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It’s after yet another meeting about restructuring the guard shifts or something equally dull that Clovis finds Laila in his study trying to unclasp the latch on one of his sketchbooks.
In the two years that he’s lived in Area Eleven, Clovis’ sister hasn’t often visited him. There’s not really much for someone her age to do in the Tokyo Settlement, much less the government district, but she likes to stop by for a few weeks every year or so to see his paintings in person. He’s happy to see her, of course, and to show her his most recent pieces. He always is. But that happiness is at present moment difficult to feel over the panic.
Laila cannot be allowed to see what fills the pages of that sketchbook.
It’s no secret that Clovis guards his sketchbooks jealously. He never opens them outside of secure rooms, away from guardsmen and housekeeping staff. The press has interpreted this secrecy as some grand aspect of his creative process, not that that prevents some of the more intrepid among them from attempting to peek inside. Not even Laila knows exactly what fills the pages and he intends to keep it that way.
“Put that down!” The screeching isn’t dignified, but Clovis is too panicked to care.
Laila drops the sketchbook in wide-eyed alarm and Clovis lunges to scoop off the floor and clutch it against his chest. The two stare at one another for a beat. The sketchbook is safely out of Laila’s reach, but there’s another problem to address; Laila is alone, her governess nowhere to be found. Clovis takes a steadying breath.
“Where’s Miss Greenwood?” he asks plainly.
A strained shout from the hallway answers before Laila can. Miss Greenwood throws herself into the doorway with her mouth open to speak, but she seems to reconsider when she sees Laila unharmed.
“Princess Laila!” Laila is immediately engulfed in a crushing hug.
“Come now, let us get you lunch,” she says, taking Laila’s hand and leading her toward the door. She pauses to bow politely toward Clovis and then the pair of them are gone.
Clovis blinks and collapses into the chair at his desk. The sketchbook is still held tightly against his chest. He’s now alone, so he sighs, and undoes the latch to flip through the pages.
Dozens upon dozens of the same figure in countless poses are lovingly sketched in pencil and ink, some brushed lightly with watercolor. Lelouch vi Britannia, with bright, clever eyes. Here, seven years old, poring over a chessboard, no doubt contemplating a move that will have Clovis in checkmate. There, ten years old and brave enough to defy the Emperor, only to be sent away, never to be seen again. And another still that tries to guess at what he’d look like today, fifteen years old and well on his way to winning the throne.
Many of his paintings feature Lelouch, but usually he’s accompanied by Nunnally or Empress Marianne. He’d like to think his sketches are like the paintings, memorials for beloved family that had tragically passed. But if that were the case, why is it only Lelouch that compels him so? Why not Nunnally or the late Empress too?
He tries not to think too hard about that. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer.
Clovis closes the sketchbook, but that last image of Lelouch, the one that tried to capture him as if he were alive (and he is, he is, he has to be!) haunts him for the rest of the day.
Clovis vividly remembers the day the vi Britannia siblings were sent away. Lelouch, small and angry, haughty with his chin lifted and back straight. Nunnally in her chair, skittish and unseeing, hand clutched tightly in her brother’s.
There’s no way he could forget. He dreams about it almost every night.
Tonight though, something is different. Clovis is as he always is in the dream, fifteen years old, wearing the suit he did the last day he’d ever see two of his siblings again. His surroundings, however, are different.
It’s like he stepped into one of his sketchbooks. All around him is creamy, textured white, as far as he can see in any direction. A single figure of ink and dye is the only thing that breaks up the monotonous scenery.
Clovis supposes he shouldn’t be surprised to see that the Lelouch sketch that consumed his thoughts all day has followed him into his dream. There it stands, still so far out of Clovis’ reach. It doesn’t speak, only smiles.
The dream ripples and suddenly the sketch is standing right in front of him, still smiling. But now it’s no longer a sketch. Lelouch’s skin is smooth and peach-pink and alive. His lips are plush and rosy. His smile is light, affectionate.
Clovis feels stripped down to his core, exposed in a way he doesn’t realty understand. But then, he doesn’t understand any of this in the first place. Why he sees Lelouch everywhere he looks. Why he’s so compulsively forced to draw him, and him alone.
There are tears dampening Clovis’ cheeks. There’s little else to do in the face of this overwhelm but cry. He closes his eyes in a desperate attempt at relief, but the phantom Lelouch will not be ignored. He wraps himself around Clovis.
He’s so real, and that just hurts more. Clovis can put out his hand and feel warm flesh, shifting muscle. A steady heartbeat and working lungs. Breath fans over his shoulder, brushes against his ear and he sobs harder. He’s trembling with it, with the sensation of being close enough to embrace, to be actively embraced, and the knowledge that none of this is real.
Lelouch is not here. He will not ever be here. He wants to hold onto the hope that Lelouch is alive, but he knows it isn’t true.
He starts to think he might deserve this. This apparition knows his weakness, is torturing him for his futile hope of seeing his brother again. But he opens his eyes all the same. He needs this, insufficient as it is.
He’s rewarded with the lightest pressure of lips against the top of his cheekbone. It’s not enough. He angles his head, desperate to catch those lips with his own.
And then he wakes. No one is around to hear the name he sobs into the night.