Scales were a challenge with charcoal – Suzaku made this realization about halfway through the drawing of an Asian dragon. He'd been exposed to enough of his native mythology for it to be a prevalent theme in his imagination. The dragon was aggressively masculine, stark in charcoal. It was turning out well enough, but if he wanted to get any more detailed, it might call for more skill than he had. He tilted his head first one way, then the other. Neither angle suddenly resolved the drawing into completion, so he simply set it aside. Moira had mentioned during her introductory lecture that day in Galway that sometimes pieces had to sit, marinate a little. Let the thought settle into the medium, soak into your brain.
His disciplined, goal-oriented nature struggled against leaving a piece unfinished, but Suzaku had a gut feeling that he'd screw it up if he pushed it any harder. Forcing himself to stand and walk away, Suzaku washed his hands of the black dust, turning the image over and over in his mind like the way he used to play with a baseball when deep in thought as a boy. The kitchen was saturated in light, the offering of a warm, uncharacteristically dry day. The only reason he hadn't transplanted his work outside was the fitful breeze. It was strong enough to be dragging distant clouds in its wake, and Suzaku didn't feel like babysitting restless paper.
Instead, he'd contented himself by throwing open the doors and windows, the sheer, lacy curtains rippling in the air currents. Ban snoozed on the stoop outside, his legs splayed out far enough to dangle over the edges of the steps, cushioned by one of his countless dog beds. The sheer number of them had puzzled Suzaku enough to eventually spur him into asking Aurora the reason. She'd explained that Ban's lean build meant his joints, and the thin skin covering them, were easily bruised. He'd start losing patches of hair if his sleeping conditions weren't posh enough. Even now, Suzaku looked at the dog, and just shook his head with a wry smile. Spoiled brat.
Pushing open the screen door and settling on the top step next to the dog, he patted Ban's muscular rump, earning him a lazily opened eye, quickly shut again. A breath of air ruffled Suzaku's hair like an affectionate hand, and he tipped his face back, letting his eyes drift close with a long, slow inhale that only ached a little. The warmth slowly seeped into his muscles, dripping into his bones. It was a nice day. The past few days had been nice, too.
A portion of his brain clenched. Ready for the other shoe to drop, for the peace to disintegrate like the fantasy it was. For the crashing blow that would shatter everything and send him tumbling back into the skeletal reality he knew too well.
Suzaku knew he couldn't push it back; it was too strong, too well ingrained in his mind to be completely rid of it. But he dug his heels in, refusing to let the angry fatalism that came to him far too easily drag him in a direction he wasn't ready to go. Eyes still closed, brow a little furrowed, fingers tight but shy of fists, he made the conscious choice not to torture himself with fear of a future he had no immediate control over.
Things could go terribly wrong. He knew that, better than most. But Suzaku was learning that there was no point in ruining what he had with the possibility of what he could lose. And right now, he had a pretty day, a quiet kitchen, good paper and even better pencils. He had an idea, and he had time. And he was a moron to look for more, good or bad. With one last pat on Bannock's giant ribcage, Suzaku stood and strode back into the kitchen.
Flipping to a new page, he started in on another dragon. But as he roughed in the bones of it, he knew this one wasn't black. No, this one was blue.
He spent a solid hour working on the drawing. It was as different from the first as possible while still portraying the same general species. This second dragon was more influenced by western interpretations, with strong, streamlined wings. Sleek and sinuous, it was gracefully dangerous. The pencil set included six different shades of blue, and he worked through all of them. Aurora had taken the music player with her, so the only sound faint in the warm air was the fervent scratch of pencil against paper. The image grabbed Suzaku by the throat, and held tight as it began to really flesh out. He could almost hear the whoosh of leathery wings as she swept by, silver horns and spikes gleaming lethally in the soft light. Because, yeah, this magnificent beast was female. Still aggressive, still deadly. But beautiful.
Just finishing the delicate veins in her bat-like wings, Suzaku was distracted by a loud bang from the garage, followed by a distant string of cursing that didn't sound like Standard. It was lyrical, and furious. He stood and went to the door, noticing that Ban had levered himself upright, ears high and eyes trained on the garage where his mama had disappeared that morning. He followed the dog's gaze to the source of the bang in time to see Aurora stride out of the dim interior. She paused just outside the door, propping one hand on her hip as she turned her face skyward. Staying like that for a bit, Aurora spun on her heel, pacing briefly before stopping again and stomping her foot in a way that betrayed impatience.
Suzaku started towards her, already down the steps by the time she looked at her hand, sighed heavily, and turned to the house. They crossed paths in the flower beds, Aurora's grim, irritated smile doing nothing to appease Suzaku's worry, or his curiosity.
"What happened?"
By way of answer, she held up her right hand, revealing the three-inch long gash across her knuckles and delicate tendons, steadily streaming blood.
"Natasha's being a little grumpy. The gorgeous bitch bit me," she murmured with an odd fondness in her voice. Whatever she was going to say next was cut off when Suzaku snatched her hand, cradling her long, grimy fingers in a careful, implacable grip as he inspected the wound on the back of her hand. There was a tinny humming in his ears at the sight of blood on her soft skin, so Suzaku forced himself to be analytical, and assess the damage. It was a lengthy gash, but relatively straight. Not deep enough to need stitches. And not too inundated with grease or dirt, a good bit of luck since it appeared by the state of her hands, clothing, and face that Aurora had spent the morning elbows deep in the Corvette's innards. But as her blood dripped over his fingers and splashed against the sea of petals at their feet, Suzaku felt a surge of emotion spiral through his veins, something he'd been certain he'd choked into silence, neglected thoroughly enough to never have it move through him with such power again.
The urge, the need, the call to protect. So, before he could control himself enough to stop, he was dragging a spluttering, protesting Aurora back to the kitchen. Ban watched with wide eyes, fumbling to his feet as Suzaku strode, and Aurora was hauled, up the steps and to the sink. The warm water, brusquely adjusted to the right temperature while Suzaku pressed his fingers to the wound to staunch the blood, soon turned pink when he pulled Aurora's hand under the stream. Her protests had been more instinctive than meaningful, and as the warm water cleared away the worst of it, she gazed at him with tilted, narrowed eyes.
"It's alright, Suzaku," she murmured. "It's not a big deal."
He just spared her a short glare before returning his attention to the cut. Aurora's laugh almost made him smile, but he controlled the twitch of his face enough not to encourage her. Girl could stand to be more careful, he thought as he thoroughly worked soap into the wound. Her wince was largely controlled, and she nudged him with her elbow, still trapped in Suzaku's hold.
"I don't like being manhandled, you know." Aurora's tone may be light, but she wasn't kidding in the slightest.
"It needs to be cleaned," he replied adamantly, still peering closely at the back of her hand. The thought longingly crossed her mind that if he applied that determination, that focus and power and patience, to more carnal pursuits, it wouldn't take much to have his partner melting into a puddle of quivering flesh. And if the passing wish to be that puddle crossed her mind, no hint of it flickered across her face.
Finally, Suzaku seemed satisfied that her injury had been cleaned enough to prevent even the most insidious of gangrene, and slapped the water off. Folding a paper towel into quarters, he pressed it against the back of her hand, crimson slowly blooming across the stark white. Pinning her with green eyes that simultaneously reminded Aurora that Suzaku was a soldier at the core and loosened her knees like warming honey, he commanded her to stay before heading upstairs, no doubt retrieving the first aid kit from the bathroom. They both had more than enough experience with the kit, more of an arsenal stored in a hefty box than the usual flimsy white case, to know exactly where it was.
Sharing a glance with Ban, who stood on the porch watching the proceedings with mild interest, having not quite been fast enough to follow in the wake of Suzaku's charge into the house with her in tow, Aurora sighed as she dutifully applied pressure. When the fluttering of paper caught her attention as she wandered over to the fridge, Aurora paused when she caught sight of Suzaku's art supplies on the table. Even his chaos of creation somehow maintained a militant order. A few pencils may be scattered, but the reserves were neatly set side by side, waiting to be called into action. She smiled a little at the quirk before catching sight of his works in progress. Her smile faded, and Aurora halted in a contemplative stillness.
When Suzaku trotted back into the kitchen, she was still standing by the table. Her hair, initially bundled back earlier, had been dismantled enough over the course of the morning to shield her face, her head tipped down to gaze at his drawings. It was only upon seeing her staring at the pictures that Suzaku realized he'd neglected to gather up his work before rushing out to see what was the matter. Too late now, he reminded himself.
Taking her hand, Suzaku set the first aid kit on the table by his drawings. At the first brush of his fingers against hers, Aurora's eyes swung to his, a small shift of her head sliding the curtain of hair back, revealing her face. Revealing her eyes, gone dark with something Suzaku sensed, but couldn't quite name. She smiled, but the expression seemed weak in comparison to what swam in the blue of her gaze, patinaed by silver.
"They're lovely." Aurora's voice was husky, and she had to clear her throat to loosen the sand in it. Suzaku didn't answer – he tugged her down into the end chair, angling away from the papers and pencils, nudging them back out of harm's way once he took a seat beside her. As he opened the kit and began assembling what he needed, Aurora's injured hand still in his, Suzaku thought of what she'd said. It took him a moment to realize she'd been referring to both drawings. The blue one, he was rather satisfied with. But that black one… it was still missing something. An element of energy that he knew it lacked, but didn't know how to fix. Ducking his head to watch the wound as he carefully pulled the towel away, he finally acknowledged Aurora's compliment.
"Thank you. I think the blue one's coming out quite well. I don't know about the black one, though," Suzaku said softly as he prepared the medical tape for butterfly bandages. He could feel Aurora's shrug through the slender muscles in her hand, and spared her a glance. She was looking around him at the picture of the black dragon, left unfinished and bleak.
"I like the black one."
He just hummed in dissatisfaction, returning her shrug with one of his own, carefully applying antiseptic. She didn't even grimace, just thrummed the fingers of her uninjured hand on the table. Suzaku pressed the edges of the cut together and taped it closed. Aurora's eyes flickered a little, her only reaction to the sting, but she continued without inflection in her voice.
"It has power. Just needs a bit of color."
Once the square of gauze was centered over the wound and he began the repetitive task of winding the bandage around her hand, Suzaku finally looked up at her fully. The corner of his mouth helplessly curled up at the suggestion, made with an ease that displayed her ignorance of working with imagination transferred to paper. But perhaps Aurora had a point.
"Maybe. Any ideas?"
She propped her chin on her palm as they both watched him bind her hand. It was only now that the gash was comfortably out of sight that Suzaku could appreciate the fine fingers trusted to his hold. At first glance, they were the hands of a noblewoman, lithe and long and delicate. But even now, he could see the knuckles being covered by bandages were strong and faintly tattered with scars. There was the occasional ridge of callouses on her palm, softened by care but perpetuated by labor. These were the hands of a woman who could fight, who could mend and work and heal. The thought slowly started to dissolve the steel-cabled tension he'd been carefully directing into his task. It had disturbed him more than he wanted to admit seeing Aurora hurt, even if it was just a simple cut on her hand.
"How about red?" she suggested as Suzaku taped the tail of the bandage. He sat back as she inspected his work, considering the palette in his head.
"I don't know. Common color for a dragon."
"Traditional, not common," Aurora corrected with a smile. "Nothing wrong with traditional. Nice job, by the way. Pretty nifty field dressing. Couldn't have done much better myself. Thanks."
"No problem," he said quietly, still thinking over the picture in his head, considering and dismissing color after color. Yet, after her suggestion, Suzaku kept coming back to a crimson dragon. Maybe the idea had merit.
"What happened, anyway?" he asked before Aurora could scoot her chair back and trot back out to the garage. In that way, she was almost like a child. Grudgingly sitting through a mending only to scamper back out to trouble as soon as the hold on her was loosed.
"Just giving the duchess a little TLC. One of the bolts gave me a little trouble, and my wrench slipped."
Suzaku had to smile – who would have thought that a Britannian princess would be a gearhead?
"Is it a waste of breath to ask that you be careful?"
She smiled, the sweetness and mischief in it making the air wheeze out of his suddenly tight lungs.
"Yes, but it's an adorable, very appreciated waste." Finally, she did stand, brushing her fingers through his hair in a manner of thanks, he guessed. The breath of touch, however, had his guts tightening in a way that was almost… pleasant. "Thanks again. I'll be back around dinner time." With that, she was gone, a fairy queen gone back to fawn over her steed. Ban trotted after her, the two of them conversing in low words and throaty woofs as they walked through the beds of blooms to the grand old barn-turned-garage, the red paint having long ago worn to a stately silver. Suzaku sat, slowly blinking at the echo of her. A red dragon, huh?
He pulled the page of his first drawing close, studying it with critical eyes. He wasn't sure it could be salvaged, not in its entirety. But maybe, in a way, it could be reborn. Setting aside his blue dragon, nearly finished and spectacular in her ferocity, he started again. He used the general form of the first drawing, the skeleton of the picture transferring rather well. There were changes he made besides the color he planned. But they were for the better. Even though some were a bit of a challenge to finesse, Aurora was right. There was something about a red dragon, in flight for freedom and fire.
That night, when Suzaku dreamed, he found himself somewhere he'd never imagined he would be again. He was in his old HBSR body armor.
It had been years since he'd strapped the plating to his limbs, but he doubted the sensation of it would ever truly slip from his memory, not when it had been so ingrained in his adolescence. The crack in his left upper arm plate that made it wiggle whenever his bicep flexed; the straps to his knee plates that were far too long, and had to be tied to take up the slack, the knots lightly digging into the tendons in the back of his knees; the smell of metal and plastic and sweat that would seep into his lungs after any length of time wearing his helmet. He held his rifle with practiced competence, the blind repetition of a muscle well-conditioned.
His orders were to sweep the premises. They came through his coms in the robotic female voice that reminded him of his mother at the worse moments. It was against regs to sweep an area alone; something he'd gotten in trouble for on a regular basis. But here and now, that rule seemed irrelevant. Suzaku had his orders, and he was utterly alone. As he turned the corner of the hallway, it became shockingly clear where he was instantly.
It was the Britannian palace. Not the one currently occupied by Nunnally standing as the official seat of the empire, but the palace in Pendragon that Lelouch and his siblings, including his half-sister, had known since birth. Suzaku had spent enough time there during his tenure as the Knight of Zero to recognize the rich, floral silk wallpaper, that gilt mirror with the cherub scrollwork, a side table that was easily two hundred years old adorned by leaves, waxed within an inch of its life to a manic shine.
As he came to the first doorway to his right, Suzaku roughly shouldered it open, immediately scanning the corners, moving clear of the fatal funnel as he'd been trained. It was directly apparent that the room, opulent in the way only old wealth could be, was empty. What was equally glaring was the fact that it hadn't always been. Blood smeared the walls, occasional hand prints making it obvious that someone in the last grips of desperation had braced trembling palms to the walls, only to slide down as their legs gave way. The splatters on the window in blood from an arterial spray glittered like black stars, speckling the pale blue damask curtains in constellations of ink. At least three fatally large pools of blood cooled on the wood paneled floor. There was no sign of gunfire, and it was impossible to tell if cordite lingered through the choking blanket of blood in the air.
He tried not to let it in, tried to keep the facts from penetrating beyond their impartial truth. Merely catalogued the likely number of casualties, confirmed that the room had been cleared after scanning it one last time, then continued his sweep. But as Suzaku slammed open door after door after door, it started to sink in, started to freeze along the inner curve of his spine, branching out along his ribs like he'd swallowed death's tears. There was nothing to find here. Nothing but the echo of death and the ugly exhaust of it spraying elegant silk couches and ivory piano keys. What exactly was he looking for? What was the point?
Yet another door, heavy and carved like all the rest, banged open under his determined assault. But, finally, this room wasn't empty. A lone figure stood by the window, solemnly gazing out into the rainstorm light while habit had Suzaku training his rifle on the corners, searching out a threat even as the single occupant stood still as a frightened doe.
It was only when she turned somber eyes to him that Suzaku realized it was Aurora. The breathless recognition burst through his chest like a meteor, burning both his pain and his bones in its wake.
She didn't look the way he'd ever seen her, but she was unmistakable. Those big, luminous eyes were heavily darkened, that pretty, clever mouth slicked in a purple so dusky it was almost black. Her umber hair wasn't exploding out of it bounds or tumbling over her shoulders as was its delighted norm – instead, it had been tamed into a brutal, golden twist high on the back of her head, not a single hair fraying out of place. She looked magnificent, yet austere.
The dress she wore was of the same vein. It was the color of midnight, the faintest hint of blue saving it from funereal black. It fell to the floor in silken waves, rippling like winter oceans around a body he knew beat warm, but somehow now looked carved from granite. The bodice was low, tight, and severe, her long sleeves adhering strictly to her muscles, ending in antiquated points over her neatly laced fingers. She wore no jewelry, not when the fabric of the gown itself faintly sparkled, ice-frosted steel. She was a princess crafted from the ashes of battles and broken hearts, her face distant and regal and pale.
Even as she coolly gazed at him, there was no change in expression. Clicking on the safety of his rifle, Suzaku lowered it, wondering why she was still looking at him from behind a mask of beautiful indifference. Then, because he was watching her so fervently, he saw the expression streak through her eyes, there and gone. It was so fast, he almost didn't see it, but he felt it in his bones. She was afraid of him. It finally dawned on Suzaku that he was still wearing his helmet.
Hurriedly, he reached up and disengaged it, not noticing when he dropped it to the floor that it was Zero's mask instead of the helmet of an Honorary Britannian soldier. But he didn't spare the orb of metal and plastic a second glance – he was already striding forward, arms outstretched for Aurora, driven and desperate to touch her, to hold her. His rifle fell unnoticed to the floor with a thud, a weapon forgotten in the face of tenderness. It felt like it had been decades since he'd felt the silk of her skin, the sunburst of her vivid warmth. And Suzaku needed her more than he needed air; like his heart, his brain, would implode from the starvation of her.
Her expression had cracked like antique glass when she caught sight of his face. Eager, evanescent joy overtook Aurora's eyes, lighting them as if the sun had burst through the clouds over a snowy field. She raced for him, the sudden animation of her form changing her dress from an adornment into a cage. She was no longer a princess of ice and stone; she was a queen, held captive, refusing to submit, waiting in a tower for a knight of worth to find her.
They tangled together like vines, Suzaku enchanted by the passionate, exquisite woman he held in his arms. She pressed to him without inhibition, her painted face buried against his neck as her arms locked around him. Suzaku gathered her close, breathing in the smell of cold lilies, slowly being overshadowed by the scent of sun-warmed cherry blossoms. It was natural, then, perfect, even inevitable, when her face turned to his, and their mouths met.
That press of lips erupted in Suzaku's system like a nuclear bomb. Molten fire raced through his blood, screamed along his nerves. It felt like his brain was melting through his ears, and the only clear thought that could pound its way through his neurons was that he wanted Aurora. All of her, every inch she would yield, he would take.
His inexperience left the details vague at best. But that didn't dim Suzaku's extravagant need for Aurora, or the wild lust that choked him like gas fumes. She was more than good, kissing him with the skill to leave him trembling and panting for her. Without really knowing what the hell he was doing, Suzaku loosened his hold on Aurora enough to reach down, hooking his fingers around the refined tendons at the back of her knees. In the way of dreams, she knew what he wanted before he had to say, and she hiked herself up, wrapping her long legs around his waist. Supporting her and moving on brutal, animal instinct, Suzaku rammed her back against the wall, colliding like comets, the sound she made into his mouth not a whimper, but an eager growl that made Suzaku want to snarl and lick.
More because he wanted it than because he could actually manage it, her gown loosened, sliding off strong shoulders and baring what seemed like acres of tantalizingly delicate, pale skin. Driving his fingers through her sternly coiffed hair, Suzaku loosened the array, sending it tumbling down over her shoulders and collarbone the way he liked, moving over his palms like sunshine. Digging her fingers in between his plates of armor, Aurora peeled them off him like a shell, revealing something hot and fragile. She was soft and sweet and beautifully strong, and Suzaku wanted her with a ferocity he didn't even know lived inside him.
So he took her. That gorgeous, dark gown flowed between and around them like water, and Aurora went pliant and stunning under him. The specifics were lost to his innocence, but the overwhelming desire held him like a hot fist. Instinct informed what he had no knowledge of, and as they reached a vicious fever pitch, Aurora wrapped herself close, and, her breath stuttering, she whispered in his ear.
"I order you, Suzaku."
Her words slammed Suzaku out of the dream more effectively than a scream directly in his ear. He woke with his breath heaving, overheated and the images from the dream firmly stamped on the inside of his eyelids. Flinging back the blankets, he closed his eyes at the wash of cool air, trying desperately to ignore the raging erection that was currently disfiguring his pajama pants.
After almost a year without even a hint of arousal, Suzaku had assumed that the urge had all but left him. Of course, the current evidence claimed otherwise. The extent of his sexual knowledge provincial at best, he'd learned the same way most young men he'd known had learned – porn magazines passed around the barracks until the pages lost their gloss and went thin from countless fingers turning them. Suzaku distinctly remembered when the first one had been shoved into his hands at fifteen. Curious and slightly horrified, he'd cautiously flicked through until his body's reaction became apparent. That had spooked him badly enough to throw the magazine away, piss off his comrades, and eventually earn Suzaku the title of the regiment's prude; he didn't care for porn, didn't fuck anything he could get his hands on during leave, and didn't engage in the rampant discussions about the guys' sexual prowess. This regularly led to the thugs of the brigade questioning his masculinity until he'd been forced to defend his honor with his fists, something that had always left a bitter taste in his mouth. But he'd been unwilling to be with a woman simply to stave off some rough teasing. Perhaps his broad traditional streak made the idea of intercourse more important to him than most of the other males in his acquaintance.
To Suzaku's mind, sex was also a risky mystery. Which was unnecessary to take when he could take care of himself, and avoid courting unwanted pregnancies or disease. He'd never met anyone he was willing to take the gamble for. Until, of course, Euphemia.
That thought did what the cold air couldn't; he was so appalled by his betrayal of Euphie that it killed his erection, leaving Suzaku feeling cold and uncomfortable. Why had he dreamt of Aurora, not Euphie? The specifics started to fade, but the glaring fact remained that the woman he'd fucked hadn't been the one he loved, the one he'd sacrificed everything, even his soul for.
It had been the one who saved him, who challenged him. The one who still lived. Suzaku pushed himself up, sitting on his bed with his fingers spearing through his hair, none of the comfort and ease blooming from the touch when it came from himself. Not like when Aurora did it. Grinding the heel of his hand against his temple, Suzaku demanded, forced, himself to forget how badly he'd wanted her in the dream. How having her had done things for his heart and mind that three years of relative peace hadn't even been able to touch.
Not that it mattered, he sternly told himself, but that hadn't even really been her. Aurora didn't dress like that, didn't stand waiting to be rescued. No, she would have hacked her way out, emerging triumphant with a cheeky grin before disappearing like a phantom. He hadn't noticed it while having her against a wall, hazed by want, but the dream Aurora lacked the faint freckles, gold dust scattered where the sun had kissed her skin, that she bore in the waking world. She hadn't been real; the mercurial woman who worked on cars and saw dragons in color, not stark black – she was real. And the memory of Euphie, his crucible and crux, that was real. Things that defined him. That controlled entities as insane and impossible as sexual desire.
Besides, the lifestyle of a monk suited Suzaku. Kept him out of the trouble that seemed to gravitate to his more human needs. Better to be removed than involved. Better to be hungry than dying. But as he laid back down, with the ghost of lips on his own and wild, freed beauty in his grasp, Suzaku didn't feel that much better. Not when his gut clutched at the ancient dilemma of duty versus desire. Both as far from him as the moon, bearded by wispy clouds, that turned his curtains opalescent.
My New Year's present to my darling readers. I hope you enjoy it. It was a delight to write, between the insanity of the holidays.
Next round of cast announcements. Because I figured you guys would have as hard of a time picking someone as I did, Aurora is next. About seven different actresses were considered, chosen, then replaced with someone else. I finally settled on Jessica Boone. She has great power and energy, and sits at the rare place in the middle of the general range. Many had voices either too high and soft, or, if power was their forte, too low. She's also entertaining, sarcastic, and clever.
I hope you all enjoyed the dream nooky. It stays between you and Suzaku, though.
Hope you like it!
Love, Tango