"You."
That voice, though filled with venom, is lovelier to me than any other voice I've ever heard. "What do you want?" Nothing. Everything. You. Of course, I can't say that, can't say what I truly desire. I wish that desire for you had never crossed my mind. I wish that your tousled beauty had never ensnared me, that I had never seen your face, or longed to run my fingers through your silken, gleaming, unruly hair. Why is it like that, anyway? Why does your hair rebel against any sort of neatness or uniformity? I think that this shows your true nature, Keith. I think that beneath that Alliance uniform of red and white, beats the heart of a rebel, a free spirit. I think that you have the heart of a wild and untamable creature, and that in your veins runs the fire of liberty and freedom and indescribable, unrestrained chaos. No, not chaos, but uniqueness. Individuality. That hidden fire is why I desire you. "You know what I want." I wonder if you can hear beyond the contempt, the arrogance, when I speak to you? Do you hear what I'm really trying to say, Keith? Do you know what I'm constantly asking you, offering you? Or has the thought never even crossed your mind? Do you know that every time I see you, I ask you this, I give myself to you without question and every time you reject me? Obviously not, if that angry snarl is your response. But, your face is still so lovely to me, painted as it is by the blush of your rage. You're too pale, really. Some sun, some form of fun, would make your beauty all that greater. But then, if it were any more than it is now, I think I should go mad for longing. Already, my unrequited desire for you lures me to the edge of insanity. "You'll never get away with this, Lotor. My friends _will_ come to rescue me." I have to laugh at your words, laugh at the self-righteous tone and attempt at grandeur. Please, I have tasted arrogance and self-righteous attitude from the best. I cut my teeth on disdainful attitude. I _am_ the son of Zarkon, after all. I know that you are trying to project the image of an outraged officer, and the similarity to my own masks of deception amuses me to no end. Perhaps we aren't so different as I sometimes fear. Of course, you mistake my laughter for contempt, and your anger grows to even greater heights. Isn't that always how things go, though? I try to tell you how I feel, try to tell you my true desires, and you interpret it in an entirely different manner, skewing my true meaning and digging us into an ever deeper hole of misconceptions. But, you expect a reply to your outburst, and I must give you one, on that is molded by the false hatred between us. Or should I say the one-sided anger, for I feel none of your animosity. None of the anger that separates the two of us stems from me, Keith, for I have enough anger in my life. I only wanted to know what love feels like, only wanted to be loved for once in my life. But, everything I touch is corrupted and I should have known that my love would create only more anger, more hatred and heated words directed at me. It always does. Just because I love you more than any other, why should you have been an exception? "Of course they will, Captain. I expect them to. And when they do, my robeasts will destroy them. Then Allura will finally be mine!" Because I want to kill her myself, want to see her die from my own hand. Gods above and below, defend me from ever having her as my bride. To be tied forever to that...that...spoiled, delusional brat would be a fate worse than any I could possibly devise. And I'm quite good at devising horrible fates. Still, you expect me to say those words, expect me to desire her, because you desire her. You expect to hear passion, lust, when I speak her name, for that is what you feel, and so I convert my blood lust into passionate adoration. I say them because you want me to, despite the foulness that coats me every time I do. I only want to please you. Can't you see that, Keith? Perhaps you can, if the stillness that has descended on you is any indication. The stillness that is like some horrid, scavenging, gigantic bird that distorts and disguises your every present life. Gods, stop it! Move! You frighten me, sitting so still, so somber! The undefinable emotion that deepens your already deep eyes, fills me with some unnameable dread. Why do you look at me with such...regret? longing? pity? I can't tell, and I don't want to. Have I given myself away somehow? Has my desperate need for you leaked through, stained the conversation, giving you such cause to regard me so? Oh, I dread your response, for you know, and you will speak with tact, and the right phrasing, and it will cut straight to my heart and destroy me. "It will never work, Lotor." I know, Keith. But couldn't we just pretend?