Chapter Ten

Syaoran slumped into the couch cushion, closing his eyes and pressing the icepack against his face. Every touch made his face throb, and he wondered how Kurogane had managed to clean all the blood off without hurting him. His touch had been so controlled, almost tender.

Some small part of him wanted to experience it again—if only to assure himself that he was real, that he wasn't still trapped in a tube. Every touch, however forceful or brief, was a new experience for him, and since most such touches had occurred during Infinity's chess matches, most were unpleasant.

"How's your shoulder?" Kurogane asked after a few minutes.

Syaoran's hand moved automatically to the brace holding his shoulder together. The break had been minor, and the brace was temporary. Seeing Sakura's permanent leg brace every time they crossed paths almost made him wish he'd been hurt worse, just so they could be equals in circumstance, if nothing else. "It's fine."

Kurogane looked at him, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he rose from his spot and walked over to the kitchen. When he returned, he was holding the bottle of painkillers. "You haven't been taking these."

"I don't need them," Syaoran said.

"You being in pain isn't going to make you better. If you're hurt, you should take measures to recover."

"Would you?"

The ninja's eyebrows slanted down, jaw coming forward as the muscles in his neck stood up. "What kind of question is that?"

"You don't seem like the type of person who worries over a little pain." Or a lot of pain, he added to himself.

Kurogane frowned, obviously trying to rein in his irritation. Finally, he let out a gusty sigh and sank into the cushions. "That's because there's not always a way to stop it, so there's no point in dwelling on it. But you have these, and if they ease the pain, you should take them."

Hesitantly, Syaoran took the orange bottle and cradled it in his hands. His swollen face throbbed, as if commanding him to take his medicine. It shouldn't matter, he thought. It's not as if I haven't suffered worse before.

Yet the relief was so close, and he couldn't deny the offering with Kurogane watching him expectantly; he unscrewed the cap and popped one of the pills into his mouth. When he'd gotten it down, he looked to the ninja for approval. Kurogane's face softened. He reached out and tousled Syaoran's hair, taking care to avoid putting pressure on his bruises. Syaoran tilted his head forward, accepting the contact, silently begging him not to pull away. Sakura and Fai avoided him enough as it was—the thought of losing his tenuous connection to the ninja made his lungs convulse.

But after a minute, Kurogane withdrew his hand and settled back into the couch cushions, reaching for the remote. Syaoran wondered, briefly, what Kurogane liked to watch. He'd gotten a fairly comprehensive look at Nihon's technology when his clone had peered into the memory book in Recourt, and he was pretty sure they didn't have anything as advanced as television. Watching TV would've been a new experience for Kurogane, and without any cultural prejudice against what he should or shouldn't watch, Syaoran would be able to make a clinical analysis about the sort of entertainment the ninja preferred.

He blinked rapidly, realizing how much it sounded like he was about to perform a science experiment.

Kurogane flipped through the channels for a while, glancing at him every few seconds. A tense line had formed along his jaw, muscles pulled tight over bone. His arms were rigid, and even the miniscule twitches required to operate the remote were forced and mechanical. Something was simmering under the surface, something Syaoran had seen in brief fits through the Other's eyes.

Fury seethed in the ninja, hot and potent and rigidly under control.

After a while, Kurogane set the remote down, his hand moving slowly, deliberately. They'd ended up on one of the news channels, judging by the didactic tone of the speaker. Syaoran tried to watch, but the images on the screen started to blur together after a moment, and his mind registered only the colors and shapes, not the actual picture. Every few seconds, his eyes flitted to the ninja on the other side of the couch. Some lost instinct must've been urging him to keep tabs on the other man's anger—the same instinct that singled out threats in the crowd before the danger rose too high. Other instincts commanded him to keep his face forward, his glances stealthy.

But not quite stealthy enough. Kurogane turned to him, his voice sharp. "What?"

Syaoran flinched, his eyes darting his feet. "Nothing."

"You keep looking over here like you want to say something. So what is it?"

He hesitated, teeth burying themselves in his lower lip. "It's . . . Are you mad at me?"

Kurogane's eyebrows came together, nostrils flaring. "Why would I be mad at you?"

Syaoran flinched, the words echoing in his ears, overshadowing the murmurs of the news anchors. Of course. Why would he be mad at me? Why would he feel anything for me at all? I'm nothing to him, just like I'm nothing to the others. He only helped me because standing by would've gone against his morals. Bitterness crept into his thoughts. I'm just a copy to them. Close enough to their Syaoran to hurt them, but too different for them to care about. There's no point for him to get angry at me, because I don't matter to him.

"I'm sorry," he said, rising from the couch.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"My room."

"You might have a concussion."

"So?"

Kurogane rose to his feet like a dragon emerging from its lair. His hand snaked out to wrap around Syaoran's forearm. He flinched from the contact, his mind registering the dull pain of the ninja's fingertips digging into his flesh. "Let go," he said reflexively.

Kurogane didn't release him, and the tension in the air hummed—frustration, hurt, anger, all sizzling between them, as silent and still as the atmosphere before a storm.

The ninja tilted his head forward so his eyes were shadowed by the ridges of his eye sockets. All the emotions shifted to something Syaoran recognized more by instinct than by experience: danger. Any move either of them made now was dangerous. Retreat was out of the question; though his bedroom door was only a few feet behind him, he dared not turn his back now. Doing so would cost him what little ground he'd gained since Tokyo.

So they stood there, the air between them humming with some strange combination of anger and electricity. At last, Kurogane released his wrist, moving his hand so his palm pressed against Syaoran's collarbone, easing him back. Syaoran retreated until his back hit the wall, his heart leaping into his throat. Kurogane stopped, then moved his hand to Syaoran's chin and tilted his head up. "What will it take," he began, his voice deadly quiet, "to make you stop acting like this?"

Syaoran said nothing. He wasn't sure he knew the answer.

"You act like your life means nothing to us," Kurogane said, crouching so they were almost at eye level. Syaoran's heart clenched, his breath coming faster. Everything about this situation was unfamiliar, yet his instincts warned him of something shifting between them.

"Maybe you even believe it," Kurogane went on. "But I don't. As cold as the others are to you, you do mean something to them. They rely on you. In the chess matches, they trust you to deal with your part of the fight, even if they won't say so."

Their faces were closer now, mere inches apart. Syaoran could smell the unique scent coming off the ninja's skin, a blend of deep forest and falling snow and rain seeping into the soil. Unconsciously, he leaned forward, inhaling.

Kurogane's fingers found his collarbone, resting there with the pressure of a feather kissed by the wind. Not a restraining hand, just a point of contact.

"And by now, you should know better than to think I consider you worthless." The ninja's fingers flexed, raising bumps across Syaoran's neck.

Every touch was a new experience to him, but this was wholly different from the tender touch of a washcloth across his forehead. He wanted more, needed more, but he didn't know how to ask, couldn't be sure of the ninja's reaction if he tried. His tongue found only one word among the haze in his brain. "Please . . . please."

Kurogane's expression shifted, unveiling the elusive something that had been stirring under the surface. A breach in control, like a flare of temper, but different. Not dangerous.

Kurogane would not hurt him.

Hands shaking, Syaoran tilted his face up and allowed his body to sway forward, until his lips brushed Kurogane's. Unfamiliar sensations bombarded him, at odds with what he'd thought he should feel. There was, as always, guilt, but it was unfocused, not strong enough to combat the other feelings surging through his body. The electricity that had merely hummed through the air before sizzled between their lips.

Kurogane's hand found his shoulder and pushed him back into the wall. Their lips broke contact, and Syaoran braced himself for the blow he knew he deserved. The first time he'd done this, he'd merely been trying to elicit a reaction, but now . . .

Now, Kurogane was only inches away, and though Syaoran couldn't identify any specific feelings amidst the chaos in his brain, the only word that came to his lips was "please." Please don't abandon me, please don't hurt me, please don't push me away . . .

Kurogane's hand moved down to his wrists, pinning him to the wall. His shoulder throbbed with the movement, sparks of pain shooting down his arm, and he almost cried out. Would have, if he were not already rising onto his tiptoes to brush their lips together again. "Please . . ."

The ninja released one of Syaoran's arms in favor of coiling his hand in his hair. The movement pulled at his wounds, and he gasped, the kiss broken.

Kurogane leaned back, his expression made of granite. "Done?"

The word coiled around Syaoran's heart, crushing it until it felt like it was going to rupture.

"Sorry," Syaoran whispered, his tongue finally becoming a little more articulate. His hands, trembling still, reached behind him for the knob of his door, and he staggered inside.

He never made it to the bed. His legs wobbled so much he had to kneel down in the middle of the floor, clutching his chest. One thought dominated all others in his mind.

What have I done?