FOREWORD: Do not read if you have not finished watching the series. A little something to go along with Sans, but not really.
I do not own Code Geass, or any of its characters.
The golden pool of her eyes
Held the solace that he sought.
Hatred and guilt were not so bad,
When he drowned in their numen depths,
And her voice promised she was his.
He stares listlessly at the ceiling soaring above.
In the dark, the innocent faces carved into the ivory seem to stare bitterly down at him. It does not bother him. Resentment and abhorrence are familiar to him now. He has worked hard for this, and when daylight breaks, he will harvest the reward Nunally deserves. He is not scared of death, of Suzaku's blade. The world needs to be purged of him and his sins. He awaits the moment, and he will embrace it.
Time seems to be running on a schedule of its own. He does not know how much time has passed since he has crawled into the futon carefully laid out by her; or how long he has been listening to her breathing on the bed next to him for, while his demons haunt him.
Despite the dire hour, he suppresses a quiet laugh.
To think that the most powerful man in Britannia—the feared and loathed ruler—sleeps on the ground in his own bedroom. Rather preposterous, but there is nothing he could have done to change those sleeping conditions.
Yes, the Demon Emperor is slave to a witch... and he does not mind that much.
He does not mind that Pizza Hut is on speed dial on his phone because of her addiction. He does not mind that she takes possession of his huge bed and occupies the smallest edge of it, when she has a bed of her own in her bedroom. And he does not mind that she forces him on a futon next to her, even though his bed is large enough to fit a country and still have ample room for the two of them.
He wonders why he even bothered arranging a room for her, when even he could not imagine not sleeping in the same room as her now. He suspects he was only there for company at first; her pawn to counter loneliness. Now, his presence is more of a necessity, as is hers—and he does not complain.
He finds it eerie how even after all this time with her, she still manages to surprise him sometimes. Not only with her actions, but with her countenance. He knows her—the contours of her face, the flow of her hair, the way she moves, the intonations of her voice. He knows the delicate, subtle scent that trails behind her. He can read into the golden shades in her eyes. He has learnt her, memorised her so that even when they are apart, he would still see her. And yet, he is still caught off-guard by the occasional curve of her lips, the tinkle in her crystalline laugh and the rare stars in her eyes.
He wants to concentrate on those eyes now—how they look at him, how they accept him—but the glaring cherubs on the ceiling snap at him.
He has no right to respite.
Not after the deaths he has caused and the tears he has sparked. The guilt that torments him and the cross that forces him to the ground are no penance. He has to pay, he has to pay. They are calling to him now; not only the dead buried by his commands, but the living who once loved him—his friends, his family, Nunally. They demand explanations; they are disappointed by his actions. He wants to shut them out, but they are closer than ever. There are too many of them hunting him down, impatient for his sins to be accounted for.
He shakes his head and turns on his side.
One more night, one last sunrise, and he will be free.
He almost jumps when he feels her slip between his covers. He had not noticed she had awakened. She wraps her arms around his chest and hoists herself against his trembling body. She is warm, and her touch feels like mercy.
"Sleep," she says, her breath tickling his ear. "There is still a long time until dawn."
He closes his eyes, but his conscience does not quiet down.
"Speak to me," he slurs. "Say anything, and speak to me."
She places a kiss at the curve where his shoulder and his neck meet. He shivers, but it is lost in the tremors brought about by self-reproach and remorse.
Then she starts speaking, talking to him about the world his death will create. Her voice is soft and airy—a prayer that eases the weight of the heavy crucifix on his weary shoulders. She makes him believe in it again, in the justice of his actions, in the future of this world without him. Her words pull him back from the edge of the precipice he treads every night. Nothing else matters. Only she makes sense. Only they are real. And lying there in her arms with her voice soothing him and her lips on his skin, atonement can wait.
It has taken him a while to see how feelings have manifested themselves between them. She is not the most overt person, but the evidence was always there. It is in how she understands him; how she stands by him; how she never tries to change him or veer him. It is in how there is no inkling of uncertainty when he is with her.
Indeed, C.C. and him are more than a weak contract made to achieve power and satisfy a wish. It is only made clearer by how she is ready to let him die, when dying is what she wants.
He will be gone tomorrow and it is too late to tell her that in the end, it is not Euphie, Shirley or Kallen. But he knows that she knows from the way her fingers are tracing invisible works of art on his skin. So he remains silent, and listens to her voice ringing in his ears, like a hexed lullaby.
In that perfect moment, he has no care in the world for Zero Requiem; no care in the world for what his conscience has to say.
In that perfect moment, she may well be the only thread holding him back to this imperfect world he has to leave.