Chapter Five
Syaoran jolts out of sleep as something nudges his shoulder. Disoriented, he opens his eyes, then squints against the too-bright lights reflecting off the drab white wall across from him. He has several seconds to wonder how he ended up in an unfamiliar hallway before he remembers where he is.
"If you're looking for a place to sleep," Ryuuo says, peering at him with puzzled amusement, "you'd probably be more comfortable in my bed. Or on the couch," he adds quickly, cheeks flushing. "Thirteen Hells. I didn't mean to . . . um." He takes a breath, pushes his door wider in invitation. "Come on in."
"Thanks," Syaoran says, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck as he ducks inside. Ryuuo's apartment is nicer than the building's exterior suggested. A chandelier made of curling pieces of iron illuminates the living room, where a rich maroon sofa and matching armchair cluster around a low glass table cluttered with magazines and drink coasters.
"Sorry for the mess," Ryuuo says, gathering up a couple empty glasses and depositing them in the sink. "I sort of figured you'd decided not to visit."
Syaoran winces. "I didn't realize—"
"Don't worry about it." Ryuuo plucks a kettle from the stove as it begins to whistle and turns off the burner. "You drink tea? I've got a nice citrus blend if you're interested."
"Sure."
As Ryuuo retrieves a pair of mugs from the cupboard, Syaoran eases into the armchair, running his fingertips across the plush upholstery. After the rough, industrial gray carpet and bare walls of the hallway, the room seems almost lavishly furnished.
When he says as much, Ryuuo laughs. "You should have seen it before Souma helped me redecorate. It was only meant to be a flop, but then it turned out I was actually pretty good at Crowns, and this place is close to most of the major gambling houses, so I stayed. Security's nonexistent, but I installed a couple locks on the door, and the windows are too small to climb through unless you're really skinny, so I'm not too worried about it. Here." He hands Syaoran a mug and perches on the arm of the couch. "Tell me what you think."
Syaoran takes a cautious sip, the scent of orange peels and lemon prickling in his nose. "It's delicious," he says as a subtle burst of sweetness blooms across his tongue.
"Glad you like it." Ryuuo's smile then isn't quite as exuberant as others Syaoran has seen, but there's a soft satisfaction in it. "It's actually two different varieties mixed together—citrus and lavender. You can have some to take home if you want."
It's clear Ryuuo wants him to say yes, so he nods. "I appreciate it."
Ryuuo sets down his teacup and heads back into the kitchen, several drawers rumbling before he finds a stack of miniature paper bags, like those one might use to store coffee beans. Syaoran watches, eyes drawn the sinuous roll of Ryuuo's shoulders, bared to expose the natural bronze tone of his skin. Unbidden, Syaoran thinks of the card trick Ryuuo showed him more than a week ago now, the way his fingers moved, fluid yet precise. He looks more natural without his white jacket, unencumbered.
Their eyes meet as Ryuuo turns back toward the living room. His footsteps falter. "What are you smiling about?"
"Nothing." Syaoran peers into his mug to hide his expression.
"Come on, let me in on the joke. Is it my hair? I brushed it before I went to bed, but . . ." He grimaces, patting his hair. Like everything else about him, there's a wild, unruly quality about it. It's strangely endearing.
"I was just thinking you look nice without the jacket," Syaoran says at last.
Ryuuo's eyebrows wing up, and he wonders if he's made a misstep. His social skills have improved these past few weeks, but it's going to be a while before he can maintain anything resembling confidence. Far longer than he's going to be in this world. The thought depresses him. Once they've secured the feather, he'll have no reason to stay. Ryuuo will never see him regain his confidence, will never know who he really is. They might not even get a chance to say goodbye; he's seen Mokona whisk the others out of dangerous situations, often with little warning, and while his clone might have been good with farewells, he isn't, not really.
"So," Ryuuo says, when the pause grows awkward, "what made you decide to stop by?"
He hesitates, remembering the nightmare, the panic attack that followed. The thought of letting Ryuuo see just how damaged he is makes his fingers tighten around his mug. "I just wanted to see you."
"Yeah?"
He nods.
"Well, I'm glad you came. It's been pretty dull around here." Ryuuo collapses onto the couch, one leg drawn up so his knee presses against his chest, the other resting on the table in front of him. "I hit a couple of the gambling houses over in Sector Five, but the atmosphere's just not the same. All the pros go to The Red Band—competitive players, high-rollers, even some people from the Upper City." He looks at Syaoran. "You still planning on joining the tournament?"
Syaoran nods. "We're registering tomorrow." Something occurs to him then, and he sits up in his chair. "What about you? Will you and Souma be participating?"
"Nah. I don't want to die that badly."
Unease whispers down the back of his neck. He lowers his voice. "Are the tournaments dangerous?"
"Someone dies every year. Usually more than one person." Something flickers in Ryuuo's eyes, gone before Syaoran can identify it. "Every round has some sort of gimmick—a penalty for losing, or some added condition to make it more . . . exciting." His lips curl as if the word tastes bitter coming out of his mouth. "The entry fees cover the actual prize money, but The Red Band relies on the spectators to make a profit, which means they need to draw a crowd."
"And they do this by endangering the participants?" Syaoran asks, feeling as if he's swallowed a fistful of ice. Recovering Sakura's feathers has always posed some risk, but most of the time, they know when they're walking into danger. How could he have missed the fact that the tournament they're entering will put Sakura in peril?
Ryuuo shrugs, but it's clear from the way he draws his knees up to his chest that this line of conversation makes him uneasy. "That's why people from the Upper City come to The Red Band," he says. "They're searching for people to look down on—fallen elites who can't keep up with their debts or upstarts from the sublevels who've scraped together enough money to play at the big tables only to lose it all and end up performing in the Spectacle. The people in the Upper City don't care about us. We're just entertainment to them."
Syaoran doesn't know what to say. The awful thing is that he's not even surprised. Even the most civilized societies are rarely kind to their poor and downtrodden. Here, in this world where only the wealthiest citizens have a chance to see the sun, where buildings and infrastructure are allowed to fall into disrepair, where the most lucrative businesses revolve around vice and addiction . . . No, the affluent citizens' lack of regard for their inferiors doesn't surprise him at all.
"I'm going to change things," Ryuuo says, determination sparking in his jade eyes. "I'll buy my way into the Upper City, then find a way to stop to the Spectacle and everything like it, no matter how many people ridicule me." His whole body draws tight, hands clenching into fists, arms wrapping around his knees. The look on his face has shades of pain and anger, tempered by the sort of resolute strength that makes grand statements seem possible.
After a moment, Ryuuo lets his muscles go slack, sprawling across the couch. "You probably think I'm crazy for believing I can change anything. It's okay—I'm used to it."
"I don't think you're crazy," Syaoran says, setting down his mug.
Surprise plays across Ryuuo's face, followed by a cautious sort of hope. "You don't?"
He shakes his head, rising from his chair. Hesitantly, Ryuuo stands, trailing after him as he orders his thoughts. "It takes two things to create change: determination and sincerity," Syaoran says, pacing the length of the room. "Without the first, a person won't be able to put forth the effort necessary to accomplish their goals. Without the second, they become vulnerable to their own greed and self-interest. But you have both." He meets Ryuuo's eyes. "You're not crazy. You're brave. Selfless. You're . . ." You're the sort of person I'm supposed to be, Syaoran realizes with a jolt. The person I could be, if I weren't so broken.
It should hurt, that realization. He stands beside someone with the idealism and determination to inspire real change, yet he can't even observe the injustices of this world without wanting to hide from them. But it doesn't hurt. If anything, it gives him hope—hope that someday even this world will become something worthwhile, hope for his own mission to set things right.
"No one has ever believed in me before," Ryuuo says, a strange look crossing his face. "You—you really think I can do it?"
Syaoran nods solemnly. "I do."
Ryuuo's breath catches, a kaleidoscope of emotions dancing in his eyes, and then he's leaning forward, broad hands settling on Syaoran's waist, and Ryuuo's mouth is on his, fierce and demanding. Syaoran stills, thoughts scattering like sand as Ryuuo's tongue flicks against his lower lip. Heat ripples across his body in waves, feverish and electrifying. He's never been kissed before. The closest he's come is holding hands with his Sakura, and it's been years since he last saw her, years of darkness and isolation and guilt.
Somewhere, in the haze of sensation, it occurs to him that he should pull away.
He doesn't.
Instead, he lets his arms fold around Ryuuo's shoulders, tilting his head up to expose his neck. Ryuuo makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a whine, and as his teeth graze the pulse point above his carotid artery, a shudder works its way down Syaoran's back.
"Can I?" Ryuuo asks, nuzzling his collarbone, and Syaoran has no idea what he's asking for, but he doesn't want this to stop, so he hums an affirmative. Ryuuo fastens his mouth over the skin there, sucking lightly, and Syaoran's fingers dig into the other boy's shoulders as pleasure sings through his body.
Amidst the storm of desire, a part of his mind sets to work piecing together a puzzle he hadn't even realized existed. In hindsight, it's obvious that Ryuuo was interested in him this way. The card tricks in the lounge, meant to amuse as much as impress; Ryuuo specifying that Souma was his partner in gambling, not romance; his awkward shyness upon finding Syaoran outside his door. And Syaoran had been oblivious to all of it, learning to laugh and smile again without realizing that he wanted this, too.
Ryuuo kisses him again, on his mouth, then his cheeks, light as a moth's wing. But when his lips brush over Syaoran's eyelid, he jerks back, the spell shattering. For one awful moment, he's back in Clow, ripping out a piece of his soul and pushing it into his clone in a futile attempt to disrupt Fei-Wang Reed's plans.
Ryuuo steps back, eyes wide. "D-did I do something wrong?"
His voice, hoarse with alarm, gives Syaoran something to focus on, something besides the memory of dark magic coiling around his body, restraining his limbs as glass walls rise up to trap him. He wraps his arms around his chest, heart pounding. The feverish heat that ensconced him during the kiss seeps away, leaving his skin pallid and clammy. "I'm sorry." The words are a reflex by now, spoken so often it sometimes seems like it's the only thing he ever says. He turns toward the door. "I have to go."
"Wha—wait!" Ryuuo's fingers close around his wrist, too much like manacles. Syaoran flinches, and Ryuuo releases him as if he's been burned.
"I'm sorry. It's not your fault, it's—" He stops, something twisting inside him, and fumbles for the doorknob. "I'm sorry."
"Will I see you again?"
The words lance through the tattered remains of his composure. He swallows hard. He should say no, break this off so that Ryuuo will never have to see how broken he is, how unworthy he is of affection. But instead he says, "Maybe," and that's somehow worse, because it implies hope for something more, something he might not be able to give.
He steps across the threshold and closes the door behind him.
Author's Notes:
Sorry for the delay, everyone. This chapter required three rewrites before I was satisfied with how it turned out (It was worth it, but it took some time). I will be taking a short hiatus so I can work on a couple other fics, but we'll be back to this one in a few weeks. In the meantime, thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed. You guys are awesome.
