aThe Sea Has Willed It
Author: Jusrecht

Characters/Pairing: Schneizel x Suzaku

Disclaimer: Code Geass and its characters are property of Sunrise.

Warning: This fic has mature contents and male/male pairing. Proceed at your own discretion.

A/N: Something I wrote for the request of a friend in LJ.

-----

It was the sea that allowed them to meet.

Schneizel el Britannia, the second prince of the vast, expanding – some might even say greedy – Holy Britannian Empire, was a boy of seven when he first braved the sea. He discovered, along with time spent amidst waves, currents, and winds, that it was treacherous, perilous, nigh immortal, and that it enticed him not unlike sirens fiddling in their arts to beguile young, inexperienced sailors. But he was a victor, born a victor, destined to be a victor, and armed with this confidence and no little excitement, he sought to tame the sea.

He was a young man of seventeen then, a first-time commander of the Albion, but the sea knew of his intents like she knew the swells and ripples of her waves. Proud and angry, she showed her contempt of human's arrogance and she showed it without restraint. The prince, aware of his mistakes, found himself challenged by the greatest tempest he thus far had had the privilege to face.

It soon became a battle of life and death. Nothing else mattered, not the war, not the empire's most recent victory from an old, decaying kingdom and the precarious lull between two great battles. Only the wind, howling fiercely in his ears, drowning voices and shouts too human to stand against nature's wails. And drops of rain, cold and needle sharp on his face, drenching his clothes as the ship rocked violently back and forth, side to side, helpless, begging for mercy. He watched the day dragging its feet slowly across the sky, pale grey light ambushed by ranks of dark, heavy clouds.

Great things, he thought – or a subconscious part of him, since the rest was far too preoccupied with worldly matters such as surviving the storm, a way to protect the flesh-and-blood shell of his soul, ideas, ideals – great things made great people through great trials.

When the sea finally released him from the furious lashing of her waves, he knew he had passed the test. Not triumphed – humbled, in fact, but at least he had survived. The low chatters of his men – quiet, as if a muted spell was still over them – was a proof enough. It was cerulean blue on the horizon, but not without speckles of clouds to remind them, still.

He had just retired to his cabin, exhausted and battered into humility, when a commotion arose on the lower deck. The wind frayed the words it was supposed to carry, but before he could decide between his bed and his duty as a captain, Lieutenant Gottwald had knocked on his door.

The dark-haired man wore an uneasy look on his haggard face and there were slips in his usually impeccable manner. "Your Highness," he began, for once not waiting for his permission to speak, "there is a boat drifting out in the sea. Someone seems to be in it."

His bones, muscles still remembered its gruelling struggle against the unconquerable storm – he, some of the best sailors in the whole empire, and the Albion, stood so much in contrast with a single boat that he furrowed his brow. He followed the lieutenant back down to the deck and saw that it was every bit as the older man had said, except for a little boy lying motionless on the still damp wooden floor, and that the boat was now floating empty.

Second Lieutenant Guilford, in his absence, had taken liberty to order a few sailors to rescue the passenger of the boat. Schneizel waved off the stilted apology, eyes studying his unexpected guest as the ship surgeon bent over the small body. Japanese, by the telltale colour of his skin and certain unusual, delicate fineness of his features, and very young too, probably about the same age of Lelouch or Euphie. And this child had survived through the tempest which had almost swallowed him whole. Alone.

There was a ripple of whispers among the circle of curious sailors around him, tossing the same questions among them. Wonder. A little suspicion. Even a sprinkle of fear.

"Is he alive?"

"Impossible, to survive that kind of storm…"

"…but the boat is intact too…"

"He must be loved by the sea…"

"…he's Japanese, they know arts we don't…"

A choking sound put a momentary end to the whispered speculations, all eyes now intent on the boy. He was coughing violently, weak and shivering despite the harsh glare of the sun – but he was alive, and the prince felt his frown deepen as many political implications flashed across his mind. Japan had been defeated, the six ruling noble families overthrown, but Britannia's claws had yet to sink deep enough. The situation would remain unstable, as it always was following a fresh conquest, and there were too many possibilities, too many factors, too many odds.

Those eyes, hazed, startled green, slowly focused on their surroundings, and then him.

"Treat him properly," the prince gave his order and a hush fell over the ship, quiet, submissive, a bow of not yet loyalty but something close enough, to their lord and captain.

A chance meeting. The sea had willed it.

-----

The first step onto dry land after months living in a rocking ship was always slightly nauseous.

"It's still," Kallen said and there was an awestruck note in her voice that made Suzaku laugh.

"It's supposed to be." He looked up and even the sky, he thought, looked different. It used to speak of courage, freedom, a foray past any boundary when he had stood proudly aboard his ship and felt the wind on his face, streaking his hair. Now it had withdrawn, back behind lofty walls, aloof and seemingly untouchable in quiet shades of blue, because it was what cities were for, to confine wild spirits in culture and grace.

After almost six months at sea, with nothing to tower over him but violent waves during occasional bouts of storm, the feeling was vaguely unpleasant. And yet he continued to return, to this place, because as much as Lancelot had become a haven for him in many ways, his home always lay elsewhere, with another person.

"This needs some getting used to," Kallen muttered once it was evident that the endeavour to walk straight posed quite a challenge for her seafaring feet. Suzaku fared only marginally better, but there was purpose in his steps which his lieutenant did not share. It was scarcely an hour after midday, and with a little luck, he might just be able to meet the prince today.

Suzaku suppressed the rush of painful excitement as his heart made a treacherous leap in his chest. His gaze flickered about the harbour and he was relieved to see the sparse crowd – less staring at him, the wonder, curiosity, beset still with distrust so innate it made him flinch. He was still a foreigner to them, a stranger, a man who might turn his coat at his heart's will, without a speck of honour in his blood. His victories, more often than not, came as a slap to their face – why couldn't it be our own countrymen – but he looked away and pretended that he didn't care. Prejudice was always hard to overcome, and only time could bend it to its knees.

He almost frowned when a port official hurried toward them. Lancelot was evidently famous after her miraculous victory two years ago in the Atlantic against an enemy fleet of seven ships, and he knew his own cognomen carried no little weight nowadays. A legend, a hero – though an outsider still – an extraordinary captain for a mix of equally extraordinary crews, including a capable lieutenant who, despite all preconceptions and beliefs of the day, was also a woman.

"I'll handle this," Kallen said and her eyes lingered on him a moment's longer than they probably should have. But she turned away and stalled the portly man, her voice rising and effectively stemming any profuse welcome speech which might come their way.

Suzaku contributed a smile and a nod at the official but did not stop. After six months – six months, how it had been possible he still couldn't fathom – the strain was nearly, very nearly too much. The last time he had seen the prince was at the engagement party, just before he had left.

His lips thinned at the recollection. Of course he had never, even once never entertained the idea that it would have been him, but the thought – because it was not even a wish, wishes are for the probable – lurked in his head, a snake shunned and unwelcome. He did not cry, he had no right to, there was no claim he could put on the Second Prince of Britannia but that of the owner of his loyalty.

And his heart, but no one was allowed to know that.

It had been him eleven years ago. It was still him now.

-----

There were always drawbacks to privileges.

Schneizel el Britannia, the second prince of the mighty Britannian Empire and Lord High Admiral of the Imperial Navy, reflected that despite his current title, the suitable equality it held with his imperial status, the proper application of his true talents now that his role lay more with strategic planning than executing its less abstract manifestations, there was something this station could not provide him. Exhilaration. The sea and her wildness. Anticipation of a different kind, when one lived every day entirely under the mercy of someone, or in this case something else, and the satisfaction once one had managed to survive, to trick the wilful mistress into submission even if just for a moment.

The taste of it stayed with him, and he still lived by the sea now, spending as much of his time in towns with harbours and naval bases as in his father's court. He let her have that power over him, because it made him something other – perhaps also tougher – than a prince who lazed about in a lavish room and giggled with pretty ladies. His siblings did not seem to mind, or if they did, hid it remarkably well behind painted smiles or jaded scowls. Only one, other than him, tried to break free.

But Lelouch was different. His little brother, the Eleventh Prince, was made for the finer things in life – silk, chess, his mother's kisses – despite his insistence to be something he was not. He could not stand the sea, but he set his feet onto the ship all the same and suffered all the way for a little knowledge and experience – because one could not always properly grow up behind palatial walls and they both knew it.

Schneizel wondered if he should be at all surprised that Lelouch finally followed him there, this small island which could never be as fine as the Imperial City, the entire story of his life. He was delicate, he was weak, and he was here.

It was Kanon Maldini, his personal assistant, who had remarked about his superiority and how it shadowed anything of consequence his siblings might achieve. Schneizel did not completely agree – they each flourished in different aspects of life, although his was by far the most ostentatious, this was indisputable – but there was a grain of truth in it. He was proud of what, who, how he had become. It had not been an easy road and only a very select few could travel it far enough to see its end – and he would protect those who could not, if they were worth of his protection.

But he did not have that kind of pity for those who fought back and challenged him directly. For them, he had only respect and his brother was close, very close to the edge of this circle.

Measured, polite knock on his door pulled him back to present. Kanon swept in after an expressed permission of entry and on his usually smooth brow was a new frown he had not seen half an hour ago.

"There is news from the harbour master, Your Highness," he said after the door had closed behind him, leaving only the two of them in the privacy of the prince's office. "Lancelot has returned."

It could have been a smile on his face, only Schneizel did not allow it. "I see," he replied, without any definite inflection in his voice, and then added, as if an afterthought, "Not quite hailed as a hero, I assume."

"Captain Kururugi seems to be of the opinion that he is above such things," Kanon murmured, not without sarcasm in his well-bred, cultured voice. Again, Schneizel could have smiled at the reaction, but chose not to. There were things which must stay at the middle ground, or they would fall to pieces – and he would not have that. Besides, Kanon had always disliked Suzaku, it was nothing new.

He used to think that it was the guardianship, the fact that he had put this Japanese boy under his protection, this mere ghost of a conquered kingdom – who since then had grown up so beautifully into a young man worthy of his namesake. But no, it was the look on Suzaku's face when he had heard about the engagement.

Schneizel wondered if he should have expected that. Perhaps he had, in one of many subconscious realms of his mind. Suzaku had always been a quiet child – quiet, but intense, and even years of being raised and trapped between palace intrigues, from the petty to the most dangerous, could not sufficiently carve him a mask thick enough. Since eleven years ago, the small fingers that grasped and held on to his sleeves, still unaware of the prince's imperial status; the smudge of frustration on a crinkled brow as he repeated new, strange words haltingly; the small, hesitant bite his mouth took into a piece of bread, and then the concentration painted so palpably on his childish face as he reflected on the taste.

And then, of course, time had moulded him too fast and he was suddenly this young man whose smile was so brilliant and yet reserved every time their eyes met. He suddenly stood out, too much in fact, and it was not the way his skin caught in the sunlight, or the stumbles he still made in words his tongue refused to succumb to. Talents, Schneizel knew, were innate, but Suzaku worked just as hard as those without any, and thus he shone, so brightly – a young private, a young lieutenant, and then a young captain in his elite fleet – and still his smiles retained that touch of reserve.

Around him. Always around him.

The prince had to admit that he had recognised it, had played with it in fact, and then deliberately mistaken it as devotion, perhaps because those two were not at all different in the first place. The result, as time had quickly come to tell, was exactly what he had expected. Suzaku fell – or continued to fall, since he had been falling for quite some time now – and when he did, he did it as intensely as he did everything else.

But he refused to break. The sea loved him. She gave him her luck, her blessing, her victories. The Vermilion Bird, they called him now, and in turn he gave his master his victories – perhaps along with everything else had said master only consented to accept. But this was one of the middle grounds and so the prince benignly smiled at him for the tributes but conveniently disappeared without a trace on the next day. He knew the steps, the exact measures to encourage, and then discourage, a true fine art if there was one, and he executed them flawlessly.

Suzaku remained his, and yet could not be his. A tricky balance, that – Schneizel was almost proud of himself.

"For one with reputation such as his, there are certain privileges," he finally answered to Kanon's waiting silence. It was empty, as empty as the look carefully arranged on the other man's face – one learned to master that expression after a few months in His Majesty's service. His thoughts once more drifted to Suzaku, inevitably, who after the course of years still stubbornly – or perhaps obliviously – refused to see the merits of a mask.

"It is a fitting name," he added, and this time it was an afterthought.

"I suppose," Kanon's reply was almost perfunctory, his expression closed, "for one who has risen from death far too many times."

Schneizel allowed himself a little smile but did not reply to the comment. "I shall see him tonight," he said instead. "Tell him to meet me in my private quarters at nine."

He did not miss the slight tensing of Kanon's shoulders but returned to his desk and feigned ignorance. It had its uses, and often made a greater impact than any other manner of response, for doubt opened doors to so many words, too many possibilities.

"Yes, my lord," he bowed, his smile that of a courtier.

Middle ground, still.

-----

The summon did not come as a surprise to him, despite the dangerous flicker of delight it caused.

The hour, however, did.

Suzaku, after much deliberating and torturing himself with the most inappropriate scenarios which could occur to him, decided not to read too much into it. He waited, and time had never passed so slowly he could feel it crawling all over his skin, small, faint brushes which barely left marks. His room had never seemed so bleak, splattered in monochrome red with the sun slowly dying in the west. He longed for the steady, comforting sway of the waves that rocked Lancelot gently, often lovingly like a mother's gentle push on her baby's crib, but here, now, there was only this stony stillness of nothing, nothing, nothing.

Night set in as mutely as the rest, the sky increasingly darker, a shade blacker until the last streak of sunlight was swallowed whole and the moon emerged proudly. He bathed, changed his clothes, gathered the report he had finished during the journey home, and then waited again, counting seconds, repeating things he knew he should say, remembering things he knew he shouldn't. Perhaps it was in vain, because nothing, nothing could ever prepare him enough.

He left his room when the evening sounds had settled into something more subdued, a pleasant hum of lullabies in whispers and words long since lost and forgotten since humans had discovered their own speech. There was a hint of chill in the air, but it was a clear, fine night, the kind that used to see lovers trade poetries and sweet promises under the moonlight. The streets were mostly already deserted despite the hour, and a few people who were still ambling down the murky, lamp-lit lane paid no attention to his straight-backed figure, or the firm, quiet echoes of his boots. He followed each step with the same determination shown by his proud ship to break into the enemy lines. Sometimes, compared to a private meeting with his lord, the idea of being trapped under enemy fire in hostile water seemed significantly less daunting.

The prince's living quarters were situated at the north side of the base, the most heavily guarded part of the island – and also the most lavish, if the word could be applied so liberally. Although he could never feel at ease with it, he was no stranger to luxury, having brought up in the Imperial Palace since his seventh summer, constantly accepting the warmest of Empress Marianne's smiles and the generosity of her children because his master had mostly been away on battles and military campaigns. There had always been gifts, Suzaku remembered, whenever the prince had returned with yet another land conquered under His Majesty's name, but the greatest one was still a gift he had received on his eleventh birthday.

The memory brought a smile to his lips. Lelouch had been livid that day. Suzaku, on the other hand, had been far too happy and too busy imagining every little adventure he might have with a few months spent at sea to spare the young prince much of his attention. His master had given him permission to serve and accompany him in the next journey and at that moment, nothing else – including his friend's envy – had mattered to Suzaku.

He gained entry to the residence area without much difficulty, as most of the guards already recognised him on sight. Beyond the tall gate was a small garden, poorly attended at this time of the year, and a lone path leading up to the front door of the residence. It had been years since his last visit here but his feet still remembered their route – a good thing, since he could not force his whirlwind of a mind to process anything past the most simple and straightforward at the moment.

The unexpected arrived on the second floor, once he had just ascended the stairs and was about to make a turn to his master's bedroom – in the form of a face so familiar that it stopped him in his track.

"Your Highness," he greeted, astonished, the title automatically offering itself to his tongue in the moment of surprise.

Lelouch's eyes narrowed, focused on him sharply like a hawk's on its prey. "Captain Kururugi," he replied coldly, with a stiff nod which spoke much more of his displeasure than the impersonal tone.

Suzaku felt an apologetic grin breaking on his face. "Lelouch," he amended dutifully.

"You," the prince retorted, "are never to call me 'your highness' again. Ever, and most definitely not if there is no one else around but the two of us."

"Pardon my mistake," Suzaku said meekly, earning himself a new withering glare from his friend. "You surprised me. I thought you never left the Imperial City."

The scowl on Lelouch's face deepened. "Is there any problem with that?" he asked, a hint of challenge in his superior voice.

"No, of course not," Suzaku replied quickly, "although if what you want is a little adventure, there are safer places to go."

"I don't want a little adventure," Lelouch glowered, distaste apparent in the slight pull of his mouth, but made no further effort to elaborate. Suzaku blinked. There was something in this, deeper than he could fathom right now, but before he could decide whether or not to pursue the subject, Lelouch had asked, "And you? What are you doing here at this hour?"

"His Highness summons me," he answered truthfully, pretending very hard that he hadn't noticed the slight pinkness warming his cheeks.

"Ah." An expression of displeasure stole over his friend's features. "That."

"That?"

Lelouch looked at him and there was something that almost seemed like sympathy in his eyes, if only they were not so much narrowed. "Whatever my brother will communicate to you in the course of the evening, I shall have you know that I have expressed my disagreement most fervently beforehand on the matter."

"What matter?" Suzaku asked warily. An unpleasant feeling not wholly unfamiliar to him rose in his chest, but surely, surely an imperial marriage needed preparation far more elaborate and complicated than six months could have ever allowed. And it was not as if he had any role to play in the grand occasion – save for the one he had to keep close to his heart, but of course no one knew about that.

"Since it is personally arranged by my esteemed brother himself, I am not at liberty to say," Lelouch answered stiffly. "But you will find out soon enough, tonight or no. I only will tell you this, it is far from pleasant."

Suzaku was very tempted to ask if there was possibly anything even less pleasant than his master's engagement at the moment – apart from the actual marriage, obviously – but in the end decided not to. He had suspected for quite some time that his friend in fact knew more than he had continued to let on, but this was decidedly neither the time nor place to confirm his suspicion.

A hand clasped his left shoulder and he was almost surprised at the firmness of Lelouch's grip. "Will you see me tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, of course," Suzaku smiled, if only for the sake of it. "That is, if His Highness has no new order for me."

Lelouch nodded. "I shall see you tomorrow then."

Despite the best of his friend's intentions, the promise only served to make Suzaku feel even worse. When he knocked on his master's door, there was so little doubt left in him that something was absolutely wrong. It was why the sight of the prince, poring over a map which was laid out on the desk near the open window, almost made him stop breathing in a rush of relief.

"Suzaku." Perhaps it was the way his name tumbled out of his master's smiling lips, or the smile itself, warm, intimate, for his eyes only – or so he liked to think, because wishes were already far too harmless at this point. He could feel six months of longing being literally peeled off his skin just at the sight, the smile, the presence.

"I shall listen to your comprehensive report tomorrow," the prince said, waving toward a red velvet armchair when he stuttered the beginning of his report. "Tonight I only wish to congratulate you."

Suzaku gaped, unable to speak for a moment at the offered seat, and was only moved into action when the prince handed him a glass of dark red wine. After settling himself comfortably on another armchair, his master spoke again, "Your accomplishments are by no means modest. I believe the rank of commodore is soon to be yours."

At this, Suzaku almost choked on his drink. He had just been promoted as the captain of Lancelot a little over two years ago. Another promotion in such short span of time – and he was not even taking his ridiculously young age into consideration – would seem highly unnatural, wouldn't it?

"I am grateful for Your Highness's kindness, but–"

"Your victory in Cape Verde was truly something," the prince interrupted him, smoothly enough that it barely cut.

A rush of warmth spread in his insides, and Suzaku suddenly couldn't bring himself to look up – who knows what kind of face he was making right now. If the rising heat from his neck was any indication, it was probably a wise choice.

"I serve in the pleasure of my lord," he finally said, quietly and firmly, because it was a vow he had made to himself – and vows like that ran deep, deeper even than the fathomless seat of the sea.

"And I am honoured to have your service," the prince replied, gracious enough to slip an uncertain smile on Suzaku's lips. He quickly looked down again when their eyes met and determinedly kept his gaze on the curved wrap of his fingers around the wineglass as the pause spanned across the rapid beating of his heart. This was why he dreaded these meetings, but they were inevitable and a part of his duty.

"As a matter of fact, there is one other thing I wish to discuss with you tonight."

Suzaku looked up then, after schooling his expression into one of polite inquiry, and waited for further explanation. A part of him was immensely relieved at the introduction of this new topic – distraction, as far as he was concerned.

"I believe you are acquainted with Lord Rosenblum?" his master asked.

The name, distinctly familiar despite many other similar names among nobles in His Majesty's court, recalled an image of a middle-aged man with an open, laughing face to his mind. "Yes," he answered carefully, still unsure of his purpose in this new subject, "but not at all intimately, if it is what Your Highness has in mind."

"I merely wondered," the prince murmured as a pensive expression settled on his face. "Well, I suppose it matters but little. When I was still at Pendragon, about a month ago, Lord Rosenblum came to me with a proposal," he paused, eyes flicking briefly toward his charge, "and that is to arrange a marriage between you and his eldest daughter."

There was a long moment of silence, during which Suzaku had to try to figure out how to breathe. It was not unlike his reaction after the announcement of his lord's engagement, only with a greater sense of loss, like something had swallowed him whole and he had no idea who, what, where, how.

"Marriage," he repeated after he managed to find his voice in the wild frenzy, so faint he could barely hear it himself. The vague, little smile his master was wearing seemed unreal, and so was the explanation which followed – about Lady Martha Rosenblum, only a year older than he was and the owner, as rumour had it, of a rare, exceptional beauty, so breathtaking in fact that her hand had been asked for in marriage many times by young nobles and lords of high and reputable standing. The reason why, after refusing those prospective and undoubtedly valuable proposals, the privilege was now offered to him was beyond Suzaku.

"I understand why he opted to communicate his wish to me first instead of taking it directly to you," the prince continued, calmer than he had any right to be. "Still, a discussion of marriage is no small matter, and therefore I have yet to give him any specific answer. Not before I know what you think of the arrangement."

The open note at the end of his master's sentence pulled him out of his trancelike state. Suzaku blinked. His eyes had been staring blankly at the half-full wine decanter set on the small circular table between their seats, and it literally took him everything to drag them away from the lonely, oddly comforting depth of the burgundy colour of the wine, and properly look at the older man. It was clear that a response was expected from him.

"It is… unexpected," Suzaku said weakly, and almost cringed at the bitter taste in his mouth – the taste of cowardice, maybe. He did feel like a coward, but he knew, only too well, that the words he had wanted to use were those he most certainly could not. Not now, in front of this man, and even if his choice was cowardly, at least it was also prudent.

"I suppose you are aware that the good lord has no son to inherit his title?"

"Yes," he answered faintly, briefly, because more than that was beyond his capacity right now.

"It is an advantageous marriage, as far as I can see," the prince said, voice perfectly neutral, and it made Suzaku bite his lips, his heart aching terribly. The disappointment was so acute that he was willing to do anything as long as he didn't have to hear this. "But in the end, it is your marriage, so I shall leave the choice in your hand."

"I do not…" Suzaku paused, and then breathed deeply, in and out, scavenging for the vestiges of his ruined composure. "I have no plan to marry, or any design of that nature, Your Highness."

"But surely you harbour a wish to build your own family?" his master asked curiously.

The answer was hovering dangerously, temptingly close to his lips, but he quelled it just in time before it managed to slip past. The truth was much too dangerous, he knew, and so he settled for a less truthful – safer, far more diplomatic – version of answer available. Surviving this conversation was his top priority right now.

"Not in the near future, but if Your Highness commands it, I…" he stumbled into silence, the weight of his tongue suddenly as heavy as lead. There were only so many lies one could utter in such short span of time and this one was far too great, even with his vow to serve his lord unconditionally. He looked down, fighting against an instinct to escape from the room under the intent scrutiny of the prince's eyes.

"You do not wish to marry."

It was a simple, straightforward statement, and it evoked so many things in him – panic and relief, among others. Suzaku stared, struggling for control over them.

"I can," he said at last, his voice small but steady enough. "For duty."

Duty. Obligation. Love – although evidently not to the person he would bind himself with in the holy matrimony. Something alive flickered in the prince's meditative expression, and it made his eyes suddenly stand out sharply.

"Your duty to me?"

Suzaku felt his heartbeat trip. There was a note, a tinge in his master's voice which indicated that he knew. He knew.

He didn't have to wait long. The next question dispelled any sort of foolish hope which might still linger in his mind and scattered them like dust in the wind.

"How long has it been?" It was spoken softly but still thoroughly impersonal in a way that hurt. Suzaku crushed the ache before it could bloom again and steeled himself.

"I don't know." It didn't sound like his voice, too high, too overwrought by things he was too wearied to name. At least it was close enough to the truth, safe enough – since saying things like ever since I could remember required the kind of courage he didn't exactly have right now.

The prince was still studying him silently, and this sudden irrational fear ambushed him out of nowhere. Suzaku scrambled to his feet and bowed quickly, words flooding rapidly, awkwardly from his mouth, eyes fixed to the floor – anywhere but at his lord.

"I really apologise, Your Highness, I shall leave now." He turned around, his frantic mind automatically estimating his distance from the door and the number of steps he would have to execute in order to escape safely, and it was all simple and hurried and perfectly feasible in his mind that the sound of his master's voice took him completely off guard.

"I have not dismissed you yet," it said, deep but sharp, and cutting into him like a knife. Suzaku froze, halting at once although no word or voice should have any power like that, and then very slowly turned around. The prince, he discovered, heart pounding so loud in his chest, had risen to his feet and now was approaching him with a look that one could definitely interpret as cold, very cold anger. Suzaku realised his mistake – of course, it had been very careless of him to excuse himself without permission, no matter how upset, terrified he was.

He did not expect the touch to his chin, firmer, rougher as the fingers tilted his face upward. He did expect, however, the severe look on his master's face, and the lack of pity for his predicament.

"This is a grave sin, Suzaku," the prince said, callous and unsmiling. Suzaku swallowed thickly, acutely aware of the working of his throat and how it felt against his stiff body, but pressed his lips tighter in silence – a gesture of surrender, acceptance. There was nothing else he could do to appease his lord's ire and this helplessness haunted him just as the word 'sin' did. The problem, he knew, lay not at loving a prince as much as loving another man, but sometimes he wondered which the greater sin was. If he was going to end up in hell all the same, perhaps it hardly mattered.

"This is a grave sin," the prince repeated, his voice lower, deeper, eyes dark in the unsteady glimmer of candlelight, "and every sin must have its penance."

Suzaku made an involuntary, choked gasp as his lips were covered by another pair, the sound abruptly cut off when the hand moved to the back of his head. His hands jerked at his side and then clutched at the prince's hips weakly – mainly because he did not know what to do with them, but they couldn't stay still – and suddenly it was all over before he could even wrap his mind around the beginning, middle, or end of anything.

"This is what you want, is it not?" The smile was calm but mocking all the same, almost like a sneer – only Schneizel el Britannia did not sneer. Suzaku could only stare, the tingle on his lips sharp and demanding as the rest of his body grew numb with shame. But the mix of need and curiosity won and he found himself tilting his head, asking as much as offering, and he would have been mortified had he been able to feel anything past the insistent want and longing.

"You sold your body too easily," his master's voice was toneless, save for the subtlest hint of displeasure which shadowed the tail of every word. Suzaku felt a cold hand wrapping its treacherous fingers around his heart as his eyes flung wide.

"I did not–!"

"Then perhaps it was your heart?" the prince offered flatly, and his fingers in Suzaku's hair were now more of a harrowing presence than a comfort. He fought down the desire to flinch and the small leap of anger that sparked inside him at the insinuation. As if his heart still belonged to him, after all these years.

"I only wish to be of use to my lord," he said, keeping his gaze and voice as steady as he could – and painfully aware that his efforts were failing at best.

"Even if you have to sin?"

It did not sound like a question, and perhaps it wasn't one. Either way, Suzaku refused to answer, for once choosing silence over garbled explanations. He felt the hand slowly shifting down the line of his neck, a feather-light touch slithering across his skin, and breathed out sharply when it stopped on the edge of his shirt.

Undressing himself was a straightforward business – it was the heavy gaze which made his hands quiver and stumble over knots and buttons once what the touch meant had registered. The cool evening air that wafted in from the window was a paltry consolation against the burning on his cheeks, even as it danced and swirled on his bare skin. He stood there, silent and completely exposed, in front of the man he would cross the seven seas for had he only asked for it.

The arms that once more gathered him close were almost a comforting weight on his waist and back. Suzaku felt his eyes drifting shut as he was slowly and thoroughly kissed, his naked skin against silk that whispered and teased. He sighed, half in relief, half in anticipation as the small whimper on his lips grew into soft noises of pleasure and need so intense that everything else spun away and dissolved into thin air.

His legs were slightly unsteady when he was then guided to the bed, the mattress soft and yielding and the sheets cool to his touch. His body stretched uncomfortably in the cradle of exquisite luxury, unused to anything more than the simple austerity of his cabin after those many months at sea. Suzaku almost felt angry at himself, but the tension that coiled in his stomach only tightened when the prince settled next to him on the bed, head propped by one hand, eyes half-lidded and fixed on him.

"Undress me," the order was calm, hovering above his consciousness for one long tense second before then diving sharply into realisation. His mouth went dry, the implications all too jarring despite the surreality of everything so far, but his master did not budge and it was clear then the order was an order.

Fingers faintly trembling and eyes hazed, Suzaku set to his task. The light coat first, and then the pale white cravat and the embroidered vest and the shirt – and still he couldn't calm the violent pounding in his chest. Every so often his fingers would brush the prince's skin and he had to stop himself then, every time, before they could give in to the temptation to touch and stroke and feel. The look on the older man's face was inscrutable, but he took pity when Suzaku's hands hovered uncertainly above his pants and pushed them down onto the sheets.

"You are unsure?"

"No," his voice was breathless, halting, and Suzaku felt his head spin. "I mean, I was just, I didn't know if Your Highness… perhaps I was going to far…"

The low chuckle that filled his ears was nothing short of amused. "You are impossible," the prince murmured and suddenly he was above him, pinning him down to the bed, and they were kissing, touching, tasting skin against skin. Suzaku moaned and writhed when a leg brushed his growing arousal, making him even harder. He felt like he could die from wanting alone – it wasn't enough, too much, not enough. His hips bucked helplessly and he bit the inside of his cheek in fear of being too loud, although it did not seem to help much. Half delirious with pleasure, he still could vaguely feel the lips on his neck smiling, teeth lightly grazing his collarbone, and decided that resistance was futile.

"How far are you willing to submit yourself to me?"

The question echoed quietly in his ear and everything screeched into a halt. He closed his eyes for a moment, his breathing shallow, but the answer slipped past his wet lips easily enough.

"As far as Your Highness wants me to," he whispered, his voice firm and shaky at the same time.

"Not everything about you is about me," the prince said disapprovingly and there was something in his voice that cut into him, just slightly. But it bled all the same and Suzaku found himself rebelling against the pain.

"If that is the case," he bit out, eyes hardening, and dipped two fingers into his mouth to moisten them. "If that is the case, then this is what I want."

His master's eyes were dark and heavy, watching him as Suzaku brought his hand down between his legs. This was familiar and yet not, and he shuddered at the sensation as he pushed the two fingers in. He had done this of course, a few times, many times, in the darkness of his cabin, under the lascivious stares of other men. There were strict regulations, certainly, but even then there were always things in between that one did but never talked about, and the Imperial Navy with its stiff atmosphere and stern officers was no exception.

He had lost his virginity to the then Captain, now Commodore Jeremiah Gottwald, the first man who had taught him to grow up – in more ways than one, if he had to admit. He had been thirteen, the touches impersonal, the thrusts fast and shallow, and the smile almost like a scorn as he gasped and panted beneath the older man. The wetness on his face was shameful and the taste in his mouth bitter, but he had swallowed it all. Things like that happened, a fellow cadet had once shared with him, and one could only hope to earn promotion as soon as possible and have his share of enjoyment in due time.

Suzaku gasped and bit his lips when the strokes of his fingers inside him were becoming more and more pleasurable. His face was all too warm under the close scrutiny of his master's eyes and there was something in his expression – he could not properly describe it, almost like amusement only it wasn't. And then his fingers were removed and his weak half protest was easily overwhelmed by another kiss, but it wasn't enough. His body was shaking, filled to the brim with desire, his hand twitching in the prince's firm grasp.

"Schneizel-sama," his voice wrapped tightly around the whisper, the name he hadn't uttered since he had outgrown the child he once had been. It was personal, much too intimate, and he was supposed to be an officer serving the Lord High Admiral in a strictly professional fashion, but he couldn't help it. Everything about this moment was surreal, here, draped around him like a blanket of mist – just a little more wouldn't hurt.

His heart felt like it had plummeted into his stomach when his master moved away from him and left the bed. Suzaku opened his mouth but no sound came out. He had done something wrong – the name, his impudence, maybe he shouldn't have said it…

"I am not leaving," the prince's deep rumbling voice sounded amused. Suzaku realised that the stunned look on his face had been noticed and fought down the blush which was fast crawling up the sides of his neck. With the rate this was going, he wouldn't be surprised if red became the new permanent colour of his face.

He quickly regretted the thought when a jar of oil was pressed into his empty hands. He looked down and only stared at it, face once more heating up, eyes widening as the thought of what he was required to do caught up with him. A lump settled in his throat, but he decided not to question the presence of this sort of oil in the room. It was none of his business.

The liquid was thick and cool and smelled faintly of roses. He trickled enough amount to smear and slide between his fingers, and then glanced up, just barely, seeking for permission but avoiding direct contact between their eyes. After getting himself a small nod, he took the warm flesh in his hands and almost moaned at the feel of it. He stroked and touched with painstaking care, and felt it throb with need under the caresses of his fingers – with need for him, Suzaku realised as a shiver pulsed through his tense muscles.

"That is enough," the quiet hiss and the gentle pressure on his wrist made him withdraw his hand. Suzaku managed a small shaky nod and then just spread his legs and waited, waited for the prince to push inside, slowly, the sensation making him drown in his own gasps. The initial discomfort rose fast, and then ebbed just as quickly as the realisation overwhelmed him, of what he was doing right now – what the prince was doing to him.

He struggled to breathe, each inhale and exhale accentuated by either a gasp or a moan as his master slid in and out of him. Blunt nails dug into his quivering thighs and the other hand was pinning his left wrist to the bed, hard enough to leave a bruise. But the pain felt far, lost in the maelstrom of thick pleasure from the slow, measured thrusts and they did not leave any room but for a frenzied chant echoing in the hallways of his mind – take me, claim me, mark me, it was all he wanted and to hope more than that would be too much and perhaps he didn't want it anyway.

The pace picked up and the pleasure grew sharp, now quick lashes instead of caresses. He desperately wanted to touch himself, the throbbing hardness between his legs almost painful by now, but his free hand didn't dare to move from where it was grasping and pulling the sheets. He wanted to plead and beg but his mouth couldn't form words past a few incoherent whimpers, and so he only fixed his eyes on his master's face, on the quiet intensity in his expression as he came, fingers tightening around his wrist and thigh. The feeling of being filled made him suck in a strangled breath and he felt himself coming as well, hips jerking helplessly as his body rode it out.

He was still struggling for breath when his master pulled out, leaving him panting and achingly empty. Then he opened his eyes, slowly enough to feel his eyelashes quivering, and they traded words for kisses because this was one of those moments where none of them knew what to say. Suzaku desperately wanted to ask – what was that? A gift? A debt? Some sort of sick penance? – but he was much too afraid of the answer to open his mouth. His body was still throbbing with the aftereffects of pleasure, caressing him as sweetly as the kiss did, and perhaps it was a foolish hope, but he just wanted to keep it there a little longer.

"Is this what you wish for?" The question was soft, tender, almost unexpected, their lips still brushing each other's.

"I…" he swallowed, mouth dry because at that moment the prince pulled back, just far enough for him to watch those beautiful purple eyes watching him. "I dare not, Your Highness."

"Liar," the word was whispered to his left cheek, spilling down over his ear and making his breath hitch. His eyes snapped shut as shivers skimmed over every inch of his skin, heart hammering in his chest like he hadn't just climaxed seconds ago.

"My wish," Suzaku heard himself begin, his voice still much too feeble in the clutch of this cursed, deep-seated longing, "my only wish is to be at my lord's side for the rest of my life. Not necessarily in this capacity," he added quickly, cheeks warm at the implication he knew he was inadvertently making, "but as long as I am allowed to serve Your Highness, I shall be content."

He could feel the weight of his master's gaze, resting on him like a touch even more intimate than the way their body were still entwined together. It was a lie, most and many parts of it – he knew he would never be content until the prince was his and his alone – but if he must choose the lesser evil between less and nothing at all, then choose he would.

"Do you love me?"

The question settled quietly between them like the lull before a storm. Suzaku inhaled deeply, dreading his own answer. It did not surprise him, but his chest still tightened painfully as he looked up and met the older man's gaze.

"Yes." More than anything, he wished to add, but his mouth was locked, and he didn't think he had to anyway. It was clear enough, on his face, in his voice – everywhere.

There was a moment of silence, frail enough to dissolve into a sharp, surprised intake of breath when his master's fingers pushed a lock of brown hair out of his eyes. "I shall accept your service," the prince said, "and your loyalty. Your heart, however, you must give to a woman worthy of your love."

Suzaku felt colour draining from his face, the sudden tightening of his chest, and suppressed an urge to destroy something. "It is no longer mine to give," he answered in a flat voice. "It has never been, since eleven years ago."

"You were very young back then." The trace of disapproval had returned to his master's voice. Suzaku pressed his lips together, frustration rising fast along with something much more vulnerable.

"There is nothing I can do," he said tightly, desperately. "It's already too late. I cannot–"

He bit his lips, his throat constricting painfully around the rest of his sentence, and it was almost as bad as the sting in his eyes. But still he refused to look away, even if he ended up humiliating himself by crying in his lord's presence – things like pride or honour suddenly seemed to matter so little compared to this. He felt himself give away a little, however, when an oddly gentle but amused expression slowly welled in the prince's eyes.

"Then, I suppose I have no choice but to accept?"

Suzaku did not answer, letting his silence speak for itself. A flicker of hope, even stronger than before, flamed inside him and he clung to it like a lifeline, and it was terrifying, to depend so much onto something which might or might not be there in the first place.

"Stubborn," the prince chided but his voice was affectionate and on his lips was a smile quite unlike any Suzaku had ever seen before. He stared, for a moment unsure what to make of it, afraid of what he and his hopes inevitably would make of it. But the smile did not disappear and he released the breath he was holding, the sound half a sob and half a strained laugh, and he found himself smiling, grinning in return, so widely, so foolishly at the thought that this something between them did matter, even if just a little.

"But mine."

The sea has willed it, he thought, laughed, cried as the prince once more pinned him down and captured his lips in a passionate kiss, that I met you.

End

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That was one long chunk of words... Er, anyway, thank you for reading and please let me know what you think.