Persona

3x4

"This isn't who we are," Zoisite says quietly, and there's a rare note of despair in his voice.

Nephrite, curled bruised and naked in some far-off nook, feels Beryl's eyes upon him, always upon him, and he's drunk stupid on pain in the long shadows of the Kingdom. Everyone else has hurt him and trampled him down, so now Zoisite will want a turn, he supposes.

His life began when Beryl's power tugged him out of limbo, when black petals embraced him and set him down on the cavern floor, a blank slate upon which was written nothing more than love her, obey her--but he is beginning to think things that should not be there, things that make no sense, shadows before the eraser scuffed over him, and every time he does his head aches. Jadeite should be smiling, he thinks, and a vise closes round his skull. He should be happy when Kunzite beats him, he thinks, and the screw tightens. Zoisite should be his friend, he thinks, and it's iron drilling into his temples. There should be a prince--and whenever he thinks that his vision goes black with pain.

So Jadeite is angry and power-hungry, and it makes perfect sense that he'd smile brutally and line up to fuck him when Kunzite says go ahead, you're better than him anyway, take him. So Kunzite is cruel and wanton, and it makes perfect sense that he watches with a black look in his eyes and his sword in his hand and that damn Senshi perched on his knee, and his mouth is bloody after she kisses him. And they'd tied him down and used him up and left him alone with only his Queen's distaste, because nobody, not even Zoisite, was his friend. Because the word friend does not exist in the Dark Kingdom.

"I think you know just a little too much for comfort," Zoisite says, "and I believe you think rather much too little for use."

He's pretty sure Zoisite's just insulted him, but he hurts too much to care. And besides, Zoisite's untrustworthy, always has been, prefers working alone, is delusional now, says his Queen--kind, and hammers pound in his skull, caring, and there are ice picks behind his eyes--and Zoisite, the traitor who some shred of his mind is screaming is a friend, is touching his cheek gently with one gloved hand, above the bruise Jadeite had left on his mouth.

"I wish I could lift the curse from you," Zoisite says, just a whisper, and for a moment with cut-crystal clarity he remembers Zoisite standing over him in bright slanting sunlight, soft-napped fabric of his gloves on his face, and he's kneeling at his feet and collared like a dog, but it's okay, it's good, Zoisite will take care of him, Zoisite will be kind and gentle and hurt him only when he wants it, and Jadeite runs up laughing, and his head crackles with agony, skull-splitting, but the brush of Zoisite's lips on his cheek is real.