Zoisite didn't look quite... right as of late. His hair was actually pulled back and up in a severe, easily-managed bun, with only the customary fidget-locks loose to frame his face. He was dressed for easy, quick motion, close to the skin, and those looking closely would notice his jaw muscles were tight as a fully-drawn bowstring, eyes narrowed slightly at the corner and hard with stress. As it was, he was only very temporarily home, downing coffee and food rather quickly.
And silently.
He was hoping to avoid everyone and get going again- even Mamoru and Kunzite. He was timing things carefully, waiting for his Prince to be busy, and Kunzite to be away. He was also fervently praying that Mamoru wouldn't leave his room for a snack. Someone might think he was someone madly obsessed with Pokemon Go, judging by the fact that he had his phone and several extra battery packs on his person, but that wasn't quite the thing at all.
Zoisite glanced out of the kitchen, furtively, before heading straight for his bedroom to pursue a change of clothes.
One problem with Zoisite's cunning plan is that his Prince is an empath. Normally he's got filters up pretty well, but the amount of stress and tension radiating off of Zoisite is 'loud' enough to roll through those filters like a British Mark IV tank coming up over the hill and the trenches and through the barbed wire and--
Mamoru closes his laptop and slips out of his room, noiselessly stalking silent bright hair and the tension that sings like a wire, resonating with the slightest draught from under doors. Now-- Zoisite's room being in another part of the apartment entirely (the posh apartment, to be exact)-- means Mamoru has a little further to go, but doesn't move as furtively. He steps around the corner next to Zoi's door just as Zoi makes it there himself, and his face is worried. But there's nothing hesitant about him. He knows Zoisite bites. He's apparently prepared to tank it. Always.
That expression, damn it, is the same one he wore in the gardens under Paris when Zoisite was falling apart and furious and neither of them knew who they were.
"Zoi, let me in," he says in a low voice, holding his hand out.
Zoisite froze at the sound of Mamoru's voice, halfway through changing his shirt. He huffed a snort out of his nose, intentionally taking longer to sort his clothes out of prickly irritation, since he couldn't quite comment, couldn't quite snipe back.
Which really only made the tension worse. Still, after a moment, Zoisite opened his door, expression a clear and snarky 'what do you want' that he hardly needed his absent voice to bite back. One arm was folded across his torso, the other fussing at his hair. He was not about to take that offered hand- Mamoru hardly needed to be bothered with this, not while he was supposed to be studying.
The hand in Zoi's hair came down, dismissively gesturing. 'Go away, you should be studying.'
"Something's wrong and you're hiding from everyone. And..." Mamoru squints, leaning into the door and blocking it being closed with his body. "...you haven't even cussed at me in Italian or told me to piss off. And you're so stressed that you're boiling the air." He doesn't cross his arms; he lets one drop to hook a thumb in his pocket, and the other comes up and takes his glasses off, removing the barrier between Zoisite and too-blue eyes. He repeats, "Let me in, Zoisite. What am I for if I can't even help if you're in trouble?"
Then there's a pause, and the prince is uncertain for the first time. "Unless I'm the problem."
Zoisite looked horrified at that last statement, shaking his head wildly before digging his phone out of his pocket, typing something, and then holding it up. It hadn't even occurred to him that Mamoru would blame himself- after all, why would he? Mamoru was the best damn thing to happen to Zoisite, period, ever.
'My voice has gone missing. I can't talk.'
The admission seemed to drain some of the tension from Zoisite, his shoulders slumping slightly and his gaze sliding to the floor for a moment. The younger Shitennou leaned heavily against the doorframe, eyes closing entirely for a moment. He was so tired underneath that furious tension.
He reads the screen -- and that's when Mamoru's hand sets his glasses on top of his head, and reaches to touch the side of Zoisite's face, cupping his cheek lightly. The touch of his mind, golden and warm, is even lighter. As always, there's welcome, and stillness, and peace, and the safety of home. You can still talk to me, he says in the shorter boy's head, and then out loud, faintly amused, "Are you going to let me in the rest of the way, or should I camp out on your threshold?"
By way of answer, Zoisite leans against Mamoru, clinging slightly to his shirt. It doesn't help that he's a roil of unhappiness, dissatisfaction with himself, and even fear. He sighs heavily. Thank you, he replies.
After a moment, Zoisite grabs for Mamoru's hand and tugs lightly, heading for his bed. He's tired, damnit, and if the gig was up for hiding what had happened, he was at least going to lay down for a bit.
Mamoru wasn't the only one who could overwork himself, and Zoisite doesn't really care if Mamoru picks up on that thought.
"Dummy," Mamoru tells Zoisite with an ocean of affection, in response to the thanks. He's tugged and then led over to Zoisite's bed, never breaking contact--
--but when they get there, instead of letting Zoisite lay down immediately, he flops onto the other boy's bed and sits against the wall, pulling Zoisite into his lap, gathering him in. There's a vague idea in his awareness that he doesn't block from Zoi: lying down may be more comfortable, but sitting up makes it easier to shield, to surround. "Yes take a nap," he murmurs, and reaches one hand up to undo the bun in that bright hair. "And when you're a little less tired, then you can tell me about it, okay?"
Zoisite waggles a hand, letting himself be fussed over. He sighs as his hair is pulled loose. He doesn't want to nap, exactly-- this isn't quite a physical tired, though his sleep has been sketchy, caught here and there, but more mental, emotional. He is tired of being wary and on-guard, trying to avoid those closest to him. He'd mostly been sleeping when Mamoru was at school, skipping out himself- after all, being asked to answer questions in class and not being able to would be intensely awkward, to say the least.
Instead, Zoisite burrows closer to Mamoru, eyes closed, not exactly napping, but carefully interlacing his fingers with Mamoru's.
You really should be studying, he thinks, apologetic.
"I really need a break," counters Mamoru against Zoisite's hair, leaning his face against the top of his head. That one hand's occupied by interlaced fingers; the other comes up around Zoisite's back and up to the side of his head, holding it lightly against his chest, but more running fingers lightly across Zoi's temple and through his hair, smoothing it back. "Didn't we talk about no more secrets? You're clever and beautiful, but none of us are meant to fight alone. I'm here. Kunzite's here. Nephrite and Jadeite are here. Usagi's here, if you want her help instead of ours. You're loved, and you have so much support -- it's not selfish to call on it. Whatever happened, we can sort it together, we can fix it. Even if some nutcase trapped your voice in a seashell."
Zoisite sighed softly, practically melting into Mamoru's touch. Old habits die hard, Zoisite admits. Plus, Mamoru had seemed... well, busy. I don't think I ever had anyone around to help with things before... and there's an implication to that before that goes past the Dark Kingdom, into the misty past of 'no concrete memories here'.
Plus, you've been wearing yourself kind of thin studying. I didn't think it was selfish, exactly, just... The worded thought trails off into worry- worry that Mamoru might be wearing himself too thin.
"Not all of it's been studying," Mamoru admits very, very quietly. "I've been helping Neph with his memorybeans, and I've been looking into Kunzite's dad on the sly. He doesn't seem like he's evil or a total jerkbag, and I've been stalking him a little, too. I'm going to catch him after he's been drinking and investigate a little more directly, soon. I do need to meet him alone, but if you want me to tag you so you can watch my back when I do it, I'll definitely do that." He laughs a little, again into Zoisite's hair. "It's not so much a secret as that I don't want to force the issue on Kunzite if it turns out his dad won't accept anything about him. It's just that if there is a way to save their relationship-- if there's a way to in any way make things better for Kunzite, and if that is a way, I want to make it happen."
Then it's just a quiet smile, and his touch overflows with energy, bright and warm and accepting. "I'm not worn too thin. I do know my limits, and I know how much trouble I'm in if I exceed them. If hunting down what made your voice go missing is something I can't do without crashing, I'll put down some of what I'm carrying to make room -- you missing your voice is a higher priority than long-term projects. They're long-term for a reason."
Zoisite nods. Of course Mamoru's been up to more. Meddler. The thought is thick with affectionate teasing. And whatever took my voice... There's a bit of a mental shrug. He's entirely open about what he's found, what he could sense of it so far- that it feels utterly unfamiliar, but not dark. If it had been dark in nature, he might have grabbed Usagi to purify it no matter what time of day or night he'd hit on it. It's why Zoisite's been, if not content, at least willing to chase this down on his own.
Thank you. Zoisite tugs their linked hands closer, kissing Mamoru's knuckles with his eyes half-lidded, full of gratitude and affection in equal measure.
Something white-hot and ancient flares up at the back of Mamoru's soul at the kiss to his knuckles, and his face is red with laughing embarrassment; both, all three, of the reactions are intermingled in him, and all there, unfiltered, for Zoisite to see. It's another case of Endymion recognising and Mamoru shying from old ritual, old oaths, old formalities-- shying from, but not rejecting, because he's also still Endymion. There are also, in equal measure as well, a fierce cherishing of everything Zoisite is and a sense of completion backing his own affection.
"Good," he finally says in answer to the unworded explanations of the lack of darkness, the reassurance about demanding purification if necessary, and then he laughs a little bit again. "And of course I'm a meddler. Aren't we all?" Mamoru kisses the top of Zoisite's head. "Why don't you sleep anyway? Might do you some good. I promise to nap too."
Zoisite merely basks in the feeling, as if it were a patch of warm sun.
Mm, I might. Especially since you said you are too, Zoisite offers, sly amusement washing over him. He shifts slightly, still not unlinking their hands, but moving enough that Mamoru can lay down more comfortably. The tension from earlier isn't fully gone, but it's much quietier-- and all focused around his inability to speak, instead of tangled with the stress of avoiding people. I should probably take a bath, but... later. Because a nap sounds really good right now.
"Definitely later," says Mamoru, also letting go of Zoisite enough that he can sprawl, then pull the smaller man in again. He's himself a lot more tired than he'd been admitting even to himself-- which basically means that if Zoisite wants to go anywhere, he'll have to wake the other boy up.
Sneaky prince.