(no subject)
(Suzaku, I-)
(You should understand, Suzaku, what passed during that party-)
A pair of voices, lingering and separate, both explaining the same circumstances, but his lips remain firmly together, eyes drifting to her neck, to his fingers, the colors of the wall in his room and the slight shift of wind in the part when her hair shifts not distracting him, distorting as if they aren’t there. It’s hard to focus, hard to draw himself into reality, fingers gripping into the bottom of his shirt (around her) and pushing him back (around him).
But his throat feels strained and dry; this is natural, this is love, he doesn’t care and the image of Lelouch kissing her hand flutters back up in his mind from that day in the library.
(It doesn’t matter.)
He says it to both of them.
But it’s a fight or flight instinct, fight it and stay there before them, forcing a smile and grabbing her hand, turning his head and straightening up in front of Lelouch, a strong knight, as if he’s pulled on the mask of Zero to hide his features. He stays instead of flight, waiting for Lelouch to leave his room first, walking her back until Mikogami steps out and stares haughtily at him (it’s not flight if he leaves there, it’s not an excuse if he walks away, despite her widened eyes, parted lips, unsteady words, it’s not-it’s not).
*
It is.
Excuses and waiting for them to leave, swallowing his pride, forcing down that tightness in his throat, it’s enough to make him choke when he’s alone again, alone after leaving her and hearing her explanation, after he’s clicked the door shut. Suzaku doesn’t know whether to laugh, the shaky, familiar laugh from that day when he killed those people, or to cry, lingering and bitter, as if it doesn’t matter-as if he doesn’t matter, a confusing aspect to the mess there. This is why Lelouch doesn’t want to fight (and is he right), this is why Lelouch doesn’t want to change (and is he right).
The worst part is the images in his mind. Emotions mixing with emotions, anger and despair, annoyance and frustration, pushing together, as he sees the scene of Lelouch kissing her hand, of drawing her close and brushing his mouth over her neck, her head tilting back, a soft sound releasing (he knows that sound, she lets him hear it, again, again, again). His throat feels tight, but so do his pants; his fingers slide down over his erection, and though he wishes to push the images out, they overpower him, making him shift uneasily on his bed until he opens his pants, tugs them and his boxers down, before he raises his hand to his mouth and spits quickly on his palm and fingers.
Alone, there is nothing in his actions that’s prolonging, as if he’s trying to rush the process. Suzaku’s fingers wrap around his cock, already hardened, already ready, up and down, thumb pressing hard over his own shaft as it moves. Quick, quick, quick-because the more he jerks himself off, the more he allows himself to imagine (he shouldn’t, guilt surges, a soft moan slips out his throat), the longer he can imagine it, the better it is-
For her. For him. Suzaku only wishes to change, wishes to make the world better, wishes to fight, because that is his punishment.
His eyes close tightly as he comes, feet almost slamming down into the floor as it flows warm against his moving hand. Heavy breathing, the feeling of the colors in the room (were they there before, it’s hard to tell) focusing in around him.
*
(It doesn’t matter.)
It’s easy to lie to himself.
(You should understand, Suzaku, what passed during that party-)
A pair of voices, lingering and separate, both explaining the same circumstances, but his lips remain firmly together, eyes drifting to her neck, to his fingers, the colors of the wall in his room and the slight shift of wind in the part when her hair shifts not distracting him, distorting as if they aren’t there. It’s hard to focus, hard to draw himself into reality, fingers gripping into the bottom of his shirt (around her) and pushing him back (around him).
But his throat feels strained and dry; this is natural, this is love, he doesn’t care and the image of Lelouch kissing her hand flutters back up in his mind from that day in the library.
(It doesn’t matter.)
He says it to both of them.
But it’s a fight or flight instinct, fight it and stay there before them, forcing a smile and grabbing her hand, turning his head and straightening up in front of Lelouch, a strong knight, as if he’s pulled on the mask of Zero to hide his features. He stays instead of flight, waiting for Lelouch to leave his room first, walking her back until Mikogami steps out and stares haughtily at him (it’s not flight if he leaves there, it’s not an excuse if he walks away, despite her widened eyes, parted lips, unsteady words, it’s not-it’s not).
*
It is.
Excuses and waiting for them to leave, swallowing his pride, forcing down that tightness in his throat, it’s enough to make him choke when he’s alone again, alone after leaving her and hearing her explanation, after he’s clicked the door shut. Suzaku doesn’t know whether to laugh, the shaky, familiar laugh from that day when he killed those people, or to cry, lingering and bitter, as if it doesn’t matter-as if he doesn’t matter, a confusing aspect to the mess there. This is why Lelouch doesn’t want to fight (and is he right), this is why Lelouch doesn’t want to change (and is he right).
The worst part is the images in his mind. Emotions mixing with emotions, anger and despair, annoyance and frustration, pushing together, as he sees the scene of Lelouch kissing her hand, of drawing her close and brushing his mouth over her neck, her head tilting back, a soft sound releasing (he knows that sound, she lets him hear it, again, again, again). His throat feels tight, but so do his pants; his fingers slide down over his erection, and though he wishes to push the images out, they overpower him, making him shift uneasily on his bed until he opens his pants, tugs them and his boxers down, before he raises his hand to his mouth and spits quickly on his palm and fingers.
Alone, there is nothing in his actions that’s prolonging, as if he’s trying to rush the process. Suzaku’s fingers wrap around his cock, already hardened, already ready, up and down, thumb pressing hard over his own shaft as it moves. Quick, quick, quick-because the more he jerks himself off, the more he allows himself to imagine (he shouldn’t, guilt surges, a soft moan slips out his throat), the longer he can imagine it, the better it is-
For her. For him. Suzaku only wishes to change, wishes to make the world better, wishes to fight, because that is his punishment.
His eyes close tightly as he comes, feet almost slamming down into the floor as it flows warm against his moving hand. Heavy breathing, the feeling of the colors in the room (were they there before, it’s hard to tell) focusing in around him.
*
(It doesn’t matter.)
It’s easy to lie to himself.