His essence is there, always there, reaching inside me and filling up the holes if only for a short while—a while that I can spend pretending this occupancy will last forever. He is always there, filling me up and pouring me out again, only to fill me up once again—he doesn't like me to move while he does it, so I lay there quietly, pretending with my eyes closed.
Do not get me wrong—it is not a cruel relationship. He does not hold me down, force me still in any way while he fills me up—it was my suggestion that started our midnight rendezvous, and it will be at my command to end it, if I so choose. But still; with every clandestine meeting and every silent coupling, the holes in me get wider and wider, and so it takes longer and longer for me to be satisfied. Soon these lustful encounters will not placate me at all, and we will have to desist.
But I don't want to. I don't ever want him to leave me—a sentiment that builds and builds up within me until one day, holding as still as possible while he does his duty, I ask him, "What am I to you?"
He freezes, and I feel my body temperature decrease. He does not remove himself, but gives me a look that makes me want to retreat inside myself and never come out. His coal-fired eyes burn with a passion that does not evoke love, caring, or kindness of any sort—but for basic demonic needs; war, blood, violence, and sex. I withdraw from their paradoxical icy heat.
He does not speak, allowing my foolish question to receive its answer from the silence around us. When he feels I have suffered enough, he finishes what he is doing and then gets up to prepare for departure. He always leaves me in a state of venerability, never concerned about my safety after he has severed our connection.
I watch him wordlessly, my irises turning into a wounded, mossy green. Why couldn't he see? Why couldn't he ever stop to realize what he means to me, what I wouldn't give for him to stay with me, just for one night …?
The cold that always seeps into my being when he leaves me shocks my system. I am frozen as I watch him dress himself carelessly. What wouldn't I give to have his unfeeling heat back with me, embracing me for once instead of rejecting me? What wouldn't I give for his icy façade to melt under my touch?
I don't know what had gotten into me that night, but falling victim to my longing and self-pity I asked him again, with the same bitter sorrow, "What am I to you, Hiei?"
Again he froze, though his back was to me. It was a blessing, not to see those lifeless eyes narrowing again.
Tension, so thick it split the very air, turned my half of the clearing into an unbreathable noxious gas that threatened to choke me to death. He still did not answer, and so I no longer expected him to. But then he surprised me.
"It's better not to ask."
And he was gone.
'Don't ask, anymore.'