Hush
It was raining.
It had been raining all morning; and now, mid-afternoon, it showed no sign of stopping. It painted the grounds and walls of Ashford Academy with a dull grey wash, fading it like a sun-damaged portrait. The walkways shone and splashed, the grass smelt overpoweringly of wet earth, and the windows and rooftops were mercilessly subjected to a tireless assault from the world-weary heavens.
On Saturdays, Ashford Academy did not hold classes. Only extracurricular activities, like clubs, orchestras and sports teams, gave the place any indication of life. Students not involved in such things mostly congregated lazily in common rooms, the library or their own rooms. But for their idle chatter and laughter, the absence of school bells and lessons gave life to a certain relaxed quietness that settled over the large building on the two days that made up the weekend.
A lovely, calm hush for Ashford's students to make their own.
—
They'd made it into their ritual. The fact that it happened to be raining on this particular Saturday had no effect on it – they were indoors, anyway. Rain or shine, that relaxed silence was ever the same.
As was their ritual.
They did not touch each other during the week – at least, not like this. They acted as friends, old friends, best friends, and nothing more. If they touched one another, it was a slap on the shoulder by way of greeting or a playful punch in the arm.
On Saturday and Sunday, it was completely different.
Maybe it was to do with that agreed hush. Weekends at Ashford Academy seemed so different from weekdays – so distant, so unreal. Perhaps they felt it was safe to indulge in their secret then, and keep it confined to those forty-eight hours, so that they could brush themselves off and emerge from the other side of the forty-eighth hour as though emerging from a gateway to another world.
Regardless, it was Saturday, not Monday, Friday or any of the days in between – and so they were within that other world, spending their free time as they liked to spend it:
With each other. As close as they could be.
—
Suzaku kissed Lelouch's collarbone; then moved across, gently moving the collar of his open shirt aside so that he could kiss him again at his shoulder.
Lelouch didn't open his eyes, still clutching around Suzaku's back – broader than his, with sinew and muscle flowing like a lazy river beneath his skin when he moved.
Both spent already, and now lying in the hazy aftermath, the only sound the soft symphony of their breathing, gradually slowing again, and the silver-sounding beating of rain on the windows of Lelouch's room.
Lelouch gave a whine so high-pitched that he made no sound at all as Suzaku trailed his mouth down his throat and onto his chest, still kissing gently, moving down lower onto his belly. He pulled at Suzaku's hair, the soft brown curls tangled about his slender fingers, to make him lift his head again; meeting his gaze, conveying in silence what he wanted, and Suzaku rose again and kissed him on the mouth.
Neither of them said a thing.
—
Later, Suzaku positioned himself above Lelouch again and clasped their hands, fingers interlocking, palm to palm. Lelouch's knees rested at the concave of Suzaku's waist, just before the ever-so-slight jut of his hips.
He kissed the violet-eyed boy on the forehead, and then on the mouth to silence him as he entered him again.
Instead there was only the sound of the rain that fell on that dreary Saturday afternoon.
—
Suzaku smiled as Lelouch gasped out his name, breaking the silence.
"Hush," he whispered in reply, mending it again.
