Normally, when Zoisite is being irritable and reclusive, Kunzite lets him get away with it for a while on the presumption that he'll either deal with the problem himself or eventually come out and prod Kunzite about it. (Possibly with something sharp, if Zoi thinks the problem /is/ Kunzite.) He's done the usual things that might reassure Zoisite: without comment, there have been fresh flowers placed near his door; there's been a mug with a phrase that might amuse him added to the general collection; there's been a book that might interest him left out in the open, untouched. Nothing direct, the same way that Zoisite hasn't addressed the problem. But the two of them have a secondary system of communication through things, for times when words aren't working, and the unspoken gifts are as much a part of that as the explicit ones.
Sooner or later, though, that phase always comes to an end. Usually it's Zoisite who closes it. This time... this time, after a fashion, it's a sequence of unnerved text messages from Naru. Kunzite is almost entirely certain that the incident upsetting her wasn't Zoisite's doing.
Almost.
So he goes looking. A quick survey of the open parts of the apartment. Then he starts checking more particular ones. Odd places he likes to curl up. A knock at the door to his room. If necessary, if all else fails, a knock at the door to the particular bath he most often claims for himself (and might, if he deemed necessary, quite possibly defend with his life, which is enough to make even Kunzite a little wary about risking interrupting him).
If there's no answer at any of them, then he'll drop back to text messages. But 'just out of curiosity, did you break into Naru's family's apartment, raid her closet full of nightmare horror paintings, and set them up as an art installation to surprise her with' is not really a topic he particularly wants to bring up other than in person.
Zoisite hadn't quite missed those silent, unspoken gifts, but he was occupied with other matters. After all, short of talking to Mamoru, how could someone say 'thank you for caring' without a voice? Granted, with technology it wasn't quite that bad anymore, but it was still-- frustrating. Worrying.
And given the very real sense that this loss of voice was supernatural, Zoisite had gone hunting. He'd even skipped school for it, since that whole affair would have been a wash anyway with him unable to answer the teacher, and any medical diagnosis would have had him out of school for fear of spreading whatever the doctor saw as the reason.
It was easy for Zoisite to forget he wasn't the only person he could turn to in situations like this, for all that it had been some time since they had left the Dark Kingdom. All but the very oldest, deepest-buried instincts he had said that he couldn't turn to others when things got difficult, and the slightly-more-modern reflexes, whatever had caused them, had been hardened in the furnace of the Dark Kingdom. So he went ghost on his family, on those who cared for him the most. He suspected that somewhere lurking deep in his psyche were the memories of a very scared, very lonely child, things he wasn't going to touch now but knew he would eventually have to deal with, and it was that set of memories that led, time and again, to him isolating himself when things got rough.
Zoisite emerged from the bathroom, hair loose and wet, in a loose robe. He gave Kunzite a brief, puzzled look. After all, Kunzite didn't interrupt him bathing without good reason, and wouldn't normally risk his ire unless it was important. He frowned briefly, an obviously inward-focused expression of thought rather than disapproval. He held up a finger, vanishing in his room for a moment to retrieve his phone. When he re-emerged, he held it up for Kunzite to see the text on it.
What is it?
It's not that initial emergence that receives a direct response; there's a quiet pause, perhaps prompted by that thoughtful little frown, certainly reinforced by the lifted finger. Kunzite's still waiting outside when Zoisite returns; gray eyes glance from damp face to phone screen and back.
-- well. That changes things.
He steps somewhat closer, enough to let him lift a hand and run fingertips through Zoisite's wet hair at his temple. On the side further from the phone, to avoid any misimpression that he might be dismissing that form of communication. And to avoid any practical issues if Zoisite decides to use it, though he takes care to make what he asks a yes-no, and to keep that contact (if Zoisite lets him) through it. "Two questions," he says. "The more urgent but less important -- did you stop by the Osaka residence today?"
Cat-green eyes slide shut for a moment in pleasure, Zoisite tilting his head into the contact. He lets out a soft sigh, relaxing for a moment before he answers the question with a shake of his head. He hadn't been there in a long time, and certainly would not enter her room without invitation unless there was a highly pressing reason. Certainly nothing so immature as what had happened to Naru. After all, he knew very well that good guys didn't sneak into people's rooms without their permission, especially not a girl's room. The appearance of something untoward could be assumed there, and... honestly, it felt disgustingly base, the idea of using powers he'd been granted for some kind of perverse reasons... Especially since he didn't even bother doing that with people he was involved with.
Zoisite brings the hand holding his phone up, middle and index fingers up in a fairly clear indication of 'second question?'.
There had been a different one; a problem brought over that Kunzite has no way to attack, that Zoisite might find laughably easy. He might even talk about it later. But there's a more important question now.
Kunzite bends his head and touches the briefest of kisses to Zoisite's forehead while his eyes are closed. Almost more breath than actual contact. "Whatever this is," he says quietly, "will you let us know if we can help?"
There's another of those soft sighs in response to the kiss, and he nods. After all, it wasn't really a case of not wanting to let people help-- it was a case of not expecting help against something that wasn't dark energy so far as he could discern, but was some kind of irritant. It was a case of not expecting help with that sort of thing, of old, faulty instincts meaning that he didn't ask for help with something that didn't seem like an attack so much as incredibly unfortunate mischance with someone's magic gone awry. It was just a matter of tracking down the offender and fixing the issue.
It's not that I wouldn't let anyone help, it's more that I reacted rather than thinking, Zoisite taps out on his phone, offering it to Kunzite with a wry, embarrassed smile.
Kunzite's phone chimes for attention. He ignores it in favor of glancing down at Zoisite's screen, and then letting the corner of his mouth curve upward. "We all still do that," he says. "One way or another." His fingers trail down through wet hair again, settling on Zoisite's shoulder, over the robe. "Still. You're in a better place right now to know who can help." There are a dozen questions he could ask -- when did it start? gradual or sudden? did Mamoru find anything physically wrong? does it still afflict him when he changes shape? -- but none of them are likely to be things Zoisite's quick and clever mind hasn't thought of already. Which makes asking them redundant.
That little hint of a smile shows, if anything, a little more. "So if I can. If any of us can." He nods toward the phone, completing the thought with the gesture. "If you're having trouble and need another project as a distraction, I have one on hand. But ... no. This is more important. Let's see you better, first."
Talking again would be nice. This mute thing is crap. The text on Zoisite's phone practically radiates wryness. He leans closer with a nod- after all, it's true. He's in a pretty good spot to know who can help, though right now he's coming up blank. The loss of voice followed his shape-shifting. He was pretty sure if there had been something physically wrong with him, Mamoru would have picked up on it earlier. He's planning on outlining all of this later-- now that he's actually thinking and not just reacting.
He tugs gently on Kunzite's arm, heading towards the couch to sit down. It's more comfortable to sit over there than standing, after all.
Furnitureward they go, Kunzite following the tug without delay or question. "Yes," he says aloud. "I miss hearing you complain already."
... he doesn't move far enough away from Zoisite to avoid any vengeance for that remark. Closer to, rather. Particularly when they settle on the couch.
Kunzite probably misses his mercurial laugh even more than he misses the complaints, and it's exactly that sound that the conversation is currently missing. Still, there is retaliation, Zoisite pinching at Kunzite's side with a small, irritated huff of breath out of his nose.
That's what you say now, he types out.
Fair and accepted retaliation. Kunzite settles his arm around Zoisite's shoulders, drawing the two of them closer together without limiting Zoisite's freedom of motion. Besides, it lets him glance at the phone's screen at the same time that Zoi's typing.
(It also soaks his sleeve and shirt, but that's as small a price to pay as the pinch.)
"I've had enough quiet for a very long time," he says. There's a moment's pause. "... and I trust your own self-interest will be enough to keep you from repeating that to Nephrite anytime soon." Their rooms are close enough that Zoisite's would be in the blast radius, so to speak.
Zoisite settles in closer, smiling faintly. He's missed this, and has no qualms admitting it to himself. If typing it weren't such a process, he'd be sharing that admission, at least. Partial balm and apology for vanishing for a while. Since he can't, though, he simply hopes Kunzite understands it, unspoken.
There's another, pointedly louder snort at that. There's no way Nephrite will ever hear that comment from him. As if to underscore his current, enforced silence, Zoisite pantomimes zipping his lips.
That bit of pantomime wins a response -- it's low and brief, but it is actually laughter, not something closemouthed and muted that might have stood in laughter's place. Kunzite doesn't say anything in words. It wouldn't be fair to, given that he leans his head down and rests it against Zoisite's for a few seconds, face hidden in wet hair. Phone's useless if he can't see it, and that's unfair when it's the primary way Zoisite has of communicating in detail right now -- so it doesn't last long. Just a couple of breaths, and then he's lifting his head again, using his free hand to try to rescue himself from strands trying to glue themselves to his face, to fingercomb locks gently back into reasonable order. Not as easy a task as one might expect; those curls share a nature with their owner.
There's very little doubt after that, though, that Kunzite does indeed understand.
Zoisite smiles at the laughter, dropping his phone to reach up and wrap his arms around Kunzite's shoulders, burying his face against Kunzite for a long moment. It's intentional vulnerability, but it only lasts a few moments before he retrieves his phone.
I'm taking today to rest. I've been at this a little long, and I'm more tired than I thought, he admits, turning the screen to Kunzite to read.
By the time Zoisite lets go, there's more than just a one-sided smile on Kunzite's face, and the ghost of that expression is still lingering when he remembers (a moment late) to glance down at the screen and nod. "Good," he says, not loudly. "Shall I bring you something to eat a little later? Or would you prefer no more interruptions for today?"
Zoisite shrugs minutely. He really doesn't care-- it just feels nice to not be driving himself half-mad trying to pin down what stole his voice and hide it from people. Whatever works, he types out, covering a yawn with his free hand.
The arm around Zoisite's shoulders tightens without a word, silent affirmation. Of what Zoisite typed. Of the sleepiness he admitted without words of his own. He's welcome to fall asleep there, if he wants to. It'll probably wind up with him ensconced back in bed at some point either way -- but right now? What he said. Whatever works.