Series: Sailor Moon

Title: Time and Temperature
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/ Characters: Minako/Kunzite
Word Count: 540
Warning/s: You should have watched all of the first season.

Disclaimer: No own.

"Fifteen minutes can last a second or an eternity depending on the temperature," she says to him out of the blue, as they lay sprawled beneath the tree. The branches of the oak spread over them – a lush, encompassing canopy, their blanket from the sun. The cloth beneath them was cool white linen – it would be a heartache and a half to get the grass-stains out of it later, Kunzite knew, but she had never been one to give much mind to looking ahead.

"The temperature?" he asks, mostly to carry conversation in the lazy summer day. "Not a silly think like relativity, then?"

She reaches over, slowly, and flicks his forehead. "Temperature," she maintains, and her voice manages to sound childish and like molten gold at the same time.

"Everything's so much slower in the cold," she says. "Chemical reactions, heart rate. They say that you live longer in the cold – it delays death even as it washes over you. We can be frozen for a millennium, and pop up after an eternity of dreaming as good as new." When she says this – something so ridiculous and silly, he wonders at her face. There is not a trace of mirth in it. He thinks of human popsicles, daisies popping out from a layer of snow, and beautiful dolls waiting to spring to action and live again.


"Are you cold now, Venus?" he asks, his hands brushing back the veil of gold that was her hair away from the nape of her neck. She leans into the touch, unconsciously, smiling.

"Time is always too fast around you, Kunzite."

She wakes up from a dream she has been dreaming too long – none about sunshine and gold, summer and warmth. The world is colder, longer, crueler than she expects – expects, not remembers.

For she doesn't remember.

Oh, sometimes she pretends she can. She imagines herself a beautiful princess, dressed in flowing white silk, a thousand men hovering around her perfection. There are violins and haps in the background, and the air smells like roses. She is right about the violins, but the air smells more like jasmine, and she had always preferred being in gold, even then. There are men, but not as many as a thousand, and only one of them had been special anyways.

She hears of a man in London. She doesn't meet him, but his name is whispered y those vanquished. She finally sees him in Tokyo – Kunzite. Her heart is a hummingbird's wings – looking into his eyes, a century passes in a second. He is dangerous – when then meet, it seems they are moving so fast that the world around them is standing still.

She burns.

Minako wonders if he will kill her. She wonders if, instead, she will kill him.

Time is feverish as it draws them, all of them, to completion. She is running, running, lacking the time to even breathe, until, suddenly, he is extinguished. When she dies, it is in slow cold, and she thinks that with his cease in motion, she had been frozen as well.

She lives again, and he is not there. She thinks of a man she can't remember – and brushes him away as a passage of time.