This is set in the same universe as my fic "La Douleur Exquise" (ya know, the one with the sex pollen and the break-up arc never ended universe). Lots of people yelled at me wanting more in that universe, so here I go torturing these two some more.

This is set BEFORE La Douleur Exquise. (And also, really, without having read that fic, you could just read this as canon break up arc, aged up. It fits either way. They're broken up in canon break up arc logic, all you need to know.)

My eternal thanks to my beta, uglygreenjacket, who's been missing my writing when I burned in my own special brand of thesis-hell and who's so enthusiastic about me getting back to fic-writing that she endures me writing angsty shit when she prefers a happy ending. (But there is a happy ending! It's in La Douleur Exquise!)

Anywayyyy –

Purgatory

A short story set in the La Douleur Exquise universe

Something was off.

Yes, Usagi had been hit. Again. But, usually… usually she was made of way harder stuff than this.

Mamoru drew in a sharp breath when Usagi took a hit that was meant for him and cried out in a way that crushed every last nerve ending in his body, made his hands tremble in terror and his lips scowl in utter, mindless, cruel irritation.

It was a droid, this time. One of those humanoid creatures with the black moon sigil that appeared sometimes as if lost in time, without purpose and yet seemingly all the more destructive for it. This one seemed to come with an exuberance in power. And claws.

Claws that currently lodged itself into Sailor Moon's back.

No.

He moved without conscious thought. It was utter reaction, his body moving without his input. It was a visceral, magnetic thing, this need to protect her. It was all he would ever do.

The robot screeched when he snapped its neck.

That would obviously not be enough to keep it down, but for now it would have to do.

He didn't even slow down. One step, destroy, next step, Usako.

"Ow!" she protested with a flinch and that accusing glare when he pulled at her.

It was unfair and irrational this anger that bubbled up in him as he crouched down to cradle her against him and check the wound just beneath her shoulder. How dare she risk her life for him. How dare she be so reckless. How dare she jeopardize what he's given everything to protect. Gave up her, so she might be safe – from him and everything else.

He growled at her wound, fingers probing the wound to the sound of her hiss. She'd had worse, definitely. It didn't even bleed that much - he was going to be able to fix her up quickly, this time. It would need sewing up, that was for sure, but the torn fuku on her back made it look worse than it really was – it was shallow enough that he hoped this one might not leave a scar for once.

He hated nothing more than those scars on her.

It was when the terror subsided, bottomed out through his lungs via his breath, that he realised the position he'd maneuvered them into.

Usagi's lips against his neck as he'd wrapped both arms and knees around her, cradling. He'd cocooned her fully, wrapped himself around her as thoroughly as he could, his face against her cheek as he peered down her shoulder, his hands on her back, pressing against the small patch of pooled blood.

He ripped himself away from her. Her eyes were a little wide looking up and turned a little harder as she answered his prolonged stare.

He never did manage to turn the frustration into something that didn't look hostile. He supposed it was for the better, shrouding his pain and longing into angry scowls so she would never see.

Behind them, he heard the creature stir. But he didn't turn to look. Instead, his eyes stayed firmly on Usagi.

"Your turn," he bit out instead.

She blinked, then seemed to shake herself out of whatever was keeping her mind occupied.

With a twirl and a ripple of her pink and unfathomably powerful magic, she blasted the droid out of existence.

She sighed in relief, features smoothing over and wand bouncing against her thigh with her shoulders sagging and she cringed, the movement apparently pulling at her wound.

He was staring. Frowning hard, most likely. But something had been off.

"What's wrong?" It sounded like a curse from his lips and Usagi rolled her eyes.

"Nothing."

He felt his entire face tighten in irritation, a sharp headache shooting into his temples. But she flipped open her communicator and effectively ignored him.

Three high pitched beeps and then there was Minako's voice coming through the tinny speakers. Then Makoto's. Usagi informed them quickly that they could turn around and head back to bed. They'd dealt with it already.

Then she shot him that look. The one that hurt so badly it routinely choked him.

I miss you, it screamed. I'm hurting, it cried.

Her eyes had been painted in that message for years and he just didn't know how to make it stop. How to make her hate him. How to ease their pain. Or at least hers.

It went as fast as it came, schooled over into Usagi's professional mask that she'd started to don around him a couple years back whenever they were Sailor Moon and Tuxedo Mask.

With a sharp nod she turned to go.

But there was one kind of pain he did know how to get rid of for her.

"Wait!" he nearly shouted, voice wavering.

She stopped, blinking impossibly big and mesmerizing and unfair eyes up at him.

"Your shoulder," he said as way of explanation.

"Oh," she said, deflating. "Right."

Around them, the concrete cut from a glowing orange to sudden pitch black. He started, but only Usagi did a visible double take as her eyes moved up the imposing steel structure above them.

Midnight. Time for Tokyo Tower to go to sleep and its lights to go out.

It was harder to see her in the dark now, and for some reason it was a relief. He felt a little bit freer this way. Like he didn't have to constantly mask his eyes. Didn't have to keep them from screaming back at her.

I miss you, too.

I'm dying. This is too hard. Take me back. Please.

God, please.

"Well, see, I don't think you should patch me up this time. There's—"

He interrupted her almost with a growl. "Excuse me?"

She sighed, and with a push at her chest, her transformation exploded into ribbons. He closed his eyes automatically - both in respect and necessity because he would not be able to take the sight of her naked skin. Nevermind the fact he really didn't deserve to see it.

When he opened them back up, Usagi was left in a very loose, simple tank and a pink mini skirt in the heat of this humid Tokyo summer night. When she turned, he could see with a jab to his lungs that above the long, welting, bleeding cuts was an equally shredded and bloody gauze pad taped to her shoulder blade, only partially obscured by her top.

"I don't—" she started. Her voice broke off when he jerked into sudden, quick movements and his fingers peeled at the bloody rag.

"You have stitches." His voice was one big accusation.

"I do," she sighed.

"Why the fuck do you have stitches, Usagi?" It was injured pride wrapped in fury that flew from his voice, as if she'd personally insulted him. And she kinda had. "They're fresh," he added in disdain.

It was his job to tend to her wounds. No one else's. It was his job to sew her back together and make sure it was perfect, make sure she was ok with his own hands. He trusted no one else with it. Even when he hated when it needed to be done at all, died a thousand deaths whenever she got injured in the first place, it was his job to put her back together. It tethered him. He could protect her this way. It was his.

It was the last privilege he had. The last one he was allowed to keep. And yet, here…

"They're ripped. It wasn't done tight enough for battle. It's a bloody mess," he hissed.

"I know."

"Why do you have—"

"Why does anyone ever have stitches, Mamoru?" she interrupted him with a huff and her voice tinted in righteous irritation. "I injured myself and went to the hospital."

He growled. It's feral and hostile and intimidating and he couldn't hold the venom out of his voice. "Why didn't you come to me?"

She didn't answer. Instead she stubbornly stared off into the distance.

The headache had turned into a sharp, angry thrum, and with a ripple of light, he was back in his jeans.

For once he didn't care what the touch would give away. He curled his hand ever so gently around her, his touch completely at odds with the sheer tension in his face, and pushed the heel of his hand into the small of her back.

"C'mon," he said. He left her no room to argue.

The car ride was short and silent and agitated all kinds of uncomfortable, and he killed the engine and hopped out to get the door for her. Then he got it knocked straight into his crotch instead, when she opened it herself.

He guessed he deserved this and a million more doors pushed straight into his balls every minute of every day.

He grunted, and Usagi's hand flew to her mouth, eyes blown wide.

"Sorry!" she bellowed.

"S'okay," he groaned.

One tense elevator ride later and he dug out sterile steel instruments, cotton pads, and hydrogen peroxide. He placed them all next to the clean cloth and bowl of water he'd already placed on the coffee table.

Someone else had done this for her. The thought crawled up his skin. Someone had taken this from him, when it was his.

Senshi wounds healed fast and weird and it was easier not to draw suspicion when unsuspecting civilian doctors were not involved. It was why he'd been privileged to do this for her ever since he'd so much as started med school. And yet…

One trip more, and he growled at his medical kit. He was out of lidocaine. Out of all the days, and all the things to have forgotten to stock up on… He was going to hurt her. (Not that he didn't always hurt her as it was…)

He returned with the rest of his medical kit and a dejected slump to his shoulder. One by one, he laid out everything he would need on the coffee table for easy access.

"I'm out of anesthetic," he admitted with a wince. "I'll be as careful as I can, but it's gonna sting."

She shrugged. "I've had worse."

The words plummeted in his stomach. He didn't want his touch to feel offensive to her. He certainly didn't want his touch to be painful to her. And he really didn't want her to compare it to a random doctor's at a random hospital and choose them over him next time - again.

Her back was turned to him, her feet tucked beneath her, her eyes on the view of his balcony. She'd apparently opened it while he was gone – the thin, white curtains fluttered into the room as if moved by restless ghosts.

He glared at her top in a way that made the headache even worse. As if the glare alone could fix the impasse he was currently met with.

In order for him to access the wound properly, and if he didn't want her to go home in a ruined, bloody tank on top of that, she'd need to take her shirt off.

Yet, his heart really, really couldn't take her sitting in his dark apartment, barely more than a meter away from his bed, without her shirt on. He couldn't.

He swallowed, and with his eyes pressed closed tightly and a mantra of willing his brain NOT to save this image for his dreams for the rest of bloody agonizing time, he whispered, "you'll need to take your shirt off."

Usagi reacted immediately, completely and utterly unperturbed by the potential prospect of nudity (as per fucking usual) and tugged at the fabric. It lifted out of her skirt to the sound of slipping fabric and it felt so oddly loud to Mamoru that he noticed, to his horror, he was holding his breath.

What a sad, creepy man you are, Chiba.

"Wait," Mamoru said again. One trembling hand reached out as the fabric lifted, and he pinched it between two fingers and held it away from the wound. "You'll bleed through the fabric."

"Oh," she said. It sounded full of weight. "Thanks…"

He willed his hands to not shake, but it didn't help. It didn't help that he'd done this before, in a situation such as this one, way too often. It didn't help that his hand brushed against her warm, soft back as he helped her get the shirt off so she wouldn't ruin it. Didn't help that her skin broke out in goosebumps where he'd touched. Didn't help to see the fabric slip off her golden hair and drop to his floor in an unceremonious heap.

He swallowed.

Usagi wasn't wearing a bra.

"The straps hurt with the wound," she said, as a way of explanation. She was still facing forward, all he could see was her back.

It was too much. He couldn't do this. He couldn't.

He could, and he did. He willed the tremor away and out of his hands by sheer willpower because he wasn't a fucking doctor for nothing and shaking hands wouldn't do when tending to an open wound. This was just skin. He saw skin every fucking day. He could do skin.

And so because apparently he was a fucking magician, his hands were completely still when he peeled the tattered rag of a ruined gauze pad carefully off her bloody skin, threw it in the bin he'd moved underneath the coffee table first of all, and then dabbed the clean white cloth and moved it back to her skin.

She tensed up visibly, the muscles in her back rippling against his fingertips.

"Just water for now," he whispered into the dark. "I'll warn you."

She nodded, and with gentle strokes he began to clean her skin, slowly and carefully.

She didn't say anything, just sighed once. Deep and sad and resigned.

The little wash bowl had started turning red after he wrung the cloth out for the third time, but her back was damp and the only blood remaining was the fresh, light one glistening from the scratches. And, a little worse, a darker burgundy, from where the scratch had pulled a few of the stitches.

The latex snapped noisily as he sheathed his hands in white, medical gloves that felt like armor right about now.

"The antiseptic now," he whispered, and Usagi's shoulders tensed back up when he dabbed the little piece of cotton against the mouth of the small bottle.

"So, how did this happen?" He'd said it to distract her. Get her talking, because this was going to sting. He hadn't prepared for his words to cause her to tense up even further.

"I fell, uh…" he felt her falter, search for words, every muscle tense "…off a lofted bed straight onto the edge of a desk," she mumbled uncomfortably.

He frowned. "Since when do you have a lofted bed?" he asked. "Now," he added, and dabbed the cotton against the portion of the skin that was left mangled between the torn, black, offensive threading.

She hissed sharply through her teeth and he cooed almost in reflex, gentling his touch and shushing her.

"…I don't," she whispered.

His hands stilled. Confused. It took him a while.

Oh god.

Oh god, no.

It hadn't been her bed.

"Oh," he said dumbly.

His mind raced through every guy he'd ever seen her with. Every single fucking piece of unworthy trash of them.

Her 22nd birthday was just a few days ago. Usually the time Minako heralded another example for the douche parade, practically wrapped in red ribbon and handed over to Usagi to spend the evening with.

Oh god.

Suddenly the jealousy over having someone else sew her up paled very much in comparison. It felt like a boiling, sizzling, oozing pit that opened up beneath him and threatened to swallow him whole.

"Oh," he repeated.

His voice sounded hollow and far away when he spoke again.

"Are you gonna see him again, then?"

A minute ago, he wouldn't have thought it might have been possible for him to be more aware of her half naked body clad in only that little pink skirt in his dark one-bedroom apartment, with her soft skin beneath his touch and her legs pressed against the cushions where he usually sat. He didn't think it possible. But he was. He felt her move. Felt the miniscule jostle of the couch cushion as she tensed her elbows and clenched her fist, felt it move.

She didn't speak for a while. He was too terrified to ask again. So instead, once he had her wound cleaned and sterile, he lifted his hand and began to do what he'd been taught to never do – remove stitches from a fresh, bleeding wound, only to sew it back together.

"This might hurt," he warned, before he brought steel to her blood.

He was careful. So, so careful. There wasn't a single patient he had ever been as careful with as this precious, magical person before him. His princess. His unattainable dream. But his mind was whirling, and the pliers slipped off the string and into her wound.

"Shit," he cursed, and she cried out. "I'm so sorry," he said.

His voice sounded like a beg.

She shook her head at him.

He tried again. This time he pried it free.

He held his breath when she finally spoke.

"I want to want to see him again," she whispered.

He frowned. His throat hurt so much, the painful lump in it obstructing every swallow and breath. His headache pulsed in his temple.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he whispered back.

With a flick of his wrist, the black thread fell into the water bowl, a little trail of red dissolving in the fluid like ink.

Usagi sighed – so very, very resigned.

He brought the pliers back to her skin. The next stitch came out easily, she didn't jostle at all. But this wound was bloody huge, and currently broken.

He couldn't see her, of course. But by the tone of her views he knew exactly what look was in her eyes and it hurt to only hear it.

"He looks at me with the right amount of interest but not at all like... completely and irrevocably in love," Usagi said and shrugged. He moved one hand to her shoulder, applying gentle pressure to still her movement, and felt her shiver.

"Not like Seiya," Usagi added.

His fingers twitched and he felt her flinch – he'd accidentally jostled the wound. But he couldn't help it. His skin tingled just with the reminder.

"Sorry," he breathed again. And then, even quieter, "What do you mean?"

He felt like a broken record today… At least the broken part was definitely on par, he supposed.

"You know like..." she stopped briefly, and her hair moved a little with her head, dropping forward. "Not like Seiya in the way that this guy isn't like, waiting to pull down all the stars for me if I just said the word."

I'm gonna pull down all the stars for you. ME, his mind yelled. I love you more.

Except he wasn't allowed to.

His hand moved from her shoulder with a jolt. He forced himself back to work. Another tiny piece of black medical string floated into the water. The last. He reached back towards the table, then held an ice pack to the skin next to the wound, numbing it as best he could without aneasthetic, before flushing it out ever so carefully. She didn't even flinch.

"Less… intense. Just interested? Not like… You know, in the way that I know I won't hurt them so much when I can't feel what they feel," she whispered, and it hurt. It hurt so badly. "Like they'll be perfectly fine when I inevitably walk away."

He felt it prick his eyes. Because it was exactly what he wanted her to feel when he walked away. For her to be perfectly fine. For her to laugh and giggle and tumble in lofted fucking beds. Instead it hurt. It hurt him and it hurt her and it was unbearable.

He freed the needle from its sterile packaging, and prepared it, then returned the ice to her back, to numb it down further, and felt the cold seep into him from it as well. He hoped it might numb him too.

The curtains rustled with the wind that blew in from his open balcony doors. Her voice became quieter still.

"I've always ... wanted the first time to be with you."

He closed his eyes, before opening them back up and lifting them to the ceiling. The tears pooled in his eyes in complete silence, and he managed to hold his breath, managed not to gasp. His skin crawled so badly. This was such fucking torture, all this conflict in his heart.

"I thought…" she whispered, "I thought it was time to get it out of the way. Then I changed my mind, freaked out, and fell off a bed."

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, felt a pair of tears slip past its confines and drop down his chin, his adam's apple, into his lap. He hated himself for the relief. He hated himself for the other set of feelings whirling deeper in his gut. More possessive. Darker.

Everything inside him screamed. Screamed at him to either lock her up somewhere so no one might ever get to touch her if he couldn't, or – much deeper, much more pressing, much more revolting – the need to press her back into this couch and shove into her right then and there so no one would ever be able to take what was his. And do it again and make her come a million times on his cock and his mouth and his fingers again and again and again until she would not ever WANT anyone else to do this to her. Ever.

He didn't know what sort of dark, powerful magic made his voice remain steady, appear calm and almost bored.

"If that's what you want, I'm sure you'll find the right person for it," he said. "The needle, now."

He felt her tense just as he finally pierced the skin in practiced, automatic movements. His fingers flew, practiced, fast. The ice seemed to have done the effect, numbing her down, she didn't seem to feel most of what he was doing. Yet, her shoulders were stiff and unyielding and shook, just that little, and she fell completely silent. He knew the tremors weren't for the stitches.

He worked fast. Oh so careful, but fast – if he was fast, it wouldn't hurt her. Pierce, tie, cut. Pierce, tie, cut. Over and over. Old wound and new, he watched the skin pull back together underneath his touch.

When it was done, his hands hovered, his breath held.

She would go now. She would leave and find someone to… to…

He swallowed. He peeled off his gloves with a pop and brought his hands back to her wound. With careful, careful fingers that barely touched at all, he stroked the length of it, just to the side, not actually touching the wound. Allowing himself the gentle caress, just the pads of his fingers first, then his whole palm, running down her spine with barely a bit of pressure. Down, down, down across soft skin and scattered, puckered and faded scars that he loathed so much.

She shivered, goosebumps rushing down every last patch of skin, disappearing down into her skirt and reappearing on her legs. That wasn't new – it happened every time he did it, every time he touched her like this when he was done patching her up.

She'd once, very, very long ago, admitted to enjoying the sensation quite a bit. It had opened up a big untouched black box of forbidden yearning that he never dared to poke at in his mind, because it was his one way that he could still touch her, just after he'd patched her back up, his one way that he was still allowed to make her shiver beneath his fingers. As always, he desperately wanted to replace his stroking fingers with his lips.

If he ever were to touch that hornet's nest of a loophole, he'd be forced to put a lid on it, and he'd lose it like he already lost all of her.

Someone else had patched her up, though. And he wasn't doing a good job, no painkillers adding to his shame. She would replace him with this as she was planning to replace him in her bed. Another loss added to his long, long list.

His hand stopped at the base of her spine, lingered, trembling. Then he snapped out of it and reached for clean pads and tape.

The second it was attached firmly and safely to her rapidly healing wound, Usagi leapt off the couch and he yelped. He covered his eyes with the crook of his elbow and pressed tight, hiding both his tears from her view and her breasts from his.

He heard fabric slip back into place, and before he'd wiped his face and found his composure and deemed it safe to look again for all intents of the action, she was halfway to the genkan.

"I can drive you." He unfurled his legs in a hasty, ungraceful tangle and got up, walked after her.

She'd already slipped into her shoes.

"No need," she said. Without another word, without so much as a single look into his eyes, she slipped out of his apartment.

His forehead hit the door when she'd long gone. His headache a sharp, piercing, writhing reminder of the hell he lived in.

All this time he thought it might all be easier if she hated him. But every time she did, it felt like he was being ripped apart from the inside out in new, even more painful, twisted ways.

So, WHY do I love break up arc fics you ask? Because I don't actually hate the break up arc AT ALL, just its execution. What I love about it? The powerful, visceral PINING of it. We never got more Usamamo kisses in a season than during the break up arc, did you know that? And in episodes where we could see Mamoru HURT over this (like the sleeping beauty ep) it was delicious, amazing, angsty goodness. You know? The kind that came across in these two or three episodes DURING THE WHOLE BREAK UP ARC ONLY because at other times Mamoru kind of forgot he wasn't being Season 1 douche!Mamoru but actually miserable about this and in love so badly that it hurt. So yeah, that kind. The kind that I want to get more of. Hence why I like to write this angsty shit xD.

Anyway! My thesis is ABOUT TO BE DONE and so I'll try to be posting more frequently again from now on! This right here doesn't, in fact, have to be a stand-alone either. I have lots more ideas for a scenes in this universe to torture them more with. All those fantasies that hit Usagi in the bubble, for one. Or ya know, that time Mamoru had to endure Seiya's puppy eyes in this universe? Lots and lots more purgatory possibilities. If you guys are into it, that is! Let me know!