Author's Note: This is set in an AU, but the only difference is that Lelouch took the time to learn how to fight. Everything else flows on from there.
It was the night before Christmas; snow drifted slowly through the frozen air, spiralling in undecipherable patterns towards the ground below. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse, for the sun had fallen far, far beyond the horizon, taking with it the last vestiges of warmth in this world. Those who were sensible were nestled all snug in their beds, long since slipped into the realms of the subconscious. And even those who would normally defy such classification dared not venture from their places of rest, for fear of the cold.
But who would be awake anyway? Even the most hardened of criminals know Christmas is a special time, and that the sooner you go to sleep on Christmas Eve, the sooner it arrives. Such is the magic of the day that it enchants anyone and everyone, gathers them in its embrace and injects them with its spirit, even if it is for one, solitary cycle of the rising and setting sun.
However, let us draw closer; let us join the silent city in one particular corner, in one particular room of the vast expanse of civilisation they called Tokyo, to the place where the exception proves the rule. For there are other ways of keeping warm that do not involve hiding, methods that burn away the icy night through staccato rhythms of touches and cries, through thin sheens of sweat plastered over spent bodies. And not everyone thinks that Christmas Eve is a time for rest.
Were one to stand at the door to this room, for to enter would not be proper, one would hear the slaps of flesh striking flesh, hear grunts and moans, and sometimes feel the walls or floor shudder as something crashed into them. Perhaps they would sometimes hear the cry of paired syllables, of names and what could be considered curses. And ever so rarely, one might hear clicks and clacks, and sometimes something that would bring to mind wood striking a body, a loud thwack always accompanied by what was probably a noise associated with pain. Probably.
However, if one decided that there was no point in being proper, and instead chose to open the door and look inside, what one would see would most probably not be what one expected. For rather than finding a bedroom, or a living room, or at the very least a couch, they would find what could only be described as a dojo. They would see circular white walls, devoid of any decoration bar scattered cracks, scuffs and indentations, with a hard wooden floor that was so covered in scratches and marks and in some cases what could only be bloodstains such that the original timber was unidentifiable.
But more importantly, they would see two figures: one male, one female. The male is shirtless, and as he slowly circles around the room, one can see that he is formed like a sword – slender and tall, as hard as iron and as flexible as steel. He moves as lithely as a dancer and as nonchalantly as a cat, but his eyes betray him. They are almost the eyes of a seer, but one can sense this man needs no supernatural aid to see the future. That he is constantly watching, constantly analysing, constantly seeing.
The woman is clad in a top almost small enough to be indecent, and a pair of shorts that do not restrict her movements in any way. She is the dagger to his sword, shorter but nevertheless as deadly, and the way she follows his every move almost before he makes it betrays not only her speed, but an instinctive knowledge of her opponent; intuition as opposed to reason.
They are so different and yet so alike the comparisons are almost amusing.
Without warning, she attacks, hands and feet moving so quickly that one strike starts before another has halfway finished. There is no pattern, no planning – there is nothing but blow after blow in so many different places at once that to dodge one would be to move into the path of another. She is a tempest, all howling gales and sudden jabs of lightning, each strike aiming to light a fire as the winds fan the flame.
He is the calm before her storm, the frozen chill contrasting the warmth of the air with the ice of the ocean. Even before she attacks, he starts to move, dancing to a design that somehow corresponds with hers. He flows, immaterial like a river, and no matter the number of pebbles she throws in, she cannot change his course.
Now it is time for him to return the favour, and he ripples forwards, one strike here setting up another seconds later, and seconds are a long time in this game. He fights like he plays chess, all grand strategies, traps and hidden machinations. But this is not chess, and she is not hopelessly outmatched.
Watch as the bout continues, as they trade everything they have; an amusing description, for each side has the same value – this is an exchange neither can win. But that does not matter, for they are not here to win. They are here to… what are they here to do? Are they here to train, to hone their skills for the never-ending war these two will someday finish? Are they here because they are both outcasts from their worlds, twin loners finding solace in the primal thrill of the fight? Or are they here to while away the hours until a new day will dawn - it is Christmas Eve, after all. But one must wonder what exactly it is these two truly want for Christmas.
The fight is drawing to a close - one can see it in the way they move, how each dodge is closer than the last, how their strikes less resemble those of the viper with each passing second. But who will finish it? Will the sky overcome the sea, or will logic triumph over instinct?
Seconds pass, and the question has not yet been resolved, for our two combatants still play out their grand ballet; she darts forwards and he pirouettes, sliding around one fist and kicking the other down as his spin continues. He has anticipated her move, as he so often does, and it is only her speed, the speed of the fire as it races through the forest that allows her to recover; she ducks the second kick that follows and flips away, landing with the grace of a tired cat.
But he is tired too, and the problem with anticipating your opponent's moves is that when they do not do what you expect, you must rely solely on your own reactions. Which is why he is just a little too slow to dodge the hurricane she unleashes, the vicious tornado of whirling feet he recognizes even as her leg crashes into his chest and he tumbles through the air, crashing into the wall with a resounding thud.
She is laughing at his expression, face flushed not so much with victory as exhaustion, and he is laughing too, a bemused sound that does not fit the blade he resembles. But that sword has been sheathed; his danger is still palpable, but it's obvious he is no longer fighting. She is walking over to him, moving fluidly as her almost-bare legs distract the man he is rather than the weapon he was scant seconds before. An arm reaches down to help him up, an arm attached to a body that is soon pressed against his as he lunges upwards, pulling her down so she crashes into him for the second time.
"Ah! Lelouch!" The cry seems to be a complaint, but one notices she is not moving anywhere, and that the smile that is almost out of place on his face is matched by her own. She is flushed again, but one might suspect that her cheeks are dusted with red for a different reason this time around. A clock strikes twelve, and as the tolls ring out, his smile widens, like he's just remembered something.
"Hey, Kallen, it's Christmas Day now." His voice has a certain undertone, the sort of undertone one would associate with words of a rather different theme. And one realizes that maybe the purpose of their time in the dojo may have indeed been to simply pass that time; after all, not everyone celebrates Christmas in the same way, much as not everyone observes the same hours of the day, for sometimes it is only in the night that one can find true peace.
Let us leave the room now, for it is obvious that an observer would not be welcome any longer. But were one to once again stand with their ear pressed to the door, it would be safe to assume that it would be almost like deja-vu. One might even be reminded that there are other ways to burn away the icy night, or perhaps finally realize that the only thing these two want for Christmas is the reason they find an unlikely peace in one other's company. And much, much later, as the sun rises over Japan, bringing with it the promise of hope, one might hear two words, whispered from two sets of mouths but spoken as one.
"Merry Christmas."