Lost

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Hina's gone.

He stands naked in the spacious British bathroom and squints at his back in the mirror. There isn't a scar. Kunzite had laid him open to the ribs, he thought, and he remembers the pain, and he'd lain in the hospital from shock, but now he looks and there's nothing. All sewn up with golden light.

He rubs his shoulder and sits weakly on the edge of the tub. Hina's gone. Usagi knows who he is. Usagi is Sailor Moon, is the flutter of a too-short skirt in the wind, is the Princess, is silky bare arms in the grass a billion years ago. And the ghost, he'd thought, that man's ghost, is haunting him still, is Zoisite, is alive, is striped red bare back in the parlor a billion years ago.

He's had two lovers he doesn't even remember, and Hina's gone, and that doesn't account for the odd stray memories of Jadeite naked or Kunzite's teeth on the back of his neck, and Usagi is in middle school you lech, and Hina's gone, and Zoisite had come to him in the hospital, and what is he doing in England now anyway, and he's died and doesn't even have a scar to prove it, and he's still a virgin no matter what he remembers, and he doesn't like men, right, and Hina's gone, and he's lost.

White silk. He's jet-lagged and his whole life has fallen to pieces and turned upside-down and been hijacked by fate, and all he can think of is white silk. Fine white silk spinning against his legs as a Princess laughed. Heavy white silk crumpling to the floor as a Shitennou stripped for his master. He doesn't understand why he'd held one end of a chain round Zoisite's neck and smiled. And he doesn't understand why he and Serenity died with, for, because of love.

He's so hard it aches, and he jerks off mechanically at the bathtub drain to make it go away, and then washes it down and leaves the water running until it overflows and steams, and he hunches down to his eyes long as he could hold his breath, because everything's fallen apart into white silk.