2436/Get off my Lawn

Get off my Lawn
Date of Scene:	28 March 2025
Location:	Masato's Apartment
Synopsis:	Sickly tiffs melt into more meaningful conversations between Masato and Izou. Mamoru joins with soup and ideas.
Cast of Characters:	Nephrite, Zoisite, Mamoru Chiba

---

Nephrite has posed:
They were beset by pestilence. His home, invaded by common disease and gaudy tastes. Salt upon open wounds, malaise in spades, a feverish tumult of injustices wrought against him.

It was not enough that his time abroad had distanced Masato from his Setagaya stomping grounds, it was not enough that his freshly renovated apartment had scarcely been enjoyed by him yet. His abode had been squatted upon by a fool under the great delusion that he had both sense and taste.

An insufferable peer with even more insufferable decorating schemes, bringing illness into this space with his fouling of the energies-- his incredible ignorance of fusui and fortunes dooming them to snot and woe.

Throw pillows were indeed thrown clear across the room in a fit of pique, a pyjama clad Masato taking unkind hands to the green curtains.

Zoisite has posed:
A gasp was heard from the kitchen, a moment taken so the shock would not stall him for too long before there was a rush of hurried steps.

"Nephrite, what is wrong with you?!" An almost sickly shrill when Izou went after one of his pillows, pointy nose still blushed pink with irritation of constant tissue use. Oversized t-shirt and pajama pants, hair hurriedly tied back in his usual green ribbon, the young Shitennou seemed extra disheveled.

Especially now that anger bled into his gaze and voice.

"You idiot--" As the pillows were hoisted off the floor, he saw the madman go for the curtains-- "NEPHRITE!" Abused throat ached enough for him to cough, covering his face by hanging his shirt from the collar over his nose to minimize the disgusting spread during his sprint back, now following his unruly roommate.

Pillows were thrown back on the couch. Slender frame of a very furiously indignant Izou approaching. "Stop! What's gotten into you?!"

Nephrite has posed:
"Enough strength to get up and defend my apartment from your ruinous touch--!"

A firm tug at the curtains was part of his fever-addled attempt to remove them, uncaring of any bending to the pins. The brunet ignored the approach of the other, fixated upon the sudden target of his ire.

"You've got my place looking-- like the stage of a Eurovision act--" He swayed a little, dizzied by the exertion of wrestling the tacky fabric down.

Zoisite has posed:
"Stop!" Raspy voice, but still very strong, grabbing onto Masato's arm in an attempt to pull the older boy off the curtain.

"Firstly--" Coughs, still feeling the consequences of having shouted a minute before. "This is big apartment. Colossus! I had to improvise something before I became depressed by how empty it was! For months you had this place already and you did nothing to it. Installed a bar, yes, some renovations, but no decor! Nothing!" A hiss with teeth, a stronger yank of Masato's arm this time.

"In fact, you should be thanking me, you stupid boar!"

Finally, reaching the limits of his thin patience, sickness already making it much thinner, a hand reaches to yank at a lock of long brown hair, having no mercy.

"STOP!"

Nephrite has posed:
"Empty!? Agh--"

The vicious pull of precious brown locks was an act of war against his already sickened body.

"It's called minimalism, you fussy bastard--"

Masato staggered some, grabbing at the other's hand before setting a long leg to push Izou off and away from him, "I thought that'd be something you could appreciate, with how short you are!"

Masato used the wall to steady himself, "You're a menace! You wanted green int he wrong places, now look where it is!" He pointed to his nose.

Zoisite has posed:
"Don't you dar--Not with your foot--!!" The moment the bottom end pushed against his middle, Izou felt forced to let go of luscious brown hair to defend himself by smacking the offending leg away from him.

Hands were quick in dusting away where Masato's bareness touched him as though pretentiousness could rub off. "You and your superstitions, full of poppycock." Muttering.

"You're bloody welcome that there's a touch of green in your damned apartment! Nothing wrong with where they are as well. Plants bring life! Ever heard of that or are you too busy sticking your head up your own arse to see!"

"Tsk, maybe you're too tall to be bent over. Shoving your head in the clouds like a crooked weathervane, getting struck by lightning instead." The huff was followed by a series of coughs.

Nephrite has posed:
He was already rubbing protectively at the back of his scalp, brutishly distressed follicles tingling with a sharp ache that fell in with the throb of sinuses.

Masato rounded to raze Izou with the cut of his sapphire glare, a slight wheeze to his voice. "Nevermind the few plants! It's the rest of it! I thought Aries were supposed to be adventurous and bad at commitment, but here you are, still stuck on moss in velvet!"

A small cough followed, hidden in the crook of his elbow and brackish. "You act so cultured, and yet you've never cracked open a book about Fusui in your life, have you?"

Zoisite has posed:
"And here I was thinking that a Leo should be generous and creative, but here you are making a mountain out of some antique throw pillows and some second hand curtains that looks rather nice instead of your foolish minimalism! I even got a poster of constellations and a bag of glow in the dark stars for our corridor. Fit perfectly well with the theme you go after! It's not just about me." Green eyes were livid with sparks of fire within, that bit of teeth to every word he had to say--despite nasally.

"Also, pray tell, why would I ever read a book of Fusui? It's full of nonsense! I don't see why anything should dictate where any decor should go as long as it looks good! And I never hear you complain when something conveniently pink is left out in the open, like Makoto's rosey cutlery that you permit in the kitchen--Oh!" Izou gasps then, feigning surprise.

"Pardon me. I guess pink gets a pass. You're just hopeless and stupid."

Nephrite has posed:
"Cosmos above, you sound like a wet muppet..." Masato ground out through his teeth, lifting his chin in some defiance. The jabs about lightning strikes and the cutlery needled at him in a particular vein.

"I happen to like roses, unlike the mangled display you've put into the hallway," He stepped forward towards it, gesturing widely across the room, "Glow in the dark stick-on stars? What are you, fucking eight?"

He picked up the throw pillows from the couch again as he went past it, stuffing them under arm. He was stalking towards the corridor in a haste. An unceremonious toss delivered the pillows, with a bouncing off the wall and a scattered glow-star or two, to Izou's bedroom door.

Zoisite has posed:
"No, I'm sixteen! I also happen to think those stars are cute, you bellend! Nothing wrong with having something shiny and innocuous in the corridor at night." Follows along, and taking note of the items still being thrown across the place. It irked him so badly.

"I don't actually mind the pink cutlery, if you must know. It matches well with my aesthetic and teacups anyway."

As he passes his room, he reaches in and grabs one of the pillows that was left on the floor.

Nephrite has posed:
Masato had already taken a sharp turn towards his kitchen, long strides masking the true languidness of his aching body.

"Leave that alone, at least," he muttered, and coughed into his elbow again, "Ugh... I hjave no idea how Mamoru expects me to live with you. I only just got this place refurbished, and now you're here to cash in on my set up, as always..."

It was bitter and a little unfair, he knew, but Masato felt the lingering sting of all this Makoto business a little too keenly. He sucked his teeth, angling towards the sink.

"Just try not to disrupt the flow in here with your weird crap."

Zoisite has posed:
"I just said I don't mind it. That implies I won't mess with it." Grit, or as much as he could muster between clenched teeth. Another pillow in his arms, as well as two plastic stars in his hand. A small focused frown, looking over the matte trinket like it could've been possibly damaged by the soft fall before finding the small tacky specs the two belong to.

Some pressure and there they were, back on the wall again. Small, childish, but strangely comforting for him.

"I don't think Mamoru is expecting anything besides us not killing each other. Which I don't intend to do, don't worry." His words carried the eye roll before he sniffled. A small headache was incoming, surely.

Returning to the wider living room, again, Izou puts the pillows back where they were, then approaches the kitchen counter. Arms crossed, that little frown still between brows.

"Does my weird crap include the pots of flora and herbs I keep? Or is it just the non-living items?" Green gaze were set on Masato, watching him arefully.

Nephrite has posed:
Trying not to kill each other? That drew a small snort from him-- fine job Izou had done of that, infecting him with his horrid germs.

"You can keep the plants, but that's your limit on green things you can have outside of your room." He conceded, technically not demanding that the gaudy glow-stars be removed. Though, he'd do some rearranging of them later, to make some resemblance to the constellations above.

A small box of disposable masks was taken from the cabinet under the sink. He paused to wash his hands some, rinsing them before opening the refrigerator.

"I've got some things being delivered later today. So I'll be moving the couch and getting rid of those curtains, for the light."

Zoisite has posed:
A click of his tongue and a clearing of his throat, Izou took that as a cue that the pillows and curtains needed to go, whether he wanted them to or not. And his room wouldn't be able to handle them as he also needed the light for his own projects. Gods damn this.

"Fine, fine... whatever. I'll take them down myself if you insist. But I get free reign on the flora." Thus he pulls along a stool so he's able to reach the top of the window. The most unfortunate thing about being short.

"What else do you want me taking down, oh Star Seer?" Izou climbs the stool and is quick in taking one side down. The other was following.

Nephrite has posed:
"You could take your voice down an octave or two, while you were at it..." Masato murmured, though it was fairly toothless.

He pulled a large bottle of effervescent lemonade free and despite the tiff, did pull out two glasses for them both.

Glancing across the room as he poured, he very briefly entertained the vision of Izou losing his balance and falling off the stool. If he were of a meaner spirit and higher energy level, maybe he might have kicked it out from under him and watched him hang by the curtain rod.

"And don't touch my bar or my telescopes. I've got a fly swatter set aside with your name on it, if I see you getting grabby with my spirits."

Zoisite has posed:
"I'm not that stupid. I figured touching your telescopes would be the same as you daring to touch my cello or musical notes. Which, if you so, I will not spare your fingers." Both sides of the curtains now down and hanging off his shoulder, jumping back onto the floor gracefully. "The same goes to my flora. Want something moved, ask me. Don't bulldoze through like the boar you are."

He's folding the fabric. He'll need to find a new purpose for them or give them away. "But tell me, why can't I mess with your bar? Seems a bit unfair, since we both drink."

Nephrite has posed:
Screwing the cap back on, sapphire eyes narrowed across the room. He did not call the cello an oversized violin or needle the other's musical talent. The words certainly breezed his mind, but passed through before his mouth snatched any down. Neither of them had the energy for such games, at present.

There were more important things being laid out.

"I know you like playing with your elixirs, from time to time," he returned the lemonade to the fridge, "But I fought tooth and nail for that damned bar. Custom made to specification, in a *true* homage to the cosmos above. Inset resin features, glass shelves, uplighting--"

Masato waved his hand dismissively. "It's a work of art. A personal staple, and a place for solidarity among peers. An opportunity for me to do what I do best: Listen. Advise. Ease... most of all, entertain."

Zoisite has posed:
Advise? Ease? Tactics of a manipulator, no doubt. It earned the older man a tired unimpressed gaze. "So what I'm understanding is that, because you worked so hard to get the bar, you don't want anyone else using it as... a bartender? Or to server themselves?" One folded curtain was placed neatly on the couch, next to the pillows. Now the other followed.

"They need you to serve them, and only you?"

Nephrite has posed:
"I don't expect a European with no manners to understand why it's important," Masato returned dourly, gesturing to Izou's glass, "But here, you don't just pour yourself a drink as you please. Men get together, friends or colleagues, and they drink and eat and carry on. They have a good time."

He coughed again into his sleeve, clearing the rasp from his throat.

"It's about forming strong bonds, learning to get on... learning how to take a joke or put your ego aside for a good time. Only an arsehole wants to drink alone."

Zoisite has posed:
Why did everything need to be so long winded with this man? His question could have easily been answered with a simple yes, and yet there was more and more and always more. Like each action had a caveat. Once he was done folding the last curtain, he places it over the other before approaching the counter. Arms crossed.

"Point being, only you can use the bar as a server. No one else. Understood, Star Seer." Izou announced nasally, and wished he wasn't so sick. He cleared his throat, reaching for a tissue off to the corner as he knew he'd need it sooner than later.

"So if I want a drink at three in the morning, do I just wake you up?" A small twist to his lips, trying to contain the small nudge of cynicism before waving his hand. "Nevermind, I wouldn't drink that late. And if I did, I wouldn't tell you or use your bar for that reason."

Nephrite has posed:
Sapphire eyes held him with the slight redness of illness lining them.

"You could wake me up to drink, if you ever needed one." He plucked up his glass now and sipped in turn. Masato didn't feel that needed anything added to it, just now. The statement made was enough, in its implications.

"That's exactly the reason to have a bar like this."

Zoisite has posed:
"Oh, so I could wake you up and have you pour me some wine? You wouldn't be pissed?" Picks up the glass of lemonade, a brow arched in curiosity.

"Even if I tell you nothing in return?"

Nephrite has posed:
"I'd absolutely be pissed." Masato admitted it outright, peering at the other pointedly.

"But I'd still get up and drink with you. Yeah."

Zoisite has posed:
"At least you're honest about it."

Takes his first sip, letting the acidity of the drink wash and sting his throat, letting the silence linger for a moment.

"Anything else?"

Nephrite has posed:
Masato swallowed a mouthful and sniffed. He was thoughtful for a moment. Hesitant, honestly, but there was no sense in avoiding it. Izou would see them later today.

"Do you know much about nursing neglected Bonsais back to health?"

Zoisite has posed:
A frown, questioning as he took another sip. But it soon softened, letting his mind run with the question. All the information and practice he already had, how much more he's willing to learn.

Then he nods.

"A good amount, but my practice leaves some to be desired as I haven't been in a steady location until now." His answer was also honest. It was the first time in a while that he could focus on something he enjoyed without needing to worry about leaving for a while. Thus, a garden was in the works. Many pots were flourishing.

"Were I to have one now, I would theorize I would be good at it. Why?"

Nephrite has posed:
Holding the cool of his glass to a temple, Masato closed his aching eyes.

"I have three coming from the house in Setagaya. One of them is okay, but the other two have declined fairly notably, while I was abroad. Somebody was hired to look after gardens and houseplants, but they didn't quite have the expertise needed."

He sighed. "The Chinese oak in particular is a hundred and forty years old."

Bringing the glass lower to sip at it again, he murmured quietly, glancing away as he leaned upon the counter. "Whatever I might've picked up about them in my life before Obsidian, it's all a bit hazy to me, now."

Zoisite has posed:
Oh.

Glass lowered, harsh edges of his expression melted away as he now saw a bit clearly what Nephrite was about to ask of him--and what it possibly entailed. A house in Setagaya meant that this was family related. So the trees had weight to them. Specifically the Chinese oak with the age it carried.

This was no ordinary request. And by the sounds of it, the man had once known a bit about looking after them beforehand.

His cup was carefully placed on the counter.

"I see." It was quiet, thoughtful. A Bonsai was still a tree, and like any tree, they all carried much history and culture. Treasured heirlooms if they lived long enough. "I could guide you, if you'd like. Until you're on steadier feet to look after them." Izou offers then.

"I am planning to work on the roof garden of this building with a couple of potted trees as well, so Bonsai care would be something I could take on with all the importance it requires."

Nephrite has posed:
There was tangible relief in that. Masato telegraphed it openly, his shoulders deflating momentarily as he let go of a breath.

He was never allowed to touch them, as a child-- that dream-like memory of his childhood, before he'd become aware of his truths. Whoever that person was felt like it had evaporated in the heat of everything else, like a droplet of dew against the swirling core of a star. A wisp, as if it had never truly been there at all, buried beneath possessions and past lives.

He didn't dare ask Kino. Especially after all that chaos at the Plaza, with pains on full display.

That beautiful palace of wood and flower, a world of fleeting and perfect beauty that couldn't last... he remembered it vividly. Perhaps his late mother-- who poured all her passion into beautiful gardens-- had cradled a similar hurt, overlooked by the man she'd married.

He put that thought aside for now.

"I cultivate networks of intelligence and people," And lies, he thought, with a glib smirk, "Not tiny trees."

Zoisite has posed:
It was not lost on him how the other's muscles deflated, relief so visible one could touch if wanted. No verbal confirmation needed, only a sigh. As for Izou, he took in air instead, watching on as he felt a strange knot tie in his stomach. He could only guess how much familial history he was about to help recover and cultivate...

Something he only barely understood besides the rare moments in his life. The few so precious that he kept alive in his mind as best he could. Those were the sparks he used when working with his flora.

Hopefully such memories would also felt feed these bonsais as well.

"They're living beings, like pets. They don't care or judge, just love whoever waters and cares for them. They grow and bloom for you, if you give them an atom's worth of attention." A love that was truly unconditional

His gaze averted then. "It's not hard to learn, cultivating a Bonsai, or even a garden if you're ever so inclined. It just takes patience. A lot of it. You might not get the results you want, but they will respond to you."

Mamoru Chiba has posed:
There's a knock on the door first, more or less while it's being opened, and Mamoru's cheerful voice: "Hey, sickies, I brought a cure-all and also some symptom relief. And more tissue."

He comes in sight, slippered wearing a starry blue yukata it looks like he took a nap in, and he's carrying a bag over one wrist with a suspiciously tissue-box-shaped thing in it, and oh, oh, oh no, it's a cure-all all right, they can smell the spice on the approach from like four meters away, oh no.

"I followed a recipe and made it myself!" OH NO. "It's just lentil soup really. But it's fancy--"

He stops, then restarts, skirting around them both swiftly. "I'll be out of your hair in a second, sorry," the prince says sheepishly, moving to put the soup container in the kitchen. "Text me when you're good for some palliative care."

Nephrite has posed:
Whatever Masato might've said, or the mercurial thoughts that Izou's words seeded, were replaced with a long sigh as the knock came. He understood something of Izou, too, in how he seemed to describe plants-- Masato suspected Izou saw himself reflected in them, and to nurther them was to give what he did not feel he received.

As tired eyes turned towards the door, Mamoru's appearance wasn't unwelcome-- it wasn't the delivery he expected, but whatever Mamoru had brought them was a considerate thought. Probably.

Masato did reach listlessly for the box of masks, and plucked one out, tossing it towards Izou before taking to put on his own. He wasn't risking anything catching.

"Oh, good. You brought bio-weapons." He eyed the lentil soup perilously, shifting as the other enters the kitchen space so as to give him wider berth. "Palliative care... You want to help with that, there's a vase in the bathroom worth smashing. Get it for me and give me a hammer. That'll bring me some relief."

Zoisite has posed:
It did not occur to Izou that he was describing something that was very similar to himself--the life of a plant being completely dependent on the comes and goings of the sun and rain and warmth given freely. Such were emotions and kindness, patience, consistency that he needed that seemed to lack more than he would like. The term water me would come to his mind from time to time, when looking at a potted flora that was neglected.

Water me it says. Just a drop of attention. Of love. Water me it says, leaves visibly drooping to the soil, like a child's head bent down when alone for far too long. Water me.

Yet, Izou's own head popped up when door opened. Smell picked up, so did the blush on his cheeks as he felt utterly not ready for any guests, even if Mamoru had already seen him at his worst. When the mask was passed over to him, he was quick in sliding it on, shaping the thin metal over his nose and pulling the fabric over his chin.

"I truly hope you're talking about the toilet and not the milk glass vase I purchased. It's small and new!" Izou was quick to defend another decoration of his, but he was truthful about it being new. It was something he felt would be precious for potpourri.

Gaze now landing on Mamoru. "How... fancy are we talking? Very, or...?" There was some worry to his tone.

Mamoru Chiba has posed:
Someday, Mamoru won't be 'a guest' any longer: that's his most sincere hope, and one it's almost impossible for him to voice. How could he ask something like that? That's something earned and never spoken of. He doesn't let the thought loose in a casual touch, because oh my god germs.

No. Instead, he finishes setting the pot of soup down and comes over to snag a mask for himself. He pulls it into place and waves a hand around, eyes sparkling over the top of the mask, "There, I'm safe now, you can take off your masks and eat up! It's very fancy. Rashmi-chan's mom gifted us a whole spice cabinet and recipes for her blends and I added a bit more chili to the garam masala, but it's coconut milk and chopped onions and carrots and red lentils and a little garlic, but otherwise I followed the recipe. For the soup. You're safe!"

A beat.

"I mean as long as you're not scared of your prince's cooking and a little bit of heat in your curry..."

Said prince runs his hands through his hair and makes it instantly worse than Zoisite's in every way. He re-focuses and squints at the other two boys, then takes off his glasses and starts polishing them on his yukata. "Okay. What's this, stir-craziness? This soup will cure that too. Also I was thinking of converting a full apartment into a rage room, because the one I made from the entirely too fuckin' big genkan is more like a tantrum room."

Nephrite has posed:
Very fancy was code for surface of the sun levels of heat, Masato was now assured. But it was encouraging that a recipe was involved. He still didn't entirely understand how setting his face on fire with spices would do much more than irritate and further inflame already sensitive tissues, add to his headache, and produce a watery drip.

Still. Mamoru had made them food, and Masato resolved to eat it.

"I'll eat it until my organs liquify." He sounded tired. "Thank you for the soup... But I don't need a Rage apartment."

Zoisite has posed:
"I'm not scared of eating your cooking, you know this. I ate breakfast enough times in your apartment to know how you and Kazuo cook. I just wanted to be prepared on what I would be facing tonight. And clearly I'll have tears on my face." Izou was not that used to spicy foods, but the smell was delicious in his opinion.

It would be a waste to not try it. If it was too much, he'd pour the rest down Masato's throat.

"What brought on the rage apartment? Do you think we'll be needing a bigger space at all? We have been taking out rage out during battles, I see no real need as well."

Mamoru Chiba has posed:
They don't seem to be moving to kick him out; maybe Mamoru read the room incorrectly when he came in. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he watches the two of them and puts his glasses back on. And then he busies himself with dishing bowls out for Masato and Izou.

It's handy, it means they can't see his face for the second before he laughs ruefully. "I'm trying to keep my rage out of battles against these guys. It's really easy to slip into hate, and that's not something I can afford. I need a bigger rage room. Can't go into the Dusk Zone to beat up monsters anymore. Don't need a whole apartment, but definitely need at least a bigger room. Or better coping mechanisms."

Bowls and spoons are placed, and so is the box of tissues. "... do uh, do you want me to go get the milk?"

Nephrite has posed:
There is still a stifled something about Masato as he leans against the counter, just by the sink, and watches Mamoru moving through. Part of him is glad for the man's presence, despite the threat of illness-- it's comforting in a way all of its own. But this buisness with Tamaki does linger in the back of his head. Izou and Kazuo, as well. Never mind his own personal messes.

Better coping mechanisms is probably the answer for all of them, really.

"No. I don't do milk, anymore." He concedes, "Listen, sparring is one thing... if you're going to do this, let's at least make a small arena out of it. No magic, just old fashioned brawling."

Zoisite has posed:
"I wouldn't mind a sparring room, especially with me returning to fencing. It's not the same feel as a real rapier in my hand, but it will do for now." He gratefully takes the bowl when offered, considering if he wanted milk or not. Would it mix well in the end?

Maybe just water would do.

"No milk for me as well, Mamoru. I'll eat slow if it's too much." And they did have cool water. He'd be fine.

"Have you run this idea by Kazuo and Tamaki? I think they both would do well in having a space to just fight and train. Maybe sound proof the room if it gets too noisy?"

Mamoru Chiba has posed:
No milk. Well, if water just spreads the fire, they presumably have bread somewhere. There is a dubious look in the prince's eyes, but he doesn't argue. Instead, he leans back against the wall with his hands behind him, flat against the cool paint and plaster, and he shakes his head.

"I was only thinking of it on and off, idly, and Masato reminded me with his desire to smash your milk glass vase," Mamoru explains to Izou, bringing a hand out to turn it over in the air. "It didn't get so far as 'plan', so no, you're the first to hear about it."

Chewing on his lip for a second, he considers the idea of turning one of the apartments into an arena. "Well -- we already have training space at school with everyone else, in both the gym for Fight Club, and the addition on the Shed that Entrapta built."

He shifts a little uncomfortably and puts his hand behind his back again, rolling his shoulders. "I guess I could fight with gloves on again. It's-- I could do that. And... we can use an apartment that's isolated from Kazuo's mom and from Kyouka. That's not too hard with most of the building empty, and then we wouldn't need to soundproof it."

Then his voice is a little quieter, but steady, and he still gets his fluffy hair out of his face with a toss of his head. "I'm not sure I could fight you guys if I'm trying to get some mad out, though. I have a lot of anger and I don't want any of you to think it's directed at you. But if it would help you, then we can definitely make a space to privately engage in fisticuffs, et cetera."

Nephrite has posed:
"It's not about..." Masato begins, and falters. He brings a hand back through brown hair and sighs behind his mask-- he hasn't removed it yet. Mamoru's presence might have been welcome but the risk to his health was not.

"I feel like you *should* be able to fight me to get your anger out. You should be able to spar with me, to-- to throw *anything* at me, at least emotionally. Any of you should feel like you can take up that offer." He glances at Zoisite as well, and furrows his brows, "If not boxing... Kendo. If not that, wrestling like they have in the West. Anything to cut loose a little, but *together*. Just us."

To let him carry something. Express something. Pointed, meaningful, present. Not smashing meaningless things in impotent fits of pique. That did nothing. It was empty. He needed the bond back. The equilibrium of that, and his connection to the others. The trust, the honour. Things exchanged, traded, *vented* without words, and understood.

Sapphire eyes lowered to the kitchen floor as Masato leaned back against the sink. He sighed. "I don't want a gym or whatever Entrapta built. It's nobody else's business."

Zoisite has posed:
When Masato's blue gaze turned towards him, he lifted his green eyes to connect. He understood what the Star Seer meant and understood the significance of it. Battles and friendly sparring could only go so far, and Usagi already mentioned that no harm should come to her girls--so those bitches were out of the question. But the knights? His brothers? They could. They really could.

"I wasn't thinking of any specific fights, just the chaos of being violent. I mostly learned how to scrap, and fight out of need. There was no discipline. So one of you need to be fine with whatever i bring to the table in terms of sparring." Izou confides in Masato and Mamoru. "...And I wasn't thinking of the sound proofing to be just for fights." His eyes returned to the lemonade that now sat undrinked due to his own mask being on. Straws would be good right about now.

"We might end up saying things that others don't need to hear, not even Kazuo's mother or Kyouka. Actually, it's really no one else's business because they would never understand. Even if they did, I don't want them to bring it up." It wasn't just that, however. Words could slip, be explained, have set definitions that people could draw from and decipher.

But there are things that are much deeper than that. "..I also vent through my music." There is was.

Mamoru Chiba has posed:
At Masato's suggestions-- boxing, kendo, wrestling-- Mamoru's face starts to have an expression that's both rueful and a little ashamed, until Izou suggests that he's in the same boat, and Mamoru's shoulders de-tense.

"I'm also a schoolyard and alley fighter," he admits, "so I'm more than okay with that, Izou. The only disciplines I know, I don't have muscle memory for unless I'm in my armor henshin-- swords inclusive. And there's no way I want to spar in henshin unless we are in the gym barrier, because I don't want to knock our house down." That last is amused.

He still feels the distance of being the one with the final vote, the weighted vote. He feels the apart-ness of being the prince, unlike Usagi and her girls, where that distance doesn't exist. It's a chilly itch in his hindbrain.

But at least he's already making plans for it, accepting it, the idea of chaotic violence. Odds are pretty good he won't be taking his anger out with it, though. "The problem for you is that I like a good fistfight, I get joy out of that, and I get joy out of being with you guys, so even if I went in mad I still wouldn't be taking mad out on you. Either way you have to let me fight gloves on or I can feel what I'm doing to you, and if I get desperate I do touch psychic attacks."

I also vent through my music, says Izou, and Mamoru's gaze settles on him. "And you don't want anyone else hearing your vent-music?"

Nephrite has posed:
It's an incredibly tired little gesture, as Masato's hand continues to rub at his face. Pressing the heel of his palm into his eye, pushing fingers up into brown hair.

"No henshin. No magic. Just Masato, and Mamoru, and Kazuo, and Tamaki, and Izou."

Perhaps it's the sickness weighing him down, sapping his strength and making all his feelings bigger than they ought to be.

"I just want to be Masato." He says, quietly. His voice a mumble behind the mask.