She's not dead yet~! 8D Yes, Pickles is still alive and kicking. I've been on a bit of a Code Geass obsession lately in between Tron and Kuroshitsuji. So here you go 8D

Disclaimer: If I owned Code Geass, it would be all about Suzaku and Lelouch. Doing delicious things to one another.

Also, there is a line in here cleverly written by one of my friends, and I thank her for permission to use it. Thanks honeydew~!

This façade, so cleverly crafted, is transparent only to us.

How cruel we are to another—one moment indulging in feelings that have been repressed, playing a delicate game with each other's tangled limbs, and the next we converge on the battlefield.

Perhaps I vainly envy you. Your earnest, foolish way of following your beliefs grounded in the certainty of some sort of light in the hearts of others. I cannot see that light- I only see the shadows that it casts.

And that is where I dwell.

You said it yourself.

"Knight and King, the Dawn and the Dusk."

Look at us, wrapped in our intricate paradoxes and sugar-coated lies.

We drown in them.

We drown in each other, don't we?

Perhaps you caught my heart when it was most vulnerable, and kept it for yourself.

And you tighten your fingers, guarding it safely away.

Perhaps we never leave the battlefield, you and I. For everything is a struggle.

The way you pull me towards you, the way your movements say, "You are mine." The way my eyes laugh at how you think you might be in control. But then, neither of us can deny the heat of our touches, the sweat on our brows, the need we can't mask.

We need each other, don't we, Suzaku?

It has gone past want, and is now need.

Friends, enemies, lovers—we have become all of these, haven't we?

We are even Knight and King.

There are so many roles which we must balance and play. Even you forget that now, I always wear a mask. I even wear a mask to hide from myself (can't bear the sight-).

But then, like now, we have moments when we allow ourselves to forget our weariness, our roles, and we simply let ourselves live—even if it is only for a brief time.

When you pretend to not know that I am Zero, and I pretend I know nothing. Nothing but you. Moments like these make me feel human again, in a (for once) pleasant way.

I like the featherlight, gentle way your hand moves across my back as I hold onto you, and there is something wistful about the way our lips meet and move. As though we are telling each other words we could never dare allow ourselves to carry with our voices. You shiver as my hand slips carefully beneath the fabric of your school uniform's shirt—I know, my hands are cold, but you will easily warm them.

It is almost as though we don't' even dare to admit that we have done this before, as different as the atmosphere is. This is not just a struggle, a fight, perhaps this isn't a battlefield, and we might leave this without scars.

For now though, it is just us. It is almost ironic, how normal, how commonplace this seems.

So simple. How you said that you needed to talk to me and pulled me into this room (is it an empty class room? I didn't bother to notice-) and you looked at me with the strangest expression. And then our lips collided. You pressed me against the wall, and now I arch my body into yours and earn a soft gasp in return. And then we are not so gentle as the initial shock of acceptance has vanished.

You grab one of my thin wrists and hold it against the wall as I bite at your lip—have we gone back to the battlefield? Remembered our places? Our hands are pulling (wanting to tear) and skin slips into view (little by little) until we feel bare and exposed but don't care as you force a moan from my throat. I move my hips and pleasure shoots through us, hot and pure. It's ironic how neither of us will admit our pleasure—yet here we are again.

With you turning me around pinning me to the wall (yes, hold my wrists tighter, make it hurt-) and joining our bodies together.

Here we are, moving as one, with our gasps and moans smothered by walls of silence and hate love lust want craving—and you and I. Here we are, with you moving faster as our masks lip (can I steal a glimpse?) and we wish we could make this last (as something worthwhile, something we dare to uphold), but we don't.

And yet we, at a moment when we stop caring, we cry out each other's names as our minds cease fretting about masks, walls, and care only for that feeling of-

almost happiness.

With you.

And we are left alone, the walls and masks reappear, and it is still just you and I.

We know too much.

You know too much.

But as I feel your lips press an almost tender kiss at my neck, I find myself almost allowing myself to wish…

No, our struggle must begin anew.

Back to the bloody fields, with our crimson-stained hands.

Lift your sword high, and I will always rise to meet it, Suzaku Kururugi.