Prompt: Tautology (Code Geass, Schneizel/Suzaku)
Word Count: 539 (Phew, I manage to keep them under 1000 words so far…)
Notes: Set in the beginning of Infinity, when Suzaku had just become Schneizel’s knight. Mostly about Suzaku, although there are elements of Schneizel/Suzaku in the undertone. xoxeskel, I hope you don’t mind. If you do though, you still can request one more drabble XD And perhaps the ‘tautology’ you want is in the rhetoric sense, I’m not sure, but I just had computer logic last semester, so…
Suzaku was not a Britannian.
If a Number was a member of the lesser class, then an honorary Britannian was somewhere in between, the abnormal breed that was neither one nor the other. Politics called its needs and society was forced to adapt, slowly, grudgingly, the proud oak unbent by the wind even as it swiftly rose to a gale. It was a long, painful process, and it was greedy, merciless, calling for far too many victims to pave its tortuous path.
Suzaku never wondered if he was a victim. He looked back and there was only grey and black, the hunched shadow his father had cast on his blood-stained hands. They were red, the blood thick and warm, far more vivid than the last beams of the sun laying siege to the windows. He could not see his father’s face, and he forbade himself to wonder but in dreams, where wills were even weaker than hopes, thin wisps that they were.
The uniform, white and gold, fitted perfectly against the angles and curves of his body. It was beautiful, elegant, the finest anyone could have in the empire, but it still did not make him a Britannian – Lancelot was white and gold and it did not make him a machine not to kill. Everyone stared at him because he was not a Britannian, and therefore was not a knight.
It was probably the colour of his skin, the apparent slightness of his stature, the awkward way he carried himself, or even the very fact that he was there. Breathing the same air as them. Walking the same halls. Attending the same feasts.
Ensnaring the same prince.
They didn’t like it, and that was why they looked at him and hid disdain behind their smiles, razors amidst their praises. Their eyes narrowed when he opened his mouth, and their lips twitched when he stumbled between words his tongue remained unused to. Suzaku had tried to perfect his English, he had but he never could – and a part of him was in fact relieved. He thought it was afraid that he would soon forget his roots in the company of these novelties, that nippon would someday perish from his tongue.
He thought it was absurd. There was nothing here to bind him but duty. Suzaku closed his eyes, disgusted at their politely mocking face. The soldier in him demanded a fair fight, but his lessons had taught him to choose his battles carefully – he had enough enemies as it was.
He stepped away with a smile and an excuse, and kept himself occupied with a drink. The sun was setting, playing with vibrant red on the lofty windows as the music continued to hum, flitting in and out of his notice. He had never wanted to be here. He had never wanted to be a knight.
But then there was a hand on his shoulder, moving very subtly down to his waist, and a pair of lips descended to his right ear. He kept his gaze on the windows – it was not the same sunset which had witnessed his first murder, but perhaps they had never been different, one to another.
“My knight,” his prince said, and that was it.
Wow, isn’t that the vaguest thing I’ve ever written.