It's late afternoon in Tokyo, and it's not overly warm-- just that cool lingering remnant of winter before summer begins in earnest. All the trees below (though thanks to Fiore they're silently screaming 100% of the time) are in bloom and smudged with that lovely bright green of new leaves and buds. For once, it's relatively quiet in the enormous four-apartment penthouse, since literally everyone is out but Mamoru and Zoisite, and no one's currently visiting.
The prince has been tense, but that's been almost a constant in all the time that Zoisite's known him in this life -- from his possession by the Dark Kingdom to the frazzling aftermath to the uncertainty regarding Kunzite's resurrection to the dark energy sword shard buried in Usagi's back to the current hell of yet another creepy possessive objectifying stalker and the accompanying growing sickness of what's happening to the earth being reflected in his well-being and mental health, he's just not yet caught a break. Times like this when everything's quiet, though--
Mamoru's sitting on the couch in front of the blank projector wall, the cords to the console controllers all tangled again on the floor in front of him. He's got a textbook on his lap, but he's not reading it-- he's just sitting, mind wandering and gaze stuck on the balcony doors, watching the sun slowly begin to set over the city.
Zoisite doesn't think they'll ever get true peace. Not like this.
It's not a thought he'd dare to voice outloud, of course. Tense as things are, others still *hope* for a better world. Far be it from him (recently, at least) to dash that hope against the rocks of reality - but it seems unlikely that any amount of respite will be found so long as they live. He'd mulled the thought over and over in his head, coming to the conclusion that Their rebirth seemed to herald an era of turmoil, the resurgence of magic and suffering to all around them. Lately, even Zoisite's dreams have been restless and uneasy. Daydreams of revenge had stopped being *relieving* and had instead become... concerning. A memory of a lifetime he hadn't yet escaped, or perhaps just the scars that it had left upon him.
Some second chance. Zoisite drags his hands down his face and kicks a foot out in frustration, nearly upending the table with the force of it.
And all that does is draw attention to the stillness that belies the unease in the air. It feels like a calm before a storm. Zoisite can't sleep - though he'd curled himself across a bright ray of sunshine like a cat starved for freedom, he can't shake the thoughts of recent events from his mind... and a glance across the room confirms that he's not the only one. He sits up from his place on the floor and glares sourly across his knees at Mamoru, waiting until he notices - and when he doesn't, he tests his luck with the table again.
"Stop that." He doesn't feel the "that" needs to be specified. A smarter man may have tried to connect with him, tend to his fears and commiserate about the uncertainty of their future, but... Zoisite is never sure how to broach that subject with any manner of tact. Aggression seems to work better.. He huffs with impatience, following Mamoru's gaze for a moment before refocusing on his face.
He could ignore the first table-kick, because Mamoru does his best not to acknowledge or reward destructive behavior-- but the second table kick and the sharp command get him to turn his head slowly and Look at Zoisite for a second, the most unimpressed shade-casting emanating from the specific cant of his head and the particular one-eyebrow-up mild expression.
Then he shuts his textbook and leans way over to catch at the bright-haired boy's shirt and tug. A silent 'come here', a pointed 'what are you even', and...
--yes, it's okay, see, there at the corner of his mouth. There's a suppressed smile. "I'm not worrying. I'm just breathing. I probably shouldn't stop that."
Much like a cat, he takes his sweet time in responding to the call for affection... at least until there's the hint of a smile. Then he's up, making himself comfortable in the space next to Mamoru -- and, well, a good chunk of his lap.
"For you? They're practically one in the same," he sniffs, settling a hand against his arm as if to secure Mamoru to this particular time and space. Not whatever dark future he might be imagining. It's the closest to comfort he can manage, a physical reminder that he's not facing whatever threats may lie ahead alone.
Neither of them are. Mamoru has people who make a point of reminding him of it. Zoisite ... it's less sure that Zoisite has entirely absorbed that idea. But that doesn't make him an exception, not really; it's not easy for any of them.
And there are changes for all of them.
Kunzite lets himself in the door, for one. All of them lost a great deal of their facility with teleportation, when they gave up the dark energy that fueled it; Kunzite gave up the vast energy reserves granted by the corrupt form Beryl gave him, as well, traded that for the lesser but less awful capacity of a human body. He's far more careful with his magics, now, conserving what power he retains for times when it's needed. He's also younger, unnervingly so to some of them; his rebirth reverted him to the age he was at when Beryl took him, leaving him only barely older than the others. And the heavens (literally) know that Nephrite, at least, hasn't yet gotten used to seeing him out of uniform.
Some things haven't changed. The way he pauses partway into the room, his head tilting a little as he sees Zoisite, his usual lack of expression gentling into something closer to human. His glance to Mamoru a moment later takes the process a step further.
There are changes, and losses, and always trouble. But here and there, there are also compensations.
Mamoru's arm moves, even with Zoisite's on it, but it's only so he can lift it up and wrap it around the smaller teenager, securing him in turn. There are only two people-shaped people with lap rights, and there hasn't yet been an instance of an Usagi-Zoisite battle over it. (It remains to be seen whether they will battle or conspire once someone even smaller than either of them shows up and claims said rights for herself.)
Then he hears the door, but it's not even the door that heralds Kunzite's arrival for him. It never is. "They are not," he tells Zoisite indignantly, then tilts his head back and to the side to give Kunzite a look of protest. "I don't worry ALL the time. Not anymore. I don't even brood all the time! Dirty lies and vicious rumors. I'm just tired, and the flowercat here thinks I'm obsessing over Murphy's law or whatever."
Of course, just saying it means that he starts thinking about things that worry him, like how they haven't been able to track down where what's presumably a flower is draining Usagi from yet, and of COURSE, since Zoisite's right there touching him, the sense of that worry bleeds through even if his expression doesn't reflect it.
Ordinarily, he would protest the nickname. His nose wrinkles in distaste, mouth opening to retort (can't you come up with something better?) as the door opens - the words die on his lips, eyes darting towards the potential threat as he casually poises himself between the threat and Mamoru. The sight of Kunzite doesn't immediately earn a lessening of that hostility, but once he has discerned that there's no weapons or visible threat, he relaxes against Mamoru and settles against him properly.
Deciding reasoning with Mamoru is a lost cause, he gestures airily to Kunzite with his free hand. "Tell him to stop. His mood is darkening the whole room."
But his grip tightens reassuringly again, hand sliding down Mamoru's arm until it finds his hand, interlocking their fingers.
Old habits and new ones, interweaving. An expectation of Zoisite's protective maneuver might have been part of the reason for Kunzite's pause, though he certainly had enough reason without it. Certainly he lets Zoisite finish his evaluation and settle again before he moves further, and the first of that motion is an almost imperceptible nod to the brighter-haired boy. Agreement; silent approval. Mamoru might be able to tell who they are, but that's not always a guarantee.
And then he has the privilege of being caught up on the topic of conversation. Mamoru doesn't worry all the time? Or brood all the time? Gray eyes glint. "Yes," Kunzite agrees. "You sleep occasionally."
Well, that makes it clear whose side he's on in this one. Mostly. To Zoisite, he gives a smile that's barely visible at his mouth, more so at the corners of his eyes. "When has telling him to stop ever worked?" For either of them. Or anyone else.
Distractions, on the other hand, sometimes. Once in a while. "The Souma boy's doing better," he adds to Mamoru, apparently as an afterthought. "He should be on his feet shortly."
"You're a huge jerk," Mamoru announces, flipping Kunzite off over his shoulder with his free hand. His other hand is, of course, wholly claimed by Zoisite, and his textbook is undoubtedly on the floor at this point. For a half-second, there'd been an urge to get up, but having a Zoisite attached is rather like playing kittenhost. One does not dislodge kitten. Especially not when that reassurance is greedily and gratefully leaned on. For a little while, he can let the worry go again.
And then Kunzite hits the nail on the head: distractions are, as ever, a surefire way to get him to think about something else. "Did you find out what happened?" he asks, the hand that'd just flipped his white-haired guardian off reaching now, grasping fruitlessly and pointedly pointlessly at the air for a second before he melodramatically lets it flop to the back of the couch. "And tell him why I couldn't come? I wanted to."