Disclaimer: I don't own Megami Kouhosei, nor do I make any money off of it. #Hysterical screams of  "Why?! Why?!" are heard in background# Damn it, now my muse is flipping out…it's the angst muse. Do you know what this means? Yes…#shakes head in sorrow and pity# …more traumatized bishies. Why?! Why?! Oh, the insanity! ;o) =o)

Author's Note: You know, I believe that this fic can be classified as slightly AU. This is because I am a CN viewer, and when I wrote chapter two, I believed Zero's mother was dead, which she most certainly is not (to my dismay =o). Oh, well. At least no one complained, right? Right. =o)

Thanks to: Oh. Oh my. Oh my, how wonderful you are! I wish to give my most profound and sincere thanks to the following people for simply being the nice, great, and all-around fabulous people that they are: UE, Argent Inluminai, Kichigai, RcA, pariah_chesiretiger, Motomiya Jun Aka Na Cupid Jun, gundamesca, and Jaden. Your reviews are all delightful, thoughtful, amazingly warmhearted, and greatly appreciated. Thanks! Read and Enjoy. =o)

Hiead's POV

Birth is often described as a glorious thing, but I disagree.

It is bloody.

It is painful.

It is candid (and thus grotesque).

There is almost nothing more real or true than the desperation of one slippery non-adult screaming red-facedly in frustration and fear and frank, unabashed fury at the injustice of it all, as he is snatched most ungraciously from his mother's sanguine womb to face intolerable, unsympathetic life.

Perhaps we are most fearful in that instance, that solitary second, before we make our grand entrance into the unfathomable Something Else; it is in that time, you see, when we, though ignorant of all evil, are first made aware of some future alteration to our way of existence--a peril to our livelihood.

That is what this feels like, this thing we share.

When I look at you, so warm and unrefined--so very innocent--it's like something inside me changes; I don't understand what it is about you that makes me feel so oddly…protective; yearning; …caring.

All these things are new to me, and alarming.

Terrifying.

Like nothing I could ever have imagined.

I'm surrounded by things I don't understand; my heart beats swiftly and I'm drowning, drowning, inside you--your lapis lazuli eyes are pulling me under, to a place I've never been.

Is this what you'd call a rebirth, then?

It feels like it.                                        

Only much, much worse then I ever thought before.

I feel vaguely disgusted with myself for what I've been doing all these long nights; ever since that first time, when I held you close to me to feel your warmth seep into my flesh; when I first savored the sweet and indescribable taste of your mouth under mine…ever since then, I have found myself caught up in a new rite for sleep; I slip in beside you, take you in my arms and steal a kiss--you'll never know--and then I rest; later I take my leave before the next day's toil, without you ever knowing what we've done.

Even though I always despise myself for my weakness later, I find that I simply can't stop myself from leaving the bathroom door open somewhat while I brush my teeth, just so I can watch you as you as you dress, fluid and painfully stunning as you slip smooth leather over golden skin with a hasty, hidden grace most will never know you have.

Sometimes you even touch your lovely lips with two soft fingers in silent wonder, perhaps feeling a lingering trace of the lover you never knew you had.

"I'm here, I'm here!" I want to shout, but I don't.

I can't.

You have no idea how much I restrain myself around you, as you tempt me in so many ways, without even knowing it; at night, in your bed, while you sleep in my arms, I wonder why I don't just snap your neck, but then your hair will tickle my chin, or your lips will brush my neck, and I realize that I'd sooner die myself.

This makes me feel cold…petrified, like when I was as a child.

I try to stop my shivering and slow my racing pulse as I slip away to a boiling shower, where the water pummels my back and the steam comforts my frozen limbs, stiff with disbelief.

But in the night I make you pay for my small breakdowns, and when you wake you cannot figure out why your lips are swollen, or where you got those bruises on your arms.

You'll never know the reason, though.

I'll never tell.

******************************************

Today the morning is as I am: swift and intense.

We receive our morning lessons, and before we've even noticed, afternoon has crept up and Pro-Ing practice is over; we've got thirty minutes worth of free time before lunch.

We head to our rooms to shower and change before mealtime; each candidate bathroom comes equipped with three separate showers, so we each claim one; I can hear the friendly banter between you and 89, and I feel a fierce surge of possessiveness overtake me.

I want to bash his head in like an overripe piece of fruit and shove you into the wall to do things to make you blush and squirm and scream--teach you that you're mine, and mine alone.

But, of course, I don't.

Clay leaves soon enough, undoubtedly headed towards the library to do something productive, for once, though his ability to do something not completely useless or cowardly is rather dubious.

We are left alone; the water melts away the filth of my mind and body and plummets down the drain to meet a timely death (that is, until a time when it is too is cleansed; then it will come back again).

I'm not sure if it's the same for you.

Maybe it's only the spiritually impure who feel this way.

…Or only me.

I hastily cut my shower short to push away these thoughts of mine, and then I am in our room, vigorously toweling myself dry.

You enter seconds after I do, thin white regulation towel draped low over your hips; I push back a guttural growl as I watch small crystal water droplets slither and slide all over you, where my lips want to be.

I notice one again just how different we are when you dry yourself off; there are no harsh, quick movements like mine; instead there is only a slow and steady caress; the rough material of the towel softly soaks up all the glistening water trails on your chest and legs and face, revealing more clearly the subdued glow of your skin, once again clean and dry.

I don't even know what I'm doing until you do--when we're both on your bed and my mouth is hot and wet against your own.

My hands have a mind of their own as one buries itself in your hair and the other greedily runs down your side.

I straddle you and pull you closer, always closer, to myself.

You are limp and dumbfounded, and your eyes are opened wide as you stare at me.

Then you regain your wits, and the struggle begins.

You arch against me and try to turn away, but I won't let you escape, and only pull more fiercely, bringing one arm around your back while the other still cradles your auburn head.

I can feel your trembles as I ravage your mouth, skin on skin, heart to heart.

Finally, when Armageddon comes and goes and our Universe dies and revives itself, I release you, dizzy with lack of air and dazed delight.

I get up (as if nothing has happened) and move towards my side of the room to continue changing; I hear you gasp and wheeze and choke as you regain much-needed air; then you shoot up from where you lay on your back to demand an explanation, which I haven't the slightest intention of giving you.

"What the Hell was that?" you demand, flushed and flustered as you stand vengefully at the foot of your bed, so close to me and yet…not.

"Why did you do that? You--you--kissed me! How dare you do that?! I didn't say you could do th--damn it, turn around and answer me! You can't just kiss me and walk away!" you continue, thoroughly incised and confused.

I whip around and retrace my steps until we're only inches apart.

No one has the right to demand anything from me--no one can tell me what I can and cannot do! I don't need to justify myself to anyone!

Not even you.

Especially not you.

I lock my gaze with yours and I see you're fighting not to back away--uncomfortable, more likely than not, with my further invasion of your space.

I move closer and look down from my superior height.

"Yes I can," I say smoothly, tone soft and dangerous like the hissing of a snake before it kisses you with poisoned saliva.

My breath briefly brushes across your face, an insubstantial touch, and you tense slightly, whether in anticipation or dread I do not know.

I do not care to know.

"I just did," I say slyly, a slow smirk easing into my face.

This upsets you (I knew it would) and you do something brash, which I should have anticipated but didn't.

You tackle me.

Onto your bed.

We fall unclothed into a cocoon of sheets, which tangles us together even more.

It is then that the door slides open.

"Hey, Zero, I just came back to get my digital notebo--oh my God!" says Clay.

Damn him.

The plastic half-walls that separate each bed hides half of us from view, but he can see our bare legs wrapped around one another in one disorderly heap; I hastily pull a sheet over our grinding hips to keep some semblance of modesty.

"Zero…what are you doing?!" he asks.

I would have thought he'd have drawn his own conclusions by now.

You sit up, embarrassed, and begin to stammer, "I-it's not what it looks like! Really!"

I want to slap you--punch you--for your stupidity, but I find that all I can do is lie back and shut my eyes in mortification.

We're nude and in bed together, both with evidence of our recent kiss emblazoned boldly into our countenances to condemn us to anyone with eyes; do you really think he'll believe you?

You're such an idiot.

"Don't try to fool me Zero," says Clay, and I fight the urge to jump up and attack him only by the thinnest of margins.

"I see what's going on here. I'm not stupid," he continues.

He could have fooled me.

"Why didn't you tell me you had a girlfriend? The guys and I would understand--you didn't have to keep it a secret," he says, his sympathy absolutely dripping on the floor to drown us all with sugar-coated optimism.

I can't believe we're this lucky--he's so unobservant that he doesn't even realize that it's me underneath you, not some secret lover or someone equally as pathetic.

I silently thank the company who makes these sheets--and those legs you've got straddling me now--for hiding the obvious evidence of my masculinity from view.

You stare at him in unconcealed amazement; shocked, most likely, at his logical, though incorrect, conclusion.

You look like you want to refute his statements, tell him the truth, but I pinch you hard enough to dissuade you from taking that route.

"Uh…of-of course, Clay," you say, voice weak and thin as if you're forcing the words through your throat, which is most likely the case.

"I'll…keep that in mind…" you say, a fierce blush of embarrassment apparent as you talk.

"Good. I'll leave you two lovebirds alone now," he says, good-natured teasing and amusement evident in his tone.

He slips out the door not a moment too soon, just as I am about to jump up and pummel the life out of him.

You breathe a sigh of relief, quickly dispelled as I push you off of me and onto the floor.

I walk back towards my side of the room and pretend that everything is as it was this morning, which it most certainly is not.

While I change I can feel your eyes boring a hole into my back, questioning; searching for answers that I don't have, and don't want.

You're still watching while I walk away.

You don't follow.

*********************************************

I find myself curious to know what 89 will say to the others about your "steamy affair," and so I sit closer than usual to the eighties candidates' (excluding myself) usual table.

The conversation flies nonstop from topic to topic, and I am forced to endure listening to a fair bit of mindless chattering, to my dismay.

Finally Clay decides to tell the others about what he'd seen earlier, exaggerating wildly and talking animatedly until the other two boys are completely enthralled in the interesting, but mostly untrue, story of Clay walking in on Zero's passionate lovemaking to a beautiful maiden with milky-white skin, long lustrous golden locks, and liquid doe eyes the finest shade of aqua (whatever that's supposed to mean).

I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

"Who was she?" asks Roose, excited.

"Er…well, I'm not really sure exactly…" Clay admits sheepishly.

He thinks, for a moment, and then startles me.

"She had nice legs, though."

I quietly choke on my meal.