Disclaimer: I don't own Megami Kouhosei, nor do I make any money off of it. #weeps# But, oh, the things I could do if I did…#dreamy-eyed#

Author's Note: #incoherent sounds of surprise and delight inserted here# Wow! I'd like to thank the following people for doing a good deed and feeding my ego (society cringes, but that pleases me ^_~) with their thoughtful, wonderful, fantastic reviews: gundamesca, poetisa, UE, Karyx, AA-Chan, Lanae, Lei, cloa, Feathered Wings, 'Manda,  Aishiteru Tenshi, and kio. Thanks! #group huggle# Um, for those of you who want to know, there should be about two more chapters or so after this one. That's an estimate, mind you—it's liable to change if my muse suddenly inspires me to alter the planned ending. Read and enjoy, everyone!

Sometimes, at night, I kiss you while you sleep, and you don't know what I've done, and things are momentarily back the way they were before.

It seems like we have been this way a long time—maybe forever—but then I recall a million things I'd rather not, and I remember how imperfect this bond between us really is.

What are we doing to ourselves?

What is it that we want—what is it that we have?

What kind of hold do you have on me?

You don't like things the way there are—I can tell.

You thought you could accept me the way that I am; keep things the way that they are.

But you can't, can you? It's not enough.

I bet you (somehow, secretly) wished that things would change; I bet you prayed that I would change. I bet you still do.

You never close your eyes when we touch; when we kiss; when we fuck.

Why is that?

Once, you said I was beautiful.

We bruised each other that night, in the storage closet, and the bite marks wouldn't fade for days.

Now I keep my eyes open too.

What are we looking for?

I can see that you wish that I were different—more like you. But I'm not.

You want me to show you more than just the cold—past the rage. But I can't.

That is the one thing I can't do. But I wish I could, and I wish I didn't want that.

I just can't risk it; not now—not yet.

Maybe never (maybe not).

Still, that is what you want.

I can see it every time I look in your eyes; in your sweet, screaming face; every time our gazes lock.

And so I still kiss you while you sleep—when your eyes are closed.

And I wonder if you know the things I think—the things I feel—and I work the wonder out of me by pounding into you, as we grope and grasp and gasp in our own unsure Utopia.

And no matter how many times I take you, you still cling and blush, like a virgin.

Like an angel.

But I will not call you an angel, because angels aren't real.

And if they were, you're much too pure to be one.

Or have I sullied that?

No. No.

How do you make me think these things…?

I'm not sure…maybe I knew, once, but you made me forget.

Because I do forget sometimes, you know. You make me forget so many things… Did you realize that?

Sometimes I forget to be cruel; forget to fight; forget not to kiss you tenderly.

Can you feel it in the way I touch you; the way I take you; the way I trail kisses down your shoulders and forearms?

Maybe you do. I can feel you shiver and shudder and sigh breathlessly down my back, and your hands, your fine, lovely, lover's hands, they clutch me desperately, like you sense you're breaking me down (making me more human), and you want to hold onto that for as long as you can.

But you can't hold onto the fantasy, because that isn't real either.

And your hands, your perfect little hands with their fine-boned fingers and too-soft skin (almost dainty—but that's preposterous. Isn't it?), they slide down sweat-slicked skin until we forget those brief moments of gentleness; forget not to scream; forget that this is insanity. Do you forget who you're kissing, too?

I don't.

I can never forget you. (Not even when I want to.)

I tear into your body; you tear at mine. And if I loved you, this would hurt, but I don't love you and it still hurts, so what does that mean?

I've made you get on your knees, but I was on my knees too, so are we equals?

Does sex mean we're lovers, or is it the fact that I hold you when we're done that makes us that?

I'd crush your windpipe if I could (make this stop), but I can't make myself do it, even if my fingers would leave the most perfect purple necklace on your throat.

You do bruise so prettily, Zero.

But I wouldn't be able to stand the screaming, yours and mine, that'd come from terror instead of need. (Or maybe I could. But I don't want to. I feel terror at the need, but perhaps I need the terror, and is that fucked up or isn't it? I cannot tell. But I don't care (I don't think), so don't mind me.)

You cry so wonderfully for me, Zero.

Can I keep you? Will you be mine? (Or are you mine already?)

You arch so wantonly, Zero.

And isn't this enough?

Can't you pretend I told you I loved you?

Will you wait for something that might never come?

You moan my name so marvelously into my mouth, Zero.

And why is it whatever you say turns to gold?

I like the way my name tastes on the tip of your tongue.

What are we doing, Zero?

Let's never stop.

Stay this way, stay with me.

But don't all good things die?