and he could almost taste the blood in his mouth as Lelouch shut his own with an audible click. There was pain in his expression, and that Suzaku had expected, but there was also something else, something like... stunned disbelief. Mere moments ago he had been disowned and stripped naked on international television, sold into slavery by his own father, had lost everything he had been working toward for months if not years. But this one simple thing that he should have expected still had the power to undo him so thoroughly that he couldn't even seem to find the words Zero would have said.

Which was an illusion, a dangerous illusion that wouldn't last, because as soon as he let his guard down Suzaku knew that all of it -- the fear and the pain and the disbelief and the brief humanity -- would vanish. And then Zero would be very much present in Lelouch's sneer, his hard violet eyes. Mocking him for this hesitation, this hateful weakness where he had come so close to wishing he hadn't said anything; where he had come so close to thinking this man (this monster) (her murderer) (his best friend) might actually have feelings to hurt.

He could see the words, could practically taste them, by the time Lelouch turned his head. Their noses almost bumped and their lips were not quite touching as he whispered it: "Aren't you the one who kept insisting we were?"

There wasn't enough space between them. Suzaku could feel the other boy's breath on his cheek, a hot heady breeze that broke over his mouth and made his stomach clench. "My... mistake," he thought he'd said, but the rush of blood in his own ears was so loud that he could hardly hear it. Lelouch's scent was everywhere, all over him, and he couldn't control his breathing when every shallow gasp of air tasted like sweat-slicked skin.

Silence. Lelouch was staring at him with eyes absolutely still and lips slightly parted, breathing through his mouth. For once, he wasn't thinking rapidly. Maybe he wasn't thinking at all.

(no) (no no no) (stop it) (step away from him) (don't)

There was so little space between them. He only had to shift forward that fraction of an inch, and it seemed to take forever. He had all the time in the world to watch Lelouch's pupils constrict before he brought their mouths together, crushing those pale lips to his own and shoving past them with his tongue in something too painful, too hungry, to be a kiss.

Oh, god, it felt so good. It felt like such a relief. And for that, he could muster disgust, the way he hadn't been able to for the relief he'd felt at the sight of his new quarters.

At first, Lelouch was frozen, his lips stiff but unresisting, and then Suzaku thought he had started to respond -- thought he could feel the tongue he was stroking come to reluctant life -- but abruptly he seemed to come back to himself, twisting his mouth away with a muffled protest. The chains rattled noisily as he strained against them, and Suzaku held very still, letting him squirm.

On some level, the struggle was actually sort of exciting: provoked a shivery, animal urge to pin his slender body more thoroughly, to reclaim his mouth and deepen the thing that wasn't a kiss.

And in spite of everything, in spite of himself, Suzaku almost couldn't resist. He was no virgin, had touched and been touched by others before, but even in the final white moment of perfect bliss he had never felt so fevered, so electric. His whole body was singing. He wanted this: he needed it. It felt like another geass, and even that horrifying thought wasn't enough to break the thrall.

What was wrong with him?

(would he have been like this with her, too) (no, it was Lelouch, Lelouch's fault)
(Lelouch was doing this to him, bringing this out in him)

Whatever it was, the look on Lelouch's face -- his blown pupils, his pale cheeks stained a dramatic red, his flushed lips -- told him that he wasn't the only one who felt it. Lelouch opened his mouth, but couldn't seem to get enough air for more than a husky rendition of his name. "Su... Suzaku..."

But still using his name. Suzaku shifted against him, eyebrows lifted in wordless curiosity (in wordless punishment), and felt it at his hip like a knife; ground forward and watched as Lelouch's expression contorted and listened as he moaned helplessly through his teeth.

However much he probably would have liked to be, the bastard wasn't superhuman. The press of flesh, the curl of tongue, they had affected him. And there was something thrilling about that, too -- something deeply, darkly satisfying.

Experimentally, he ducked his head to Lelouch's shoulder, nuzzling dark hair back to expose the side of his neck, and licked a bead of sweat from his flesh. He felt it when the pulse quickened beneath his lips, but it took him a few more seconds to notice the silence and longer still to understand what it meant: Lelouch had stopped struggling.

Suzaku hesitated, then took a step back. He was vaguely surprised to discover that his legs were actually shaking.

Could he really do this? Could he really go this far just to hurt him?
(could he really convince himself it was only to hurt him)

Slowly, he brought one of his wrists up to his mouth and began to peel off the glove with his teeth.