It is silent in the room. The quiet collects in the wall's ridges, grooved like an animal's mouth, and reflects sphere-like off the black glass floor.

Towards one end, the floor grows textured and bubbled as the walls are, until, as the eye progresses along it, it becomes a bed. A great bed rising out of the floor, its four posts reaching up to the ceiling as though bracing against it.

And upon that great bed lies warrior Kunzite. Still as the rest of the room, he sleeps, and where he sleeps, the bed is beginning to sag. The room is warm still, and Kunzite has little use for the blankets that fall over his hips. In the darkness, his skin collects the shadow, streaked paler in places from the scars that map his body.

Occasionally, he moves, and the flesh beneath his skin rolls, as though there is something living there, something not of his own. And there is. It's in his dreams too, dreams that make his silver eyes flick back and forth beneath their lids. Violent dreams, sliding within him alongside his moving muscles.

If his dreams were reality, then his outstretched hand would break whatever it held. But instead it rests gently on the flat belly of another.

He is smaller, finer, his breathing shallow and short. His soft hair curls golden, mixing on the pillow with Kunzite's frightening white strands. His pale skin luminesces in the dark, almost blue, suffused with purple at his lips and fingertips.

His dreams are still tender, yet unspoiled. He dreams of sunlight, bread, and Kunzite's warm body.

This will change very soon. It will not be long before Zoisite's dreams will turn to a man with green blood. Sunlight will become black rock, bread will become contagion, and Kunzite's warm body will become Kunzite's white gloves.

But now, he sleeps, sighing slightly, as his lover's fingertips drum once against his belly.