Warning: contains depiction of intrusive thoughts

In Lelouch's mind Suzaku and Euphemia are in the bed -

no, that's not it.

Lelouch is doing his homework. Lelouch is doing his homework for one of the few times in the past few months because he has make an attempt to keep up appearances and pretend to be a normal student, he is staring at the neat-intricate symbols of his calculus homework, the half-filled-out derivatives sit before him, Suzaku and Euphemia are fucking.

no! that's not it.

The pencil strains and sweats against his hand and he stares at the problems on the page and tries to wrench his mind to it, to the first step of the first problem. The derivative of sin(3x²) is? the derivative of sin(3x²) is? the derivative of sin(3x²) is? the derivative of Suzaku's mouth on Euphemia's neck -

He throws the pencil. It bounces off the wall and leaves a small black mark. That was stupid of him.

God, he doesn't want to be seeing images of his sister this way. He doesn't want to be seeing this at all. It coils thick in his gut like a slug, that Suzaku's hands should be on Euphemia's breasts, slipping under the fabric to cup at the skin itself -

God. God. He gets up and picks up the pencil with a hand that has grown sweaty and half wants to drive it into his mind to stop the mental images. He can picture Euphemia's room, or at least the way it looked when they were young, and it makes the horrible imagining all too vivid. The gentle pinks and peaches of the walls, the lavish four-poster bed whose white sheets crease and pull under Suzaku's knee as he shifts -

Math! Calculus! The derivative of sin(3x²) is Suzaku hiking up Euphemia's dress - No! No! No!

He doesn't want to be seeing images of his sister this way!

And in his mind's eye Suzaku is taking off his shirt and his shoulders are full and warm and bunched with honest muscle and this isn't about his sister at all.

Lelouch sinks back into the chair and shudders at the continued images painting themselves lavish across his mind like rot and mold, like something that knowingly, blissfully overstays its welcome - images of Suzaku in a Britannian bed, Suzaku naked in the royal Britannian bed, a great cockroach clinging to the white curtains on the four-poster bed as Suzaku is in it. He's not supposed to be in there. He's not supposed to be in there. He wasn't supposed to be in the torn-open cockpit of the Lancelot and he's certainly not

The pencil is pressing a thick black mark into the paper and Lelouch's hands are trembling with it and Suzaku the eleven is in the Britannian royal bed with the princess's dress tickling his skin and her thighs settled on his waist (it rises in Lelouch's throat like vomit) and he's not supposed to be there, not supposed to be there, it's all wrong, it's all wrong, Lelouch is sweating hot and cold and can't stop the images. Euphemia's hands daintily clutching the sheets, he doesn't want to imagine her face he's not going there his mind skids around it - Suzaku's eyes closed in concentration his bottom lip red-bitten under his teeth and his hips - and he's going inside of her he's going inside of her in and out in rough regular rhythm the noises are wet it's all wrong Lelouch is feeling dizzy

Math, supplies his floundering brain drowning in its own sweat. Math. He reaches for the pencil, stares at the neatly printed problems with sweating eyes, can't make head nor tail of the ink there. Suzaku's shoulders are shiny with sweat and his boots are neat black on the white sheets and his firm earnest hands planted on either side of Lelouch -

Of Euphemia. Of Euphemia. Lelouch has scrambled back recoiled in the chair at the first blinking in of this new image but it's too late. Suzaku is fucking him in the royal Britannian bed and Lelouch has his knees drawn up in the chair pressing a hand to the back of his mouth to try to stop the long low noise coming from it. It's too much. It's too much. It's too much to think about and it's too much to feel and Suzaku would try to be gentle but might not know his own strength, he would be firm, moving hot and deep inside of him, his body warm and strong between Lelouch's thighs -

Between Euphemia's. A matter of impossible fantasy versus cold hard cold-sweat-trickling reality, give it up, give it up. It pushes and pulls at Lelouch and his mind recoils from each side of it. Both thoughts are painful. Two different flavors - one of helpless revulsion, one of a sort of panic. It's swimming in a helpless simmering stew of rising emotions and Lelouch is sweating and shaking and Suzaku is - Suzaku is -

He gets up, scrambles for the bathroom, plugs the drain in the sick and wrenches the cold water faucet open. Waits with sweaty fingers drumming frantically on the white plastic surface and the royal sheets creased in his head until it's full enough and then he shoves his face into it.

He wasn't planning to scream into the water, a muffled stream of bubbles tickling his face, but he does. It lasts for a while - until his lungs run out of air to scream with and then he nearly chokes on water at the instinctive drawing breath back in. His face is cool from the shock of the water and getting cooler, and the twitching in his hands his subsiding.

are we good yet? we're good.

He pulls his face out of the water with a gasp and breathes there, his hair dripping into the sink water whose surface pitches gently up and down. It's trickling over his face and into his eyes. He stares at himself in the mirror, with his lashes wet-slicked, his hair flattened to his face.

get back to work, lelouch. you have to pretend to be a normal student.

He dries off his face - still damp-cool against the air in the room - and goes back to his desk and sits down.

as always, reviews are highly appreciated.