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Even Lelouch is not foolish enough to believe he can continue at this pace.
When he’d committed himself to walking the path of blood, he’d known there would be consequences. Sacrifices in the form of peace, comfort, security, and many, many lives. His own personal wellbeing thrown away almost as an afterthought. For the sake of burning an empire to the ground, there is almost nothing Lelouch would not set aflame. Himself included. Himself especially.
That is, assuming he can avoid crumbling down long enough to light the match.
And that is where his problem lies.
He hasn’t been getting nearly enough sleep, for one thing—there are simply not enough hours in the day to allow himself the luxury. Even his own mind seems hell-bent on preventing him from experiencing the blissful unawareness of slumber. For all of his bravado in the daylight, his dreams are shadowy and uncertain, leaving him tense and uneasy upon awakening. He knows it’s affecting his mood—he’d had to stop himself more than once from snapping at Rivalz during yesterday’s student council meeting, lest he pique the others’ curiosity. Feigning interest in the things around himself is sapping so much of his energy and patience, he’s almost amazed it hasn’t leeched over into his Zero persona as well. The Black Knights absolutely cannot realize anything is amiss. He must take the utmost care to keep his personal problems far away from his alternate life.
Except today.
Today, dragging his eyes open to the tune of his alarm clock is almost more than he can take.
Then the smell hits him, and his stomach lurches.
Greasy and thick, he swears he can nearly taste it—a thought that only makes him feel more nauseated. It’s the unmistakable scent of pizza, delivered hot and fresh despite the early morning hour.
He thanks his lucky stars for once that he hadn’t been home in time for dinner last night, or he suspects he’d be wearing it down the front of his shirt by now. Pulling himself out of his internal suffering, he fixes a glare on its source—C.C. herself, lounging languidly at his desk as if she owns the place, stretching a long strand of mozzarella between her teeth from a slice held high in the air.
He’s been awake all of two minutes, and Lelouch has already had it with today.
“Must you really—?” what is intended to be a snarl comes out in a sandpapery little rasp that is unexpectedly painful, a hand flitting to his throat in surprise.
Ah. So that’s how it is.
C.C. regards him with a blank stare, but he doesn’t feel up to explaining himself further. Without another word, he grabs his uniform, stalking out of the room to change in the bathroom, far away from the sickening aroma of cheese and sauce.
At the very least, C.C. aside, it’s only Nunnally he’ll have to face before class this morning. With Sayoko out running errands, there’s one less person in the household to deceive. He feels a little guilty, putting it in such harsh terms, but he doesn’t have the willpower to dwell upon it on this particular morning.
However, he’s not so caught up in his own misery that he doesn’t notice Nunnally’s atypical silence during breakfast. He puts down his slice of toast—it’s not like he’d been making much headway, anyway—to regard her with his full attention. “Is everything alright, Nunnally? You seem unusually quiet this morning. Or are you missing having Sayoko to keep the conversation going?”
It’s meant to come out as lighthearted, brotherly teasing, but Nunnally only frowns. “I wanted to ask you the same thing. Is everything okay?”
“Okay?” he feigns innocence. “Everything is perfectly fine,” the lie slips out with what feels like practiced ease, but his little sister is not so easily convinced.
“Are you sure? Your voice sounds hoarse.” Her hand finds his, fingers wrapped around the handle of his coffee mug, and she traces his arm all the way up to his shoulder, to his neck, to his face, until she’s leaning so far out of her chair he’s worried she might just topple over. She gasps, then, when her touch finally reaches his cheek. “And you—you’re warm!”
He has to resist the warring urges to both lean into the coolness of her fingertips and jerk away from her knowing touch. Instead, he carefully clasps her hand in his, lowering it to the table once more. “Everything is really okay, Nunnally. I may have just stayed up too late studying for exams.” He takes a sip of coffee to punctuate his proclamation, thankful that she can’t see him grimace as it burns its way down his sore throat. Her expression softens, but she doesn’t look particularly reassured.
He’s able to escape the breakfast table with only minimal scolding and a warning to go to the school nurse the second he starts feeling worse—spoken like an eventuality rather than a possibility. Hopefully she’s wrong, but, with his meager breakfast already churning uneasily in his belly, Lelouch wonders if perhaps he should have just heeded her warning and crawled back into bed.
It’s laughable, he thinks as he trudges up the stairs towards his classroom, that he’s taken so many days off for things other than sickness that he cannot afford to stay home now that he is truly, unquestionably ill.
Damned exams.
He has two this morning. Just two. Art history—a farce of a class, really, as it ignores all but famed Britannian works—and mathematics. Despite his physical state, mentally he feels well-prepared. He’d attended nearly every study group organized by the student council—he’d even helped tutor his fellow clubmates on some of the more difficult math concepts. In the name of keeping up appearances, he has to keep his grades steady. This shouldn’t prove to be too insurmountable a challenge.
Until art history whizzes by, and he suddenly can’t recall a single word of what he’d written for the essay portion. In fact, he can’t even remember what the question had been about.
…It’s probably not a big deal. He’s always prided himself on his improvisational skills, after all.
The second and final exam of the morning is upon them before he knows it, and he’s left staring blankly down at the paper before him. Math. Just math. All he has to do is work his way through some calculations, then he can slip away to his room, curl up under the covers, bury his head beneath the pillow, and never leave his bed ever again.
He takes a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth—glancing around quickly to make sure nobody has noticed. His classmates are all fully engrossed in their own tests, the only sounds made by the soft scratch of pencils on papers.
He can do this.
He works his way through the first few problems, almost on autopilot. This is manageable, he thinks. He’ll get through this like he gets through everything. He flips the page.
Graphs.
So many graphs.
He swallows hard, trying to steady himself. The tiny numbers dance before his eyes, carefully marked coordinates blurring into an indistinguishable mess of dots and lines. But that’s all math really is anyway, isn’t it? Numbers and dots and lines? He’s usually pretty good at sorting out this kind of thing, isn’t he? But what’s—what is this equation even asking him to do?
His stomach does a little flip, and he’s immediately aware of how stiflingly hot the classroom feels. But that can’t be right, can it? The weather outside had been mild that morning, and the window is even cracked a bit to let some fresh air in. But he feels a flush creeping up the back of his neck, beads of sweat collecting along his hairline, and the sudden, pervasive need to get out.
But he can’t. He still has—he tries to count the number of unanswered questions on his exam, but somehow that makes him even woozier than before. He can’t think. He can’t draw a full breath of air. And he’s so—so nauseous, when had he become…?
He stands robotically, hardly aware of his own actions at all. The teacher says something to him, an accusing edge to her tone, but he can’t make out the words. Instead, he offers a few of his own, “I—I, uh—” his voice sounds impossibly loud amongst the silence of his peers, “—excuse me,” he finishes lamely. And, with that, he bolts from the room.
He hears another voice followed by a loud clatter as the door swings shut behind him, but he doesn’t have the ability to ponder its meaning as he races down the hall, muscle memory hurrying him along on a journey he doesn’t even remember by the time his knees hit the hard tile floor.
He has less than a second to catch his breath before he’s doubled over in front of the toilet, the knot in his stomach twisting itself so tightly he can’t help but gasp. Perhaps it’s this sudden intake of air that first causes him to retch, harsh and loud off the porcelain. To his utmost dismay, nothing even comes up aside from a pathetic, strained whimper he can hardly believe came from himself. His stomach clenches again, a second unproductive gag preceding a miserable hiccup full of something brownish and bitter. Mercifully, it’s enough to send him over the edge, and he finally heaves, bringing up a watery mouthful of sick that tastes like bile and burnt coffee beans.
Now that he’s started, however, he can’t seem to stop. One more piteous retch is enough to empty his stomach completely, but his body remains convinced that something is wrong. He chokes, gagging himself on a desperate inhalation as his stomach tries to expel its imaginary irritant. Tears spring to the corners of his eyes, dark spots dancing dangerously at the edges of his vision while his lungs fight for oxygen.
Something heavy lands in the middle of his back, and he startles, sparing a glance behind himself long enough to realize the something is a hand, and its owner is Suzaku.
Damn it all.
Suzaku feels Lelouch tense even further beneath his unexpected touch, and wonders for a moment if he should back off. Some people would rather be alone when they’re this ill, he knows, and he’s not really sure where Lelouch’s preferences on the matter stand.
Lelouch doesn’t give him much choice in the matter, however, when he abruptly collapses backwards into Suzaku’s arms. He blinks up at his newfound pillow, a little dazed, but at least he’s not throwing up anymore—or rather, trying to throw up on a clearly empty stomach. He still looks dreadfully queasy, though, and it doesn’t take a genius to add his flushed countenance to the heat searing through his uniform blazer and deduce he’s running a fever.
“Oh, Lelouch,” Suzaku sighs, reaching out to swipe his friend’s sweaty bangs out of his eyes. When Lelouch doesn’t immediately swat at him—or react at all, for that matter—he knows he must be feeling beyond horrible.
Then, “Thank you, Suzaku, but I’m fine now.” An answer—no, a blatant lie—to a question Suzaku hadn’t asked. He surprises himself by feeling an unexpected wash of irritation.
“You are not. You’re—” he fumbles for the right words, “you’re going home. To the nurse’s office first, then home.” He seems to have gotten his point across, because no protest is forthcoming. “Do you think you can stand?”
Lelouch nods, but it still takes nearly all of Suzaku’s strength to lift the both of them off the floor. He wrinkles his nose in disgust as he reaches around his trembling companion to flush away the mess in the toilet. “Did you eat anything with your coffee at breakfast?”
The look that crosses Lelouch’s face is so close to petulant that, were the situation any different, Suzaku would laugh. “I had some toast too. I wasn’t—” he stops himself, as if he regrets whatever information he was about to divulge, but at Suzaku’s encouraging nudge he finishes with, “—I didn’t have much of an appetite this morning.”
Suzaku rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and we all know black coffee is just what you need when your stomach isn’t feeling right.”
Lelouch has no response for that.
While making their way to her office is slow-going, one look at Lelouch is all it takes to send the nurse bustling about, seating him on a bed and slipping a thermometer beneath his tongue in the blink of an eye.
“38.9,” she tuts, disposing of the plastic cover in the trash, “Probably something viral, they always seem to make the rounds this time of year. Worried about your exams?” Lelouch nods, and Suzaku sees a hint of something glint in his eye for a moment, but it’s gone before he has a chance to consider it. “Stress can take a toll on your immune system as well. Would you like to lie down and rest for a while? I’ll let your teacher know you won’t be returning to class.”
Something that looks unexpectedly close to desperation crosses over Lelouch’s face as his gaze quickly darts toward Suzaku. Luckily, he thinks he can construe its meaning. “Actually,” he waits until he has her full attention, “would it be okay if I walked Lelouch back to his quarters? He looks after his little sister, and he’d probably rest better knowing that she’s okay.”
The nurse surveys him with a critical eye. “Don’t you have exams to get back to?”
Suzaku shakes his head. “Ours were all scheduled for the morning, and I completed the last one right before…” he gestures vaguely, hoping she’ll catch his drift.
She considers his request for a long moment. “…Very well. I’ll contact your teacher. Are you feeling well enough to walk, dear?”
Lelouch wobbles upon standing, but Suzaku’s steadying hand on his back is enough to keep him upright—and it’s the only thing keeping him upright by the time they actually make it back to his room. Suzaku is almost relieved to see his friend collapse into bed, simply because it means he won’t be performing the same spectacular face-plant directly onto the floor.
“You don’t have to stay,” Lelouch intones, pulling the covers around himself like a protective barrier, “You’ve been missing a lot of school recently, too.”
Another bout of sarcasm flaring, Suzaku retorts, “And leave you to fend for yourself? Give me more credit than that.”
Lelouch huffs.
“I’ll at least stay until Sayoko and Nunnally are home,” Suzaku insists, softening his tone, “then you can shoo me away all you want.”
Lelouch doesn’t grace him with a reply aside from a tiny grunt as he rolls over in bed. Suzaku catches a glimpse of his face, a wince pinching his features into something worn and discontented. He sighs.
“Do you at least want to change back into your pajamas? You can’t possibly be comfortable sleeping in your uniform.”
Lelouch shrugs. Then disappears beneath the blankets, shuffling around for a minute before haphazardly tossing his blazer onto the floor—quickly followed by his button-up and trousers. By Suzaku’s calculation, that should leave him in his boxers and undershirt—not exactly pajamas, but at least he won’t be roasting beneath a million layers with that fever of his.
Speaking of fevers…
“You should try to drink some water so you don’t get dehydrated.” Though the lump under the covers doesn’t react, he can sense the reluctance emanating from his friend. “I’ll get you a glass. Just a sip or two, okay? See how your stomach feels afterward. Although…” he wonders if perhaps he shouldn’t say it out loud, but decides to throw caution to the wind, “…maybe I’ll track down a bucket, too, in case you do feel like you have to be sick again.”
Lelouch outright groans, which means that his sinking suspicions are probably correct. Then, “There’s one under the kitchen sink.”
The fact that he’s suddenly so helpful on the matter doesn’t exactly assuage Suzaku’s concerns.
Sure enough, he’s halfway through filling a glass in the kitchen when an uneasy, “Suzaku…” echoes from the bedroom. Swearing, he flings open the cabinet beneath the sink, not bothering even to close the door as he hurries back the way he came. Lelouch is already sitting up in bed by the time he gets there, making a desperate grabby motion in his direction as soon as he steps through the door.
“Okay, okay, here,” Suzaku pushes the bucket into his hands, leaving the water safely on the nightstand and perching himself on the edge of the bed next to his friend. Lelouch flinches away when the first heave sends him lurching forward, burying his face in the bucket as a tiny splatter of liquid hits the bottom. Suzaku frowns, running a hand gently up and down Lelouch’s back when his whole body shudders under the force of a second, fruitless retch. “Breathe, Lelouch, you have to—” he receives a split-second glare for his troubles before its owner resumes turning himself inside-out. He can’t bring himself to feel very offended, though—especially when an exhalation that sounds alarmingly close to a choked-off sob reverberates off the plastic.
Suzaku knows the absolute agony of throwing up when you’ve got nothing left to throw up, which is why he doesn’t move away when Lelouch ultimately slumps into his side, eyes shut tight and breathing hard.
They sit like that for a few minutes—Lelouch half in Suzaku’s lap, Suzaku rubbing Lelouch’s back like it’s the most important job in the world.
When he’s finally ready to sit back up, Suzaku takes ownership of the bucket so Lelouch can lift the cup between his trembling hands, managing a tentative sip and swishing it around in his mouth to dissipate the bitter aftertaste. He spits with obvious disgust, embarrassment written all over his face as Suzaku takes the glass from his hands.
“I’m going to rinse this,” he offers of the bucket, trying to be as nonchalant about it as possible, “is there anything I can get you?”
Lelouch shakes his head, stops, then nods. “Just that,” he croaks, pointing towards the tissue box on the table just out of his reach.
Suzaku smiles in a way he hopes is reassuring, exchanging the tissues for the glass of water. He doesn’t miss the way his friend immediately turns his face away, scrubbing resentfully at the tear tracks beneath his eyes.
For both of their sakes, Suzaku pretends not to see.
When he returns, he’s unsurprised to find Lelouch has retreated beneath the covers, curled on his side with his back to the door. What is somewhat surprising—and a little alarming—is that he’s shaking, tremors running from head to toe. He’s tense, too, obviously trying in vain to suppress the urge to shiver. Suzaku worries his lower lip between his teeth, keeping his footsteps light as he approaches to lay a hand on Lelouch’s back.
“Cold?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.
Lelouch nods, a particularly violent shudder jostling his shoulders. Suzaku can only see half of his face from this angle, but he looks more resigned than anything else.
It’s not a good look on him.
Without any real intent, Suzaku sits on the edge of the bed, languidly rubbing his hand up and down Lelouch’s side. Lelouch makes a miserable little noise, leaning into the touch almost immediately, and in that split second Suzaku makes up his mind.
Toeing off his shoes and divesting himself of his own uniform top, Suzaku murmurs a quick request for permission—answered by an even quicker affirmative—before lifting the edge of the covers and sliding beneath. Lelouch scoots over to accommodate him, naturally settling back against his chest like the space was made just for him.
It should be awkward, Suzaku thinks. After all, they haven’t embraced like this since they were children. But instead it comes easily, his lips pressed to the back of Lelouch’s head. He drapes an arm cautiously across Lelouch’s waist, pulling him ever-so-slightly closer. Lelouch sighs, simply content to soak up the extra body heat, and Suzaku feels something in his heart loosen up just a little bit as his friend’s chills slowly subside.
Suzaku is warm—so warm and so comforting Lelouch could just about cry.
He won’t, of course, but he could.
Attentive, with a compassionate streak a mile wide, Suzaku knows exactly what Lelouch needs without a word spoken between the two of them—and that need, right now, is contact. Suzaku’s body pressed to his back, breath tickling the back of his neck, legs intertwined, arm around his middle, hand a welcome source of heat against his aching stomach.
His friend is gentle, soft, and far too good for him—this, he is absolutely certain of. But for now, just this once, he thinks he can allow himself one small luxury.
He closes his eyes.
For some reason, Suzaku is happy.
The situation is far from ideal, all things considered. He knows damn well he’s doomed to catch this…whatever it is, with such close proximity sealing the deal. It’s not an idea he relishes. Honestly, if he ends up even half as sick as his bedmate, he’ll be in for a hell of a time.
But somehow—with his nose buried in Lelouch’s sweat-damp hair, listening as the sick boy’s breathing evens out into soft snores—he really can’t bring himself to care.