State of Mind

State of Mind
By Eline

Kinkmeme request: Douchezaku/masozaku aka Ore/boku, Black/white, etc, versions of Suzaku/Suzaku.

Warnings for violence, language, abuse, non-con (although how someone can non-con themselves is a bit of a paradox, really.) Self-harm? Spoilers for everything.

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His quarters were much too opulent for a soldier, Suzaku thought. Then again, he was not a member of the infantry any more. He had gone up in the world recently.

“You’re disgusting.”

Green eyes glared at him from under a familiar head of brown hair. Suzaku paused in the act of taking off his cloak. It was his face and his voice. Only harsher and shadowed--like everything he was thrown into sharp relief.

Maybe it was more him than he would ever be.

“Look at you--the Knight of Seven in your pretty white uniform after a day of subduing the rabble in the name of the Holy Britannian Empire,” the other said. “Oh wait, they were just in the way of another conquest for your precious adopted Empire.”

“I gave them a chance to back down,” Suzaku said, knowing how hollow that excuse sounded. “They were outnumbered and outgunned--they should have surrendered--”

“Tell me what’s so wrong about defending their own country!” he demanded of himself, grabbing the collar of that very fine uniform. “Tell me what’s so wrong about standing up to a bully with bigger guns!”

“They’ll be killed--”

“But at least they died fighting for what they believe in!” The other spat in his face and shook him by the lapels of his coat. “You don’t believe in anything, do you?”

“That’s not true! As long as people survive, they can find another--”

“Fuck you and your alternative way to a better world! You’re fighting this war so that Britannia can add another Area to its territories. And it’s all for Japan, isn’t it? So that you can have your own country back at the expense of some other nation!” The other shoved him backwards forcefully. “Are you stupid or something? They will never let an upstart like you--”

“I earned that title!” A title by the grace of his Britannian overlords. And the cost of that . . .

The other sneered at him, the corners of his mouth turning down so arrogantly that Suzaku wanted to punch that face--his own face. “You sold out a friend for that. Your one and only real friend. They should have made you the Knight of One for that alone--”

“He wasn’t a real friend!” Suzaku protested and knew it for a lie.

“He saved your pathetic life--more than once,” the other said relentlessly. “Maybe he shouldn’t have bothered. It would have saved him a lot of trouble in the long run. Japan might have been free of Britannian rule by now--”

“But he killed Euphie--”

“Who would have killed you if she had been in any shape to,” his other cut in rudely. “And you would have let her do it too.”

Suzaku could not deny this. In his darkest dreams, Euphie had been alive. And she had shot him as she walked over the corpses in her dainty pink shoes, a smile on her face and a red glow in her eyes.

The other leaned closer--so close Suzaku that could feel his breath against his cheek. “The worst thing is . . . The worst thing is she would have cried over your damn corpse as she continued to massacre your people. And she would have hated herself even more. Hey, you two would’ve been the perfect couple then.”

Speechless, Suzaku could only gape as he was pushed up against the wall. That was not right . . . that could not be . . .

“You see,” the other said conversationally as he pressed up against Suzaku, “your problem is that everyone else loves you a million times more than you love yourself. And you don’t deserve it. Not one bit.”

Ah, he could see the truth there. He certainly had done nothing to deserve anyone’s concern.

“I don’t think she’d appreciate you putting her on a pedestal forever like that. For one thing, you would never have touched her.” The white jacket was unceremoniously stripped from his shoulders. “The whole worshipping from afar, I’m-not-worthy business was getting old. She would have grown tired to waiting around for you to make a move--”

“No, not like that!” Suzaku rallied for a moment at the wrongness of the suggestion. Everything he did had seemed to make her sad, even thought she never said it. He should not pollute her with his sins.

“Oh please! I supposed you think she would have been happy with . . . I don’t know, holding hands? A kiss every time you got a day off? But you don’t even think you deserve that,” his other said reprovingly. “This is different . . .”

“No,” Suzaku muttered as he fended off the hands that were trying to undo the front of his shirt. “This is wrong . . .”

“Your sense of right and wrong was probably screwed up a long time ago.” His other smiled mirthlessly--a vicious curling of the lower lip. It was not a flattering look on him, but that was the last of Suzaku’s concerns right now. “The night you killed your father--”

“Shut up!” He did not want to hear this. Any of this. They were matched in strength, but the longer he spent in the presence of the other, the more it seemed as though his strength was ebbing away.

“--was the night when you decided that you had to die,” he continued relentlessly. “You forced yourself to forget about it just so that you could put on that mask, but you still wanted to die.”

The other’s presence was suffocating. Like a weighted blanket holding him down and smothering him. Smothering him like the weight of the darkness in that room the night he had drawn his teacher’s sword--

“Get off me!” He was yelling. Screaming even, as he hurled that repulsive presence--still himself and a part of him--away. “Go away!”

But it was only a temporary reprieve. The other seemed to gain power from his weakness and with a jaw-rattling thump that shook the fixtures and paintings, he was forced back against the wall.

“You joined the military just so you could find a way to die. Even if it meant that you had to gun down unarmed civilians on command!” The blows were punctuated by accusations that seemed to hammer at his defences like a siege engine.

“I--” He could no longer deny that. A long time ago--or so it seemed--he had thought that he could stop the killing. He had his chance with the Lancelot. And then there was that girl on the battlefield. Orphaned and pale as she swore at him for taking away everything she had. “I can still--I have to change all that!”

“Don’t give me that! You’re just an Eleven! What are the chances of you getting promoted far enough to make a difference?” his other self asked, punching him again. Right in the stomach this time, forcing Suzaku to double over. “You would have been cannon fodder and dammit if that wasn’t what you wanted all along! The same way you want this . . .”

“No--”

“The truth hurts! And you like it when it hurts, right?” The last blow was more of a slap. His other took the chance offered by his disorientation to straddle him. “Tell me when you start to enjoy it too much.”

Suzaku shook his head miserably. The hands invading his shirt and trousers grew rougher, shredding material along the way. This was horrible, filthy and depraved. And he was so hard he thought he might explode when that gloved finger stroked the underside of his erection.

“Oh wow, talk about repressed.” Those hard green eyes raked him up and down appraisingly, coming to rest on his crotch. “All that anger, self-loathing, guilt, semi-homoerotic feelings for your former best friend . . . No wonder you’re a mess.”

“You don’t know me--”

“Oh but I am you,” the other said, shaking his head ruefully. “And you can’t stand that, can you?”

Suzaku cried out as his briefs were ripped way--an involuntary reflex as he was exposed in front of his worst enemy.

“You don’t even have the balls to live long enough to face up to what you did,” the other said, squeezing his sac roughly. “These must be for decoration. You killed your father to save your friends. Accept it.”

He could not. Would not.

“You sold out your friend to get your knighthood. Accept it.” His thighs were shoved open and he could not think of any reason why he should stop this.

“You want to die. Accept it. You’re not dead yet.” Without preparation. Oh-god-this-hurts. The pain was like a white hot streak of light blazing across his vision, illuminating the darkness that had always been there.

“You’re still alive. That’s why you can feel this,” the other said, pushing himself in despite Suzaku’s frantic thrashing. “Now might not be the best time to tell you this, but fuck it--what you really wanted was a cock up your ass.”

Through the sharp, stinging and above all, raw-edged-pain, Suzaku saw himself mirrored above him. Skin to skin. Raw flesh and blood--he was fairly sure he was bleeding--rubbing against each other as the cock in his ass pounded into him.

His vision was blurring because he was crying. Blubbering like a child. Because it hurt worse than busted ribs from being shot at point-blank range. Definitely worse than being kicked around by a gang of Purists. But he was still hard.

“This is all there is, in the end,” his other told him, strangely unmoved despite his exertions. “Your cunt and my dick. You’ll be screwing yourself over like this forever.”

Throughout it all, Suzaku wanted to die. And he wanted to come because the pressure building up in his groin was becoming unbearable with every passing second. But a hand was clamped around the base of his cock, denying him his climax.

He was babbling, begging, probably incoherent by the time those fingers released him.

It was over in a flash. Maybe. The details were a little hazy to him. There was a sense of overwhelming nothingness. Blankness took over his mind and he was not Kururugi Suzaku, not the Knight of Seven and not the boy who killed his own father. He was, for an instant, outside himself, outside his own skin and free of the other.

But it all came back to him within a split-second as he lay on the floor, sticky strings of semen cooling on his skin and leaking out around the softening cock that was still inside him. Still unflustered, the other looked down at him, for once not sneering or spitting abuse.

“You want to die because you can’t accept that you’re me.” Almost tenderly, almost gently, he leaned down to kiss Suzaku. “I am the one who took that power and used it. I am the slayer of my father. I am the betrayer of my friend and my country.”

He paused and reached down to stroking away the stray curls that were plastered to Suzaku’s forehead--an oddly tender gesture after all that had transpired.

“And I’ll be here even if no-one else is,” he said softly. Reassuringly, even as he twisted a curl of hair around his fingers and pulled. “I will still be here and I’ll hate you always.”

Suzaku knew it to be true. And he was glad.

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