He's living a lie.
He wonders if, deep down, anyone suspects him to be the guileless schoolboy with the appalling lack of physical prowess.
He wonders if, when the Britannian tacticians study him commandeering his troops, they see the same youth who plays chess with the rich barons of the upper echelons, translating his skills onto the battlefield.
Most of all, he wonders what Milly and the others will think if they uncover his true identity.
Zero of the rebellion.
He can play this game for only so long, he knows. One false move, one misstep, and his carefully-orchestrated plans could come tumbling down around him.
"Lelouch? Are you all right?" Shirley inquires; he surfaces from his reverie with a start, to meet the concerned eyes of his fellow student councillors boring into his.
He smiles.
"I'm fine," he assures them, even as Rivalz's brow furrows with doubt. "Fine," he repeats, already preparing himself for the next betrayal of their trust.
- - x x x x x - -
She's living a lie.
It's the only thing she has known, the only thing she cares enough to hold on to. The rest of Ashford Academy sees her only as the fragile, ailing girl, dull-eyed and lethargic—never in a thousand years would they equate her with Q1, Zero's most trusted lieutenant.
It's a simple matter to camouflage herself. A hairhand, gel slicking up dark cherry-red hair in angular spikes, a yellow-cream school blazer traded for a pilot's uniform. Those are her disguises, pseudo-masks she slips on and shrugs off with the ease of a snake shedding its skin.
Only the thought of revenge spurs her onwards, mercurial energies which have borne her through all her charades.
But without him, they are a rebellion without teeth.
She knows it. The Black Knights know it. The fact is, they need Zero.
He knows it too, even if he's unaware of it.
She has to bring him back to the life of falsehoods he left behind.
- - x x x x x - -
He's living a lie.
The world does not see him as the chosen pilot of the Lancelot.
They know him only as the downtrodden Eleven, swearing fealty to the Britannians and turning his back on his home country, on the beliefs of his father and all his ancestors before him.
They know him only as the Ashford Academy student, shunned by all his peers for the simple fact that he's different.
I'm doing this for peace, he argues, fingers curled into a knotted fist—but nobody listens. I'm trying to change the world in a passive way, bit by bit—without bloodshed.
Is that true?
In the aftermath of the detonation of the bomb, he drifts through the barren ghost-town streets and turns unseeing eyes upon ravaged homes and shopfronts, and feels bitter irony settle leadenly into the pit of his stomach.
Despite himself, he throws his head back and laughs, howling his wild grief to the unfeeling stars.
He's the biggest liar of them all.
- - x x x x x - -
epilogue. Usual disclaimers apply. Written for cgdrabble on LiveJournal.