Touga stumbled into the locker room, arm still clutched in the opposite hand. It hurt. A lot. If he were inclined to make sensible decisions, he would have been making note to be sure to visit a doctor later to make sure it wasn't broken. He leaned over a sink, gingerly lifting his hand away from the injury.
Blood.
Not an incredible ammount of it, just a light smear of crimson over the spot on his arm and the palm of his hand, but he knew from years of experience that it was a considerable accomplishment to draw blood with a blunt instrument, a shinai no less.
His eyes stung, but no tears came. He wouldn't cry, and Saionji of all people couldn't make him. But neither would he make eye contact with his image in the mirror over the sink.
It hurt. A lot. But it wasn't the injury that tore at him like a wild animal; it wasn't the injury that made him retch, elbows propped beside the sink, shoulders drawn up.
It hurt. It hurt so much.
He had always been the one to inflict these wounds, to stand back with proud, cold eyes, to justify such cruelty. Anyone who believes friendship exists deserves to suffer the pain of betrayal. That is the price for their foolishness. Always.
Nothing had ever hurt so much. Nothing he had ever lived through. It was amazing what one could endure, if one knew it was going to happen. But not like this. Not as the unannounced subversion of the expected sequence of events, rather than that sequence itself.
Well, it would never happen again. He wouldn't let it. He wouldn't be courted and entreated and sheltered. He wouldn't be dragged to countless therapy sessions, wouldn't be fooled into believing that Saionji meant him well, would always mean him well, no matter what.
Even if it was true, he wouldn't believe it. And he wouldn't cry.
He didn't cry.