I wouldn't really call the first time we made love "a time of magic". Actually, if you get right down to it, the experience wasn't even enjoyable. Sure, it was pleasurable; I would never say that it didn't feel good, after all. There are some things that Kunzite does that are sure to drive me up a wall, and even in the beginning, he used that fact against me. No, I wouldn't say that it didn't feel good. It did. It felt really good.

At the time, anyway.

But even through it all... something was wrong. I can't really tell you what it was, but I think that it, whatever it was, was what drove me to lose myself so fully in Kunzite's embrace. I was almost desperate to enjoy myself, to find release... and in a way, to get revenge. Kunzite was using me for a pawn; I was only a tool, and even in the throes of passion, I recognized that. I used our lovemaking to get back at him, to make him feel what it was to want; I made him beg and plead for me as we came together. I won't say that I was the only one who did such a thing; he also taunted me, pushed me around. In a way, our lovemaking was just another form of battle. It was only another test of wills.

When it was over, I was totally exhausted. It wasn't a good exhaustion, either; I didn't feel fulfilled or complete, none of the satisfaction I received from the act itself carried over into the aftermath. When it was over, I only knew one thing: I was truly alone. I lay in the arms of my lover, after just performing what people say is the greatest act of all... and I felt only deprived and depraved. I felt tired and empty, and unbearably, unbearably cold. Because I knew that what we had done hadn't been an act of love, or even an act of need.

It had been an act of control.

I hated myself for that; I hated him for that. I was letting him use me, letting him put me in the mold he had chosen for me. Even in sex, I was merely his servant, his obedient and willing slave. I let him transform the act of love into nothing more than another object lesson. But somehow ...I think he hated that, too. For when it was over, and he lay panting above me, his face was filled with an odd expression... a lonely one of disquiet. He stared down at me, and I watched as his eyes transformed from passion to disgust, and he rolled away from me.

I was glad. I didn't want him to touch me, not any longer.

We lay there in the darkness, not saying a word. I didn't seek him out; I didn't reach out to touch him. I didn't ask if it had meant anything, or even if I had done well. I didn't want to talk to him. I was so filled with self-loathing that I blocked him out, tried to forget our illicit act. I spent the night trying to forget the feel of his flesh against mine, the panting kisses and hot, whispered pleas. I lay still on his bed, his body not two feet away from me, and tried to ignore the sounds of his breathing.

The morning was a blessing, despite my body's sore protests from the night before. It was a blessing because it meant that I could get away from him, that I had an excuse to leave his side. I spent the day burying myself in work, taking the hardest and most arduous tasks in an effort to forget my most recent... lesson. He might have been doing the same- I didn't see him once, that day. Such a thing is very unusual --I am his assistant, after all-- but I was ever so grateful for the change.

I don't understand why, when night fell once more, I found myself back in his rooms.

Maybe I'm merely masochistic; maybe I like the punishment and the pain. Sitting on his bed, waiting solemnly for him to arrive, I certainly felt that way. I didn't understand why I was there, asking him to take me once again. I was torn between leaving frantically before he arrived, hoping he would never notice I had returned, and stubbornly holding my ground.

I stayed. I don't know why, but I couldn't bring myself to leave.

When he finally entered the room, I almost panicked. I froze, my mind screaming at me to run away and that I was an idiot, and I tensed, almost on the point of shaking. It didn't help that he only stared coldly at me, his eyes revealing nothing as they took me in. He stood indifferently before me, making no move and saying nothing.

I made myself stare back at him, trying to mask my own uncertainty. I couldn't do it. I wanted him to do something, anything; I wanted him to change the past, and make me feel better. I wanted him to hold me close, and comfort me. I wanted him to beat me, to yell at me and take me harshly, and confirm my idea that nothing was sacred. I didn't know what I wanted. My face fell, and I reached out to him, almost hoping he'd throw away all the possibilities and tell me to leave. Instead, he came to me quietly.

We stared at each other for a long moment, his large body looming over me as we stared into each other's eyes. His expression flickered for an instant, wavering with something I couldn't identify, but it was quickly gone, and he sat gracefully beside me on the bed. "What do you want?" he asked softly, his voice so low I could hardly hear him.

My eyes filled with tears; I couldn't answer him. I reached out to grasp his shoulders, my hands clinging pitifully to his jacket, and I didn't say a word. I let him stare at me, at the tears running down my face, and I waited for his decision. I couldn't make one myself... I still didn't know what I wanted.

He reached out, his fingers trailing down my tearstained cheeks, and pulled me to him, kissing me gently. He murmured my name, just once before we lost the ability to speak at all, and his voice was filled with so much tenderness that it made me ache inside.

Our second time together wasn't "a time of magic" either.

But it was better.