Borderline

The problem with Lelouch is, and always will be, that he’s royalty. There are some things he will never be able to change about himself, like arching cheekbones and eloquent hands and his grandness, the way he will only ever be able to carry himself like a prince. He grew up with nothing but his awful sense of righteousness and pride, living with his head held so high, and he was spoiled and haughty and just. A prince.


And what is Zero, then, if not just another kind of royalty, especially when men and women and children worshipped him, canonized him into a messiah. Zero is a symbol, a brilliant symbol that worked much better than anyone (except for, maybe, Lelouch) thought he would. Zero became such an emblem of resistance and hope and danger so quickly that it isn’t much of the surprise that the Britannian army didn’t see him coming as any major threat. He took his Black Knights from being a rag-tag team of absolutely nothing and built them up to a formidable global force in a matter of weeks. It was easy to follow him and what he stood for. It was easy, also, to hate him.


It is much harder to hate Lelouch.


Lelouch is royalty, but he is also a tactical genius and a master at manipulating people to his own ends. He is brutal, for a spoiled prince--obsessed with his own ruthlessness, with inflicting something upon the empire that his whole family stands for. It would be ridiculous if there weren’t thousands--hundreds of thousands--millions?--of people dead for his little war. Rather, for Zero’s little war. Because Lelouch is just a lean, pretty boy who goes to high school with Britannia’s aristocratic elite, the sons and daughters that will inherit this or that financial glory, and exactly one (1) son of the old Japanese government. At face value, it was appalling that no one ever thought of Lelouch as anything other than normal (despite his--well, his everything), but at Ashford, everyone is their own kind of royalty, and if Lelouch was anyone’s star there, it was because they thought he was one of them. If no one ever knew him for who he was, it’s because he didn’t want them to.


But beneath all that, the haughtiness and expensive soap, the little rich boy who got anything he ever wanted (except, maybe, a real family: a mother who truly loved him, a father who cared about someone other than himself, siblings who cared about anything other than birthright), he started out being a boy horrified by himself. And he’s ended up...well. Still horrified by himself, on some level, but also with a crystal-clear awareness of what he can do and what sacrifices it will take to do it. And a willingness to do it, which is a whole new private sort of horror, but even so. Even so.


Suzaku does not hate Lelouch.


When they were children, he got some satisfaction out of knocking a rotten little Britannian puppy-boy ass over teakettle, and there was something equally satisfying about sending him flying with a well-placed kick once they were older, but that was not hate. He hated Zero, sometimes so much that he thought he would go crazy with the intensity of it, with that all-consuming cold fire. He would have killed Lelouch in cold blood when they met again in Kaminejima, for that split-second after Zero’s mask hit the stone and all he could think was Euphie Euphie Euphie, all he could see was her blood, and he wanted Lelouch to die. That, for that second, was pure hate, the first time he could have pinned something like that on a real person, a face and a heart and a soul.


The bottom dropped out dropped out of his stomach as he held Lelouch down, a hand held firmly over his cursed eye, and cooly explored this nauseous, cold hate. Lelouch struggled and screamed curses, furious and defeated, and he was not, then, Zero. He was a skinny boy who didn’t know how to fight, all slender grace that didn’t know how to recover when he’d been thrown to the ground and pinned with his face in the dirt. Suzaku thought about despair and knew that he would not be able to kill Lelouch, even if he had a gun in his hand, digging into the soft, pale flesh of Lelouch’s neck.


So the real thing is, Suzaku isn’t very good at hating anything. The Britannians called him a dirty Eleven, and the Japanese called him a filthy traitor, but he fought for all of them anyway, trying to keep them from tearing each other completely apart. Zero--Lelouch--dove into the middle of that, expertly creating a wave of chaos that destroyed everything, killed the guilty and the innocent alike, claiming himself an ally of justice apparently with as little irony as he could muster, and it should have been easy to nurse along a hard seed of hate just on that, but he was also such a source of hope. Even if the ones who canonized him were sheep, they were people, and...yeah.


(This is the part where Gino would start laughing at Suzaku, saying that gentle hearts should never get involved in war, ha ha, hair ruffle and easy sling of arm over shoulders, and Suzaku would smile weakly and agree and wonder if Gino really knew anything, like how it felt to murder your own father, or to hold the girl you love bleeding in your arms and know that there was nothing you could ever do to save her.)


But Lelouch. Suzaku can’t hate him, just because there is so much there. He feels like there is very little he could trust about Lelouch now, just because if so much of it was a lie to begin with, who knows? But he thinks that he can trust ten-year-old Lelouch and his complete, undying devotion to his little sister. And at Ashford, when Milly would shove him into things that he couldn’t possibly have predicted, that couldn’t be a part of his calculations--Suzaku feels like he could trust that automatic, easy friendship. And Shirley? She wanted things to work so badly, for her plain, sweet love to reach Lelouch, and maybe it did. Maybe. Anyway, Suzaku thinks that anyone who Lelouch let call him Lulu must have done something to get past his walls.


There was something dangerous, though, about what Lelouch could do to him, even before everything came out. Something that reached beyond terrorism and deception and first-degree murder or even that awful, sickening power that he had. Because before Lelouch betrayed Nunnally or broke Suzaku’s heart, before he forced Euphemia into the role of the Genocide Princess, he was still a prince, still intoxicatingly royal. He always had more charisma than should really be legal (why the Emperor didn’t see this and care and instead just stashed him away to be bitter for the rest of his life, Suzaku couldn’t fathom--but the royal family had an unsettling thread of insanity that ran through all of them, just a little, so what does he know, anyway), and he hardly needed the geass to be able to get what he wanted out of people. And who knows what he wants out of Suzaku, but he could do things like touch, just two fingers at Suzaku’s shoulder, his wrist, his chest, and it felt like fire. Or whisper something to him, breath stirring the curls at Suzaku’s ear. Or, god, just a look, sharp eyes and long eyelashes, thoughtful turn of lips over tea. Suzaku hadn’t known that love felt like fire until he met Euphie, until then didn’t have a name for the sweet ache in his chest when he saw Lelouch at school and thought with relief that maybe the world was sane today, because this person was not dead.


Maybe it was all manipulation, anyway.


(But Suzaku wants to have hope.)






The other thing about Lelouch is that he’s blindingly intelligent. Charles’ decision to act as though he and Nunnally did not exist was a bad one. The worst one, maybe. Because while it is easy to argue that Lelouch wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without his completely chance meeting with his witch, it still happened. C.C. could have met anyone, but she met Lelouch, and so the world went to hell. Sort of. Arguing fate was stupid, because it could be chance that Charles ditched his youngest children after Marianne “died” or whatever, same as how it was chance that Lelouch got mixed up with his little terrorists and ran into Suzaku on that bizarre day, or that Suzaku got thrown into the Lancelot for the first time. Chance is everywhere. So, okay, it’s chance that Lelouch got ahold of his geass, but either way, he’s still a genius, and Charles lost the loyalty of his son without ever giving it the time of day, and gained himself a hugely powerful enemy. The child that he hated the most out-maneuvered every last one of his other siblings and came out as emperor of the world. It would have been funny if it wasn’t real.


Not that Suzaku isn’t smart, too--he would never have gotten anywhere if he wasn’t. For the longest time, he heard people sneering that he was just lucky, because who in their right mind would have given an Eleven a chance, but he ignored them and they eventually shut up, because it was hard to argue when the Lancelot was the most powerful KnightMare Frame on the battlefield, and he the most capable pilot. People liked to look for places where they could criticize him, call him inadequate, and they found them, but they really had to look. He’s not exactly Lelouch--no prince here--but he’s worked and earned what he’s gotten, and that’s fair and no one can tell him with any honesty that he’s cheated.


It must have been mortifying for Schneizel. To have his baby brother and the young Japanese upstart from Special Envoys join forces and systematically destroy Britannia’s greatest strengths, ripping apart the Knights of Rounds and that horrifying FLEIA, all with just the two of them. Lelouch vi Britannia, Emperor at age eighteen, and Kururugi Suzaku, Knight of Zero. Together an unstoppable force, the most powerful in the world.


Or just Lelouch and Suzaku, two high school kids with entirely too much riding on their shoulders.


In the quiet moments--and there are quiet moments, sometimes--Suzaku thinks about this, and he wonders if things could have been different. Lelouch, Emperor of Britannia, is thin and pale and tired when he sleeps, his eyelashes dark on his cheeks, and he does not look like he can command anything. His body is completely untouched by this war (unless you count his eyes, but it’s too unsettling to Suzaku, and he just can’t think about it), no scars that haven’t been there for at least eight years. He sleeps, but never enough, because there’s always something, and there are permanent shadows under his eyes. He’s too frail to have done anything, and Suzaku is, then, glad that Lelouch is not alone, because he’s always thought that Lelouch needs protection more than anyone else Suzaku knows.


He would be pitiful if he wasn’t Lelouch, but of course he is, and there’s that strain of crazy. If he never spoke, Suzaku wouldn’t get angry with him, would never want to throttle him or just take him in, bow and say I am so sorry to Schneizel and Cornelia and Nunnally and hand over their youngest brother to be locked up. Suzaku would be able to hold onto his idea of Lelouch as a proud, royal boy who just wanted brutal justice at any cost, if only Lelouch would sleep and stay asleep and wake up who he was before he met C.C. Suzaku would be able to pretend that nothing ever happened, and he won’t have to be in the army anymore and Lelouch can just forget about the royalty thing, give up his (kind of revoked anyway) birthright and they can go back to school tomorrow and no one will be dead and it will be completely fantastic.


But Suzaku’s never been terribly lucky, no matter what his enemies liked to hiss behind his back, and he can work no miracles.


Because the real problem is, Charles created a monster in his son, the same way that the Count Lloyd Asplund created a demon when he gave the Lancelot a pilot. The difference is that Suzaku hates himself (sorry, Euphie), while Lelouch embraces his every aspect, has developed an unfortunate tendency to smell blood and go into a frenzy, like some quick, darting predator. Suzaku is obsessed with dying for something and is completely, horribly unable to facilitate his own demise (fucking Lelouch, seriously) and Lelouch is obsessed with his living legacy and spends all his time honing his genius suicide plan. They’re kind of pretty well-matched, what Suzaku calls perfect on a good day and wretched on a bad one. It wouldn’t be a problem if he doesn’t have a damn high standard for a good day, in these worst of times.


He would have had a giant problem with resolving his (former? something) best friend with the most-wanted terrorist in the world with the leader of the Holy Britannian Empire, if he didn’t spend a year getting over the first part of that. After seeing Charles dissolve into the World of C, incredulity became a little harder to come by. Lelouch went from a jarring deception to a systematic genius with a horrifying method to his madness. Suzaku was dizzy with it when he first really absorbed the progression from prince to exiled prince to schoolboy to terrorist to emperor, and then he decided it wasn’t all that different from son of a prime minister to son of ruin to army brat to pilot to knight to pilot to knight to...knight. And traitor traitor traitor, but he’s tried to keep that part from hurting as much. The difference is that Suzaku is so tired, and Lelouch is hyper with mad energy. Suzaku wants it all to end because enough is enough, and Lelouch wants it to end so that he can tear something down along with him and watch a bit of the world burn. Lelouch likes flipping the chessboard, sometimes. He’s strategically brilliant because he knows when to be reckless, and it’s never been in Lelouch’s nature to do anything halfway.


There are no exceptions.


(Their first kiss: against a wall, Suzaku’s hands fisted in Lelouch’s robes, anger hot in his chest and him ready to hit Lelouch as many times as it took to make him apologize--for everything--and Lelouch’s smile, all teeth, and he lunged forward and kissed him, and Suzaku let him out of shock until Lelouch smiled into his mouth and grabbed his crotch, hard and insistent, and it all turned into a violent mess from there. Lelouch liked to bait him, favored incredibly filthy language, and the mad glint in his eyes never, ever faded. Lelouch had bruises on his wrists for days, but that same night, he had crawled into Suzaku’s bed and woke him with cold hands and worse, pulling him from being sleepy and confused to real arousal with frightening efficiency.)


And of course, Lelouch can get anything he wants.






“You are my knight,” Lelouch says, drawing his fingers over Suzaku’s face. “What does that mean to you?” His eyes are fevered and bright, manic in the shadows. He straddles Suzaku’s hips in the cockpit of the Lancelot, his ankles at Suzaku’s knees. His robes are shed at their feet, tangles of white and gold edging, and the screens around them are dark, the controls unlit. It’s cramped and growing warmer, but Lelouch was insistent (bucking his hips against Suzaku and biting at his neck as he hissed no no there I want it there there the fucking KMF your machine) and it’s not like Suzaku ever got anywhere saying no.


“Lelouch...” he begins, nervously putting his hands on Lelouch’s thighs, his hands hot in his gloves.


Lelouch smiles and leans over him, reaching back to tangle his fingers in Suzaku’s hair, tugging his head back until Suzaku can feel the pulse at his neck. “Hmm?”


“Your Majesty,” Suzaku breathes.


“Better,” Lelouch says, and kisses him, teeth and tongue and his fingers still rough in Suzaku’s hair. His other hand trails down Suzaku’s chest to fiddle with the hem of his too-tight pants, the top edge of his high-cut boots. He hums into Suzaku’s mouth and bites down, hard, and Suzaku jerks back, tasting blood. Lelouch smiles and looks his worst, cat-eyes and blood on his mouth. “No answer?” he murmured. “What does it mean?”


Suzaku can’t answer, gasping as Lelouch’s hands finds their way in his pants, his own hands going to grip Lelouch’s narrow hips. “Tell me,” Lelouch hisses, wrapping his fingers around Suzaku’s cock.


“Anything,” he groans, arching his back into the touch, feeling himself growing hard. Lelouch’s grip tightens in his hair and he swallows with effort, his throat jerking. Lelouch smiles again and starts fisting him off, agonizingly slow, and Suzaku gives a moan that Lelouch swallows into his own mouth, the kiss deep and scalding, and Suzaku tastes his own blood.


When he shifts back, Suzaku is panting, his fingers working furiously now and the catches of Lelouch’s clothing. Lelouch smiles and releases his hair, stroking along the length of his cock, leaning in close to breathe against Suzaku’s mouth, “Then fuck me.”


Lelouch’s belt falls to the floor of the cockpit with a heavy sound, and Suzaku fumbles with the catch to his robes for a second before giving a growl and ripping at them, dragging the fine fabric over the curve of Lelouch’s ass and letting it all go to curtain to the floor. He tugs at the fingers of his gloves with his teeth, peeling them off his sweating hands. Lelouch leans in with a soft, purring sound, his mouth playing along the line of Suzaku’s neck, and he presses a small bottle into Suzaku’s hand.


The lube is cold, and Lelouch arches his back as Suzaku slides his fingers inside him, trying hard to be careful. He gives a low laugh and murmurs, “Hurry,” nipping at Suzaku’s neck. His patience exhausted, Suzaku snarls and grabs roughly at Lelouch’s hips, forcibly turning him to sit back on his cock. Lelouch lowers himself with a sharp hiss as Suzaku enters him, and Suzaku reaches around to jerk him off, his hands slick. Lelouch arches against him, his shoulderblades sharp and narrow, the lean dint of his spine glistening with sweat. Suzaku moves his hand furiously, his other pressed against the clammy skin of Lelouch’s bare stomach, grasping at the curve of rib and wing of hip.


Lelouch braces the heel of his boot against the console, his pants wadded around his knees, and grinds hard against Suzaku, panting curses under his breath. Suzaku’s vision narrows to a tight point right before his eyes (Lelouch’s pale shoulders, bumps of spine and curve of neck, sweat-damp hair at his nape) and as he comes, he sees stars and bites down on Lelouch’s shoulder. He feels Lelouch shudder and buck, trembling all over, and then wet heat spills over his hand and Lelouch leans back, twisting to kiss him again, sloppy and missing once before he can slide his tongue in Suzaku’s mouth.


Later, Suzaku feels his pulse calm as Lelouch relaxes against him, curled against his chest in that cramped space. There is condensation on the consoles, a smeared handprint on one of the screens. The mark on Lelouch’s shoulder bled a little at first, is now a perfect imprint of Suzaku’s teeth in dried blood. Lelouch’s robes are stained with come and the bit of blood Suzaku dabbed from his torn lip, and he can feel the bruises on his neck from Lelouch’s mouth and the stinging lines from fingernails scraped over his shoulder blades.


“Now what?” he mutters, not expecting an answer. Lelouch’s naked weight is heavy and hot against him, and his legs tingle, a soreness knotted in the small of his back. He reaches for the cockpit’s release hatch, but freezes as Lelouch shifts and stretches, his arms graceful arcs like he isn’t crammed into a cockpit meant for one person, sticky with come and sweat, his clothes still half-on and creased.


“I have a plan,” Lelouch says, drawing a teasing finger along the line of Suzaku’s collarbone. “And it will work.” He smirks, his eyes heavy-lidded, all smug pride and confidence, every inch a goddamn prince.


“I know,” Suzaku says. (And he does.)