As if I didn't have enough fics going at once, I had to go and start another one!  This is the result of my frustration that there aren't any good PGSM fics out there, or at least none that I can find.  I said that I'd never get into the PGSM Shitennou enough to want to write about them, but that was before Zoisite went and made me get attached to him.  Damn those white-haired men. 

Title: Dreamcatchers
Fandom: PGSM (MAJOR SPOILER WARNING.)
Rating: PG (will likely go up in the future)
Summary: Post-PGSM.  Shitennou.  Bad guys.  Old grudges.  New alliances.  Fun and angst for the whole family.  Please note that this is not a retelling of anime/manga events in the PGSM canon.  It (heavily) borrows elements from both, but it will not be, say, the PGSM R season.  Also, I take liberties with the characters.  Because I can do that.



The old house had not seen much change in the handful of seasons it had spent in abandonment.  The leaves were just beginning to bud on the towering trees that surrounded it.  The vines, still brown with winter, coiled around the rusted chains that bound the gates shut against intruders.  Not that there would be any, of course.  Much of the neighborhood swore up and down that the place was haunted.  Children crossed to the opposite sidewalk when passing by.  Adults picked up their step and dared only a few curious glances at the building behind the trees.  It made things all the more convenient for him.

He noted, with some distaste, the dandelions that had taken root among the grass.  The undergrowth would need clearing, and no one had raked up last autumn's leaves.  But the early flowers were shooting up amidst the soil, and would be blooming within a week or two.  The path his boots trod heavily on was the very same that he had left behind, the dried twigs popping beneath his heels as he surveyed it.  The very same tree he had so often had to stoop to pass beneath now brushed the top of his head in nostalgic greeting.  He pushed it fondly aside, his cape swirling low over its curling roots, as he approached the house.

Perhaps there was some truth to the story of the place being haunted.  The wind carried with it a haunting music, sighing among the trees.  It emanated from the house, its melancholy tune increasing in volume as he drew near. 

The door was already open.  He stepped onto the threshold, allowing his gaze to wander along the familiar walls as the music washed softly over him from above.  One of the front rooms was in disarray, the table and chairs toppled and the thin layer of dust showing that it had remained undisturbed since becoming that way.  A few old flower petals, dry and brown beneath the dust, could be seen scattered on the floor.  He narrowly avoided stepping on a few polished stones as he passed.  He left them where they were--there would be time to clean up later. 

He casually passed through the hallways, glanced here and there at familiar objects, trailed his fingers through the dust on the face of the antique clock.  When he finally lifted his head to the top of the staircase and the source of the music, it was with the air of one who had all the time in the world to waste, and would get there eventually.  He felt the sleek wood of the banister beneath his glove, thought of how a good dusting and some wood polish would make it rich and brown again. 

Would he say that he missed this place?  Not really.  If tomorrow he decided to leave it for good, he would not hesitate for a moment.  But something about the homey familiarity, the warm solidness of it, made the place appealing in some sentimental way.  The music trickled down the walls, shivered across his skin, drowned out his muffled steps on the carpet.  He silently rounded the corner, made his way to the half-open door through which the song was flowing.

He was not at all surprised by the sight that awaited him.  The black grand piano, dark and imposing in the center of the room, seemed to have taken over the entire expanse of the room, and its glossy finish shone boldly in the sunlight that trailed through the windows.  The musician had his back to the door, white hair neatly tied back as always, silver cape sweeping in a semicircle at his feet.  His body sat poised in concentration on the song, even as his hands moved with fluid ease over the keys.  His eyes may have been closed, or perhaps they were open, watching the way the sun glistened on the glassy black surface of his instrument.

He leaned silently against the doorframe, watched the young musician as he once had, in a long-forgotten lifetime.  He vaguely wondered what it was that made him play so dismal a song as Moonlight Sonata.

The musician never paused in his playing, but his head turned slightly to the side as though listening, and the intruder into his solitude was acknowledged at last. 

"Kunzite.  So you've returned too."

Kunzite smiled slightly.  Sneaking up on his white-haired companion remained as impossible as ever.  "It seems someone has beat me to it."

"Why did you come back?"

He crossed to the window, flicking his black hair out of his face as he did so.  "I was getting bored, waiting for something to happen.  Purgatory doesn't suit me.  I don't like waiting for my Master to call me back."  He cast a critical scan of the yard below.  Those hedges needed trimming.  "So I decided, it would be better to make myself useful here, and possibly find something more interesting to do than hovering somewhere between life and death."

A vague snort was all the answer he received.  His musical friend was not always one for words.  Not unless he had something to say.

Kunzite surveyed the view a bit more, taking in the changes made to the street and surrounding neighborhood, before turning to give the piano an annoyed look.  "Zoisite, this is my room, you know."

Zoisite's expression turned to one of smug enjoyment.  "Yeah.  And what a nice room it is, too."  His smile increased as his grey eyes met Kunzite's.  "Too bad my piano doesn't fit anywhere else."

Kunzite sighed, methodically rubbing his forehead.  "You're lucky I let you get away with so much."  Anyone else would have, at the very least, heard some very stern words for such impertinence.  Zoisite made an amused sound, but said nothing more on the matter, the notes continuing to emanate from his fingertips.  "So why did you come back?"

The amusement died from his companion's face.  "I have been... ill at ease lately.  I feel that something is going to happen... perhaps soon.  Master should not be fighting alone."

"Ever loyal, aren't you?"  His question was met only with silence.  "Well, with two of us here..."

"Three of us."  Kunzite gave him a confused look.  "It seems that Nephrite is rather fond of the human world.  He said he had something he needed to do."

"Well, then.  Seems this house will become crowded very quickly.  I wonder what we'll do when Jadeite arrives."

The music stopped with such suddenness that it was as though something had crashed to the floor between them.  The silence roared with an intensity that drowned out the reverberations of the final note.  Gloved hands remained frozen over the keys, as though trapped within the unfinished song.  "He can stay where he is," he said with such chilling finality that even Kunzite had to raise an eyebrow.  He watched the white-haired man silently, but hard grey eyes remained focused on something directly ahead of him, and he did not bother to meet Kunzite's gaze.

"I've never known you to hold a grudge."

"This time is different."  Both remained silent a moment longer, before he picked up Moonlight Sonata again from the beginning.  It was the same song, but Kunzite thought he could detect a sharpness in the notes that was not there before.

*****

Notes: So.  Good?  Bad?  Anyone want to help me brainstorm ideas for where to take this?  Because I sure as heck don't know. ^^;