Chapter Text
Lelouch had never joined Ashford's drama club. This was not because he lacked dramatics or because he lacked talent, but was instead because he took issue with their set design. The head of the drama club was a portly middle-aged woman, a kind teacher who told all of her students to address her as Denise. She brought homemade cupcakes into the school on a regular basis, and had attempted to use baked goods to bribe Lelouch into joining her club more than once. He had rebuffed her at every turn until Milly let the story slip to Nunnally, who immediately confronted her brother and demanded he make amends with the poor woman.
Like a scolded puppy, he had gone to the school's theater, offering the teacher his own batch of cupcakes as an apology for his rude behavior. Denise had been delighted to finally get the handsome boy with the remarkable hand movements into her abode, and she gave him the grand tour of the place. Milly, accompanied by Rivalz and a camera, had documented the entire affair, ostensibly for a school project.
Suzaku had watched the resulting footage only after his first stint at Ashford had ended. The Emperor's agents had sorted through the school's archival footage, destroying anything that depicted or mentioned Nunnally. The videos showing Lelouch but not his sister were analyzed by the intelligence agents; by Suzaku's own request, they were then submitted to him, available at his leisure if he wished to search them for clues, hints, anything to make sense of the way his world had fallen apart so completely.
The OSI had been looking for slip-ups, telltale signs that someone was under the sway of Lelouch's geass. It was beyond dispute that he'd used it on some of the students, often in seemingly petty ways; besides Suzaku himself, there was the girl with an obsessive need to mark the courtyard wall, whose parents insisted that the strange affliction had surfaced only in the past three months.
Here is what Suzaku saw in the video of Lelouch's happy tour through the drama club, watching it from his temporary quarters in the palace as the Emperor put his final touches on his Julius project: Denise cheerfully pointing out the cardboard props, spooky trees and rainclouds equipped with real dripping features for their upcoming production of Macbeth. Lelouch squinting at the trees and lightly remarking that Lebanese cedars did not grow in Scotland, but that was fine, he was all for artistic license. Denise proudly displaying the backdrops, hand-painted by the art club in dark and muddled hues that the camera barely picked up, Lelouch unable to find a better compliment for them than "accurate to British weather". The teacher escorting him to the costume racks, his fake smile collapsing completely. Not only were the costumes not historically accurate, he complained, they weren't even attractive. They were bland, shoddily-made—were these ordered from some cheap online retailer? This is theater. It's meant to be enjoyed. Where is the color? Where is the drama? Where is the excitement to stimulate the audience? If you're going to sacrifice a sense of immersion for the sake of art, fine, but make it good art. And why is Macduff wearing a black velcro jacket?
Milly snorted behind the camera as Lelouch stole a notebook and pen from a bewildered underclassman, sketching improved designs on the spot and explaining his superior costuming decisions to a deeply-displeased Denise. He had not been invited back for an audition.
Becoming the dictator of the world came with certain opportunities, though. Freed of Ashford and Denise and Macduff's polyester jacket, Lelouch was now in charge of his own production, the stage manager of the most important play he'd ever star in.
Well. Co-star, at least. Zero was the protagonist of this story. Lelouch was just the dragon he slayed at the end.
The two of them were eating breakfast when Lelouch handed him the itinerary for the day, DRESS REHEARSAL SCHEDULE blaring at him, bolded and underlined and in 72-point font. Lelouch said nothing as he did this, because it was six in the morning and Lelouch was always irritable before his natural waking hour of noon. Even as a child he had flat-out refused to speak before seven o'clock, and Suzaku had enjoyed making a game of provoking him into talking, screaming, or sputtering. He had at least consented to join Suzaku for a meal despite his typical lack of appetite at this hour, and he picked at his plain Belgian waffles as Suzaku poured maple syrup and powdered sugar over his own. CC never joined them for breakfast, a late sleeper like Lelouch but without the deep-rooted need to keep a schedule, but she would have been absent even if she were awake. She was quietly miserable these days, and had already packed her belongings and given Lelouch notice that she'd be gone within a week. No need to stick around and see the fireworks, she'd said, and both of them supposed that was fair.
So here they sat, alone with the spellbound waitstaff, two plates of waffles, and the dress rehearsal schedule. Suzaku knew what the rehearsal was for and refused to let it spoil his breakfast, so he left the stack of papers alone and focused on his meal. He didn't have to look up to know that Lelouch was glaring at him for daring to neglect his lovingly-prepared paperwork. Every second that Suzaku spent savoring his waffles was a moment that may have thrown off the meticulous timetable that was no doubt contained within its pages.
They had no schedule going into this mutual suicide. They had multiple schedules, rather; Lelouch had conjured up no less than ten of them, the shortest one covering three weeks and the longest covering ten years, with the rest in between the two depending upon various factors. Lelouch had assigned each factor a variable and created math equations out of them, printing out the results in a mixture of blue and red ink from their hotel's ancient printer, which had no black cartridge. He had convened a meeting in which he explained each one to Suzaku via PowerPoint, and if Lelouch had bullshitted every word he'd said, Suzaku would have no idea. Math had never been his favorite class. The would-be king ended his slideshow by announcing that the two likeliest schedules were the ones labeled "Approx. 3-5 months: Schneizel bombs world.pptx" and "Approx. 10-14 months: Previously-unknown geass user challenges for throne [REVISED].pptx".
Victory conditions were the one constant in each scenario: the nobility of Britannia dismantled. Stable, sane, and reformist leaders found for each of the world's superpowers, vested with power and loved by their people. Bloodthirsty civilians recognizing the horror of war and, jaded, lowering their pitchforks and spears. The UFN taking the stage as a better way, a mess of mutual ties that could not be cut without mutual pain. Lelouch, utterly despised and reviled, dead and taking imperial authority down with him. Suzaku's hands stained with blood for the last time, not because he would never kill again but because he would never bear his name again. The path to the future was paved with the remains of the faceless dead. It was only fitting that the two of them would be the last bricks in the road, one way or another.
Three months had seemed much too soon to accomplish those goals at the time, but here they were, three months later and at the end of their road. It still seemed too soon, victory conditions aside—he and Lelouch had only just started to reconcile, the fragile newborn bridges between them only just tied in place. They'd had two months of rocky reconciliation and another two of something closer, wounded hearts and bloodied palms joined together. It was not as though Suzaku had enjoyed the executions and surprise attacks and assassinations of the past three months, and he had no real desire to endure any of it for another decade. But he'd thought—he'd hoped—that maybe there would be more time to salvage something between them while tearing the world down around them. What he'd been expecting was unclear even to him, really. Something more, something else, something final. Closure, he guessed.
But there wasn't any. They weren't able to save each other, and there was no story to end, only a long list of mistakes written in blood by both of their hands. Lelouch would die, Suzaku would kill him, and all they'd have left of each other was a pile of regrets and a mutual understanding that this wasn't what either of them wanted.
8:00 - Arrive at warehouse (allow plus or minus 15 mins for security purposes and scouting)
8:15 - Inspect floats. Ensure dimensions, materials, etc are appropriate. Measuring instruments will already be present on-site along with approx. 50 "extras" to serve as stand-ins for crowds, prisoners, etc in test runs
8:30 - Table read. Roles: Lelouch as Narrator and The Demon Emperor. Jeremiah as himself. Amelia as Important Prisoner (various) and Soldier (various). Winston as Unimportant Prisoner (various) and Announcer. Morrigan as disgruntled civilian chorus and elated civilian chorus. CC (if present) as shocked civilian chorus. Suzaku as Zero.
9:30 - Discussion and suggestions for improvement
Suzaku didn't bother to wipe the maple syrup off his fingers as he flipped through the itinerary, the sugar making its pages stick together, testing Lelouch's insistence upon the silent treatment. His Majesty tapped his fingers unhappily against his plate, his half-eaten waffle looking sad and dry. Ever the loyal knight, Suzaku reached over and drowned the thing in syrup, nodding up at his liege as though he'd just performed a valuable service for him. Lelouch took a bite, mostly out of spite, and looked as though he immediately regretted it. Still, he remained silent, he and Suzaku locked in one of their pointless and time-tested battles to outdo each other's stubbornness. Suzaku knew he wanted to complain, you're meant to kill me with a sword, not pancreatic insufficiency or something stupid like that, but Lelouch forced himself to finish the drenched waffle anyway.
The rest of the schedule was the same as the first page, every hour until five at night being devoted to this play of a play, this rehearsal for the day he'd end Lelouch's life. The main event was scheduled three times, first at the table read, then without costuming around noon, and finally a "lifelike pre-enactment" at three. Outfits, weapons, and miscellaneous necessary items would be wheeled in to the warehouse in advance of their arrival, Suzaku was informed by the papers. While there would be refreshments and appetizers served at the venue, the final note of the packet instructed participants to adjourn for dinner at the end of the day. Somehow, Suzaku doubted he'd have much of an appetite by then.
He was about to flip the packet shut and return his attention to the waffles when he caught a glimpse of the fourth page. 2:15, it read, beheading practice (ballistics gel dummy). NOTE: No one is to touch dummies except Suzaku. Each costs approx. $3000 of YOUR tax dollars.
Across from him, Lelouch was downing the rest of his coffee, taking bites of the waffles in between sips so their sugary taste was diminished by the flavor of espresso. Suzaku watched the movements of his neck as he chewed, swallowed, breathed.
"You can get a refund for those dummies," he said, and it was a statement of fact, not an argument. "I don't need beheading practice."
Lelouch dabbed at his mouth with his napkin before folding it back up, ever the proper little prince. "If you think your abilities are sharp enough without the practice, then I will trust your judgement." His voice was a little rougher and a little quieter from his sleepiness, but he sure knew how to make it as grating as possible. "I merely thought you might be slightly rusty with this particular activity. I know you've engaged in decapitation via knightmare, but to my knowledge, you have never done it with your own hand."
Suzaku would not be baited into stabbing him with a fork. He shoved his last piece of waffle into his mouth and chewed it violently, enacting the anger he felt towards his king upon it. "I don't need beheading practice because I'm not beheading you. We never agreed on that."
"You accepted the sword," Lelouch pointed out, pretending to take another sip of coffee even though Suzaku knew damn well the cup was empty.
"Yeah, to stab you. Not to cut off your head."
"I fail to see the distinction." He swirled his non-existent espresso around in its cup, refusing to meet Suzaku's eyes. "And I would prefer it this way. It would, I think, make for a more fitting conclusion."
It didn't matter what Lelouch preferred, because Lelouch wouldn't be the one holding the sword, Lelouch wouldn't be able to complain once he was dead, and Suzaku would rip the walls of Lelouch's heart open so quickly that he'd bleed to death before he could process the fact that his head was still on his shoulders. Without a further word, Suzaku rose, bowed in half-formality and half-mockery, and went to make preparations for the rehearsal.
He never dreamt about the moment it would finally be over. It was more accurate to say that he never dreamt about anything these days, really; if his mind tormented itself with nightmares, they were blissfully wiped from his awareness the moment his eyes opened. There was enough misery in the waking world, he guessed. No need for additional self-pity.
But he couldn't keep it out of his imagination, the image of Lelouch on his knees, half-dead and waiting for the end to come. The sight of the blade revealing the bone in Lelouch's neck, his headless corpse remaining upright for a startling moment before toppling over. Someone in the crowd reaching for his head as it rolled and thumped, claiming it as a prize, the frenzied and elated people of Free Britannia clawing out his eyes and stomping them with a sickening squish upon the concrete. Suzaku—Zero, by then—walking over and extending his hand to the mob, the grateful masses handing him back the mutilated head so that he could hold it aloft and enjoy the well-earned cheers. The sword still in his other hand, coated in blood and dotted with strands of black hair. Turning back and towering over a trembling Nunnally. Her staring up at him as though he were a stranger, her eyes briefly fixating upon her brother's frozen expression before they shut again, this time for good. One of Lelouch's pre-recorded Zero speeches blaring from the speakers, Suzaku forced to make his dumbass hand movements while swinging around his friend's decapitated head like a tennis racquet.
Suzaku had watched beheadings before, and the viscerally revolting sight of a dead man in pieces never left his mind. He had seen it first when he was a child, young and with a romantic notion of violence. Japan in the days of his father's rule had been a chaotic mixture of two impulses, neither of which could survive the other. There was the modernizing strand, the desire for validation and approval, the need to gain Britannia's respect by proving that Japan, too, was technologically advanced and its people were intelligent and sophisticated. Pushed against that was the frantic need to reject the culture of the fleet that menaced their waters, the retreat into tradition and nationalist myth lest the history of Japan be left to die by its own people.
It was a confused state of affairs, and as a young boy, Suzaku had not fully understood the politics or the symbolism behind his father's choices. All he knew was that his father had re-instituted an ancient and noble form of capital punishment, one that the old emperor had ended in his much-hated purge of Japanese tradition. Suzaku's father had led the coup that ended the imperial era—the emperor had been a puppet, Suzaku had always been told, a Britannian plant ready to sell the country for money and mistresses—and to keep Kururugi Genbu's supporters happy, this had been one of the reforms of the new, better, more Japanese Japan. Suzaku knew what the method entailed and had been fascinated by old tales about it. Fallen heroes, out of disgrace or a need to make themselves a bridge towards peace, took their swords and shoved them into their guts. Their faithful companions, not wanting their friends to suffer, would lop off their heads before the agonizing pain of disembowelment could register.
At the age of eight Suzaku had begged his father to allow him to watch the execution of a field marshal found guilty of espionage, wanting in on the excitement. Todo had told Suzaku to leave; it was, he said, wrong to think of executions as spectacles. But the Prime Minister supposed that war would soon come to Japan's shores. Better, he said, if the boy learns what death is now. He'll be seeing plenty of it soon enough. And so he watched.
Suzaku never asked to see it again.
He did see it again, though. Not in Area 11 or the Empire's homeland—it was not one of Britannia's preferred methods of execution. Electrocutions were less bloody and more painful, both traits more appropriate for crowds of genteel civilians gathered to watch moments of death for entertainment. The fatal shock collars tended to smoke once it was all over, the dead man's head lolling forward, eyes open and empty, his corpse halted from hitting the floor by the chains that held him even in death. Brutal but not gory, that's how Britannians liked it.
In Europe, though, they were quite fond of the old-fashioned way. The dukes of Britannia's European territories had condemned every traitor and turncoat to death by beheading, from subversive journalists to deserting soldiers. Suzaku and Julius had been made to watch a mass execution of collaborators days after their arrival in Romania, their hosts supposing that the grim display would prove intimidating and impressive. It was neither. The executors had axes, not swords, and their prisoners did not die in a single blow. Three, four, ten strikes to the throat were needed to separate the head from the shoulders, the victims' screams emerging through the wounds in their necks all the while.
Julius had not looked at the men as they died. He preferred watching the next prisoners in line, studying their hands as they trembled in their bindings, their mouths open in horror as they listened to the last moments of their fellow collaborators. But Suzaku had forced himself to stare at the whole bloody scene, engraving it into his mind. The European dukes were his allies. They all served the same master, whether their motives were pure or power-hungry. He was not an executioner that day, but standing in silence as the killings took place was perhaps just as bad and twice as cowardly. You are part of this, Lelouch snarled in his memory.
It was the truth. He watched as the axe broke the final strands of tissue connecting the last prisoner's head to her corpse, her unvoiced scream frozen on her face.
Suzaku dressed and returned to the grand hall, preferring to wait alone instead of joining the Emperor as he readied himself. He and Lelouch had been spending more time together as of late, not as king and ghost-knight but as friends. For one last summer, for one last moment, they could manage the terrifying thrill of open hearts. Back when they were boys, neither of them had been able to acknowledge summer's slow fade into fall, the inevitable decay that awaited their happiness. They knew better now, the world having turned all their leaves to shades of red, but still they allowed themselves to reach for each other's hands, sharing fears and memories and heartaches and what little joy they still had.
But it was a bit hard to make friendly banter with someone while envisioning their head falling off their shoulders. Stabbing had been easier to digest, somehow. Maybe he was just desensitized to it, having inflicted his first fatal wound as a boy and inflicting many more in the years since.
He was mildly surprised to find CC waiting for him. She was clutching her stuffed toy, looking dead-eyed and distant as always, demonstrating no enthusiasm whatsoever for playing the role of the shocked civilian chorus. But she was here anyway, out of some sense of obligation to see things through or some hopeless love for someone who could never return it. The two of them weren't so different, really, and so he collapsed onto the chaise lounge beside her. CC was the last person who would ever ask him are you alright, Suzaku? and force him to put on a happy face in reply. She knew he would never be alright. There was little sympathy between them, but there was a sense of understanding, and Suzaku had always found the latter more palatable than the former.
"Lelouch wants me to behead him," he said by way of greeting, CC refusing to shift her plushie to allow him more leg room. "He says it'll make for a better ending."
A scoff accompanied by a mirthless smile was her only response for a long moment, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room seeming too loud and too literal. "He's probably afraid," she finally added, tightening her hold on Cheese-kun, squeezing the thing so tightly that its head seemed to burst at the seams. Suzaku looked away, his waffles sitting uneasily in his stomach. "Stupid child. He thinks he's the only one clever enough to come up with these ideas."
"Afraid of what?"
She said nothing in return, handing over Cheese-kun and placing it on Suzaku's lap. He wrapped his arms around it without further thought, letting CC run her fingers through his hair as he shut his eyes and begged his nausea to subside.