Chapter Forty-Four
Syaoran hadn't tried to eavesdrop, but his sharpened hearing picked up on the conversation.
"He's the only one besides you I would trust with this," Seishirou had said, though the task he was referring to was still some obscure thing to Syaoran's mind.
He trusts me. He really does. But what else did he say about me? Syaoran wondered, trying to remember how his teacher had phrased it. That I had a goal I would sacrifice anything to achieve, but that I also had honor? He frowned, thinking of how pathetically he'd tried to win the affection of his traveling companions in Infinity, how he'd failed to stop his clone from destroying everything in Tokyo, how he could not even make Sakura smile despite wearing the same face as the one she cared about. What sort of honor do I have, when I can't even accomplish that much? What makes Seishirou think there's anything in me worth cultivating?
Seishirou slipped out of Fuuma's room, holding an empty soup bowl in one hand and closing the door quietly with the other. He walked over to the kitchenette and set the bowl in the sink. The hotels here in Avantine seemed like a hybrid of the inns Syaoran had seen in other countries and the apartments in Infinity. Though the hotel room obviously wasn't meant for long-term habitation, it still had some of the more permanent utilities of an apartment, such as a small stove and a refrigerator.
It almost felt like the room they'd had in Infinity, before the fire had burned the building down.
Syaoran turned to Seishirou, gauging the older man's mood. With his brother dying in the other room, Syaoran had expected Seishirou to be frustrated, sad, or depressed. It surprised him to see a warm smile grace the dark-haired man's lips.
"Is everything all right?" he asked, not sure what else to say.
"Yes, he finished the whole bowl, and now he's sleeping again."
It had surprised Syaoran to realize Fuuma had been lucid at all, given his wasted features and previous days of unconsciousness. He'd thought the man had slipped into a permanent coma, and that was why Seishirou had resorted to tracking him down. In a way, he thought it might've been better—not easier, but better—for Fuuma to stay comatose, to slip away quietly before causing Seishirou any more grief. After a few months of unconsciousness, even Seishirou would have to give in, would have to accept the inevitable loss. Lingering between a deep coma and a few lucid moments seemed like the universe's way of giving the dark-haired man hope.
A hope that might not be fulfilled, Syaoran thought. He'd heard enough of their conversation to know that, even with whatever his teacher was planning, Fuuma might not pull through. And then this will all have been for nothing.
"So, we've got a few days to kill before we have to get going," his teacher said. Syaoran glanced up. "You said you wanted to learn more about fighting."
"Yes."
Seishirou's smile widened. "Excellent. Help me move this couch out of the way, and we can practice in here."
Syaoran frowned, then remembered this was probably a safer alternative than going outside to practice, with the police searching for them. Safer for us, and safer for the people of the city.
"What are we learning about?" he asked, taking his end of the couch and sliding it across the floor. With his newfound strength, moving furniture was as easy as carrying groceries. He didn't even have to worry about straining a muscle. His vampire body knew how to lift and how to push heavy objects without stressing any muscle too much.
"In Clow Country, I taught you to kick because the length of your legs would compensate for your lack of depth perception. But now that you've learned how to sense enemies without seeing them, I can teach you how to fight with your hands, too."
Syaoran noticed the way his teacher avoided mentioning the person who had taught him to sense objects while blind. It doesn't matter now, he told himself. I meant nothing to any of them, and he never meant to train me. My only loyalty was to Sakura.
That's not true, some small part of him argued. Why would Kurogane-san have bothered to start teaching you again if you meant nothing to him? Why would they all have tolerated you for so long if they hated you so much?
He remembered something he'd overheard, a snippet of conversation between Fai and Kurogane. He couldn't remember the exact words, but Kurogane had implied he'd only been teaching him things that they could defend against if he happened to turn on them. None of them trusted you. Not once. What does it matter if you learned something from them?
Besides, he thought, remembering the pain of claws piercing his chest. they betrayed you, too.
"You're brooding again," Seishirou said.
"Oh. Sorry."
"You want to talk about it?"
Syaoran shook his head. "It's nothing important. I was just running through some old conversations in my head."
His teacher looked troubled, but said nothing as he walked across the front room and took a fighting stance. "Okay. Come at me, and I'll show you how to use your opponent's momentum against them."
Syaoran braced himself and darted forward, moving as only a vampire could. As he came within range, his teacher's hand shot out and snatched his wrist. Seishirou pulled him, following his momentum and moving aside so he wouldn't get hit. The extra force from his teacher's grip sent Syaoran flying forward, and his face hit the carpet with a jarring impact. He got to his feet, swaying a little bit as he recovered.
"The technique simple, but it's saved my life a dozen times. You'd do well to learn it."
He nodded solemnly.
"Good. Now we switch places, and you try."
Syaoran braced himself for the impact as Seishirou rushed toward him.
Sakura's tailbone hit the ground hard enough to send jolts of pain through the rest of her body. "Ow."
"Stand up," Kurogane said, extending a hand to help her. Mind hazy with pain, she took his hand and got to her feet. A fresh wave of agony shot up her leg, and she went down again.
"Can we be done for the day?" she asked from the ground, though Kurogane hadn't let her go early even once.
"You're going to be in a lot more pain if you get into a fight and can't defend yourself."
Suppressing a groan, she pressed her palms against the grass and rose to her feet. Keeping her foot turned at the right angle for all the stances had made her ankle ache the first few days, but now, every time she stood, agony would tear through her leg, and tears would form in her eyes. She wiped a hand across her eyes, wiping away the saltwater before it could run down her cheeks.
She heard a quiet sigh. "We can be done for the day."
"Really?"
"Yeah. You're not going to learn much if you're in pain, so there's no point in staying out."
The words sounded empty, as if he was only saying them for the sake of finishing off the day. It struck her as odd that Kurogane would say something so meaningless—he was a man of few words, so whenever he spoke, there was a purpose to it. Hearing the blankness in his voice worried her. "Is something wrong?"
"My apprentice is dead. Everything's fine."
She winced at the sarcasm. She knew the others were suffering right alongside her, knew that it was selfish to stand around feeling sorry for herself when everyone was still mourning, but part of her wanted to be selfish, to break down where she stood at the sardonic comment.
She didn't. They walked back to the apartment.
Fai-san was making dinner for the first time since he'd killed Syaoran-kun. He looked over when she limped inside. "Good evening, Sakura-chan."
She stared at him. He was making blueberry pancakes, her favorite.
No one spoke. Kurogane stared at a wall, his spine rigid. Fai flipped the pancake he was making off the pan and onto a plate.
Sakura realized she'd been wrong about being in too much pain to go on. She turned and stalked out the door, fighting the tears as they blurred her vision. As she broke into a run, she realized her crippled leg wasn't what was making progress so difficult. It was the grief and frustration holding her back. It was the crippled heart that longed for either Syaoran, the crippled heart that would never be healed, no matter how long she lived.