Author's Notes:
Apologies for the wait. I completely forgot that April was Camp NaNoWriMo until, like, six hours before the event started, so things got rather unexpectedly busy these past few weeks. I did manage to eke out a couple more chapters, though (as well as a bunch of original work), so we actually will be getting weekly updates this month (we may even make it to the end of this fic without another hiatus, but I won't make any promises just yet).
Recap: The tournament has begun, and the first challenge is to navigate a giant Trick Tile board. Several players have already been killed after stepping on mines, and now it's time for Syaoran and Sakura to step into the arena.
Chapter Nine
Syaoran's pulse thrums in his ears, audible despite the roar of the spectators. The game board has already been reset, its tiles returning to their usual dull white, save for the pair of red tiles on either side—one a beginning, one an end.
"I'll be all right," Sakura assures him, clasping his hands in hers as the viewing platform lowers into the arena, a thick circle of glass six paces in diameter, surrounded by a railing. As it descends, a set of metal steps extends from the edge, stopping mere inches above the board.
Syaoran takes a breath to steady himself, then slips his hands out of Sakura's. "If anything happens—"
"It won't." Her gaze settles on him, tranquil and determined.
"Right." He forces himself to nod, then ascends to the viewing platform. The metal steps retract as it rises, becoming part of the railing. Below, Sakura allows one of the attendants to blindfold her, arms at her side, hands steady: a portrait of restraint and dignity. It steadies him, even as the mechanism raising the dais tremble.
The platform halts twenty paces up, high enough to see individual faces in the audience, but low enough to still feel confined by the arena's high walls. The height, the proximity of the audience, the glass floor that makes it feel like he's standing on nothing—he realizes it's meant to unnerve him, set him ill at ease so he will make a mistake.
It doesn't matter, he tells himself, gripping the railing tight and releasing a slow breath. Sakura must survive this. Anything less is unacceptable.
The attendant below raises his arm to signal the beginning of the game, and the crowd hushes, silent save for a few indistinct murmurs and shuffling feet. Syaoran clears his throat. "Forward one step," he calls. His voice does not waver.
Sakura takes a cautious step forward, the point of her toe hovering over the starting tile for a moment before pressing down. The tile, along with its immediate neighbors, lights up, exposing a small safe area. Syaoran surveys the illuminated tiles, mentally mapping out probable traps, the safe squares. "To your left."
Again, Sakura moves, letting her foot hang over the tile for a second before pressing down—long enough for him to rescind his instructions if he makes a mistake. It's a wise idea, one that might have saved that first woman who died in this round. Don't think about it, he tells himself, shoving the memory into the dark corners of his mind. He focuses on the board below him, evaluating their options. "Forward."
Another step, another square illuminated. This one glows yellow, indicating that there are three traps nearby. Syaoran grits his teeth, fingers curling around the railing. Too risky, he thinks. We'll have to backtrack, find another path. "Backward one step."
Sakura stiffens, then retreats one square. Once she's settled, he directs her two steps to her right, then forward once more, onto a dun tile. This one lights up blue: two traps nearby. From the surrounding tiles, he identifies a safe square directly in front of Sakura and begins forging a path toward the right side of the board. It's a circuitous route, but Trick Tile is a circuitous game. Better to take a roundabout path than risk stepping on a mine.
Tile by tile, they fill out the board, backtracking twice before finding a path along the edges. The disconcerting sense of confinement, the uneasy churning in his stomach, starts to subside, only to return abruptly when a tile lights up purple: four traps nearby. His fingers clench, the grooves of the metal railing biting into his hands.
When he doesn't offer another command, Sakura tilts her head up; he looks away as if she can see him through her blindfold, his eyes sweeping the crowd. Anxiety writhes inside him, a greasy, squirming mass rising up his throat, and though he clamps down on it ruthlessly, it refuses to be stilled, slipping past his fracturing control and leaving him paralyzed with indecision. His eyes skim over the audience, but the faces all seem distorted, obscured in shadow, sibilant whispers rippling through the crowd.
Ryuuo's voice breaks through the quiet, burning with confidence. "Don't let them get to you! Just keep making choices, and you'll make it across!"
Their gazes lock, and despite the twenty paces of open air between them, for a moment it feels as if they're close enough to touch—just an illusion, but it makes the glass under his feet feel more solid, the spectators distant and insignificant.
Syaoran nods, then turns his attention once more to the arena. There is a way through, though it requires backtracking halfway to their starting position. "Backward three steps," he calls. Sakura hesitates, then takes three cautious steps back. "One to your right. Back again. Another right. Wait," he says as they approach a strand of unlit tiles. "You're a little off-center. Shift your feet two inches to the left." A small correction, but the squares are small enough that even a few inches could trigger a wrong tile, and they cannot afford a mistake. "Now one step to the right."
For the first time in nearly two minutes, Sakura touches down on a dun tile, illuminating it blue: two traps, both of which he's already identified. "Diagonal forward and to the right," he says after a moment's consideration. This tile lights up green—only one trap nearby, and it's one he's already accounted for.
They progress like that, etching a jagged path of light across the center of the board, only occasionally having to backtrack. Between this and the collection of false starts, they've illuminated most of the board, the trick tiles scattered like spots of ash across the glowing surface. Still, Syaoran doesn't allow his attention to stray until Sakura safely reaches the final tile, and a triumphant cheer rises from the crowd.
"And another team passes into the next round!" the announcer cries as the viewing platform descends. Below, an attendant removes Sakura's blindfold before discreetly retreating to the edge of the arena. By the time the platform touches down, the board has been deactivated and Sakura is waiting for him.
"Are you all right?" she asks, taking a half-step toward him as he stumbles down the stepladder. His knees tremble under his weight, and though he no longer teeters on the edge of panic, he feels diminished somehow, his mental and emotional resources spent, his hands aching from clenching around the railing for so long.
"Just tired," he says, managing a wan smile. When Sakura doesn't return the expression, he lets the smile drop. "We should get back to the others."
Sakura's eyebrows draw together, but she says nothing, and they make their way toward the open tunnel leading out of the arena in silence.
The gambling floor churns with people, spectators clustering around the survivors of the first round, congratulating them on their victories as they nurse colorful drinks. Syaoran shies away from the respectful nods aimed in their direction, disquiet rippling through his chest. He doesn't want the approval of these people, doesn't want the acclaim or the money winning the tournament will bring. He wants to curl up somewhere dark and quiet until the next round, wants a distraction from the casual brutality of this world, wants to see the sun again, just for a moment.
They find Kurogane and Fai on the outskirts of the crowd, alone. Fai holds a delicate glass rimmed with sugar, while Kurogane carries a tumbler of some dark, honey-tinted liquor. Neither of them have had more than a sip of their drinks, though they stare into them with differing degrees of pensiveness. They look up as Sakura hurries forward to meet them, Fai managing an empty smile, Kurogane regarding her expectantly.
Syaoran stops ten paces away, close enough that his companions must be aware of him, but neither Kurogane nor Fai acknowledge his presence, too occupied with Sakura to bother with him, and Syaoran just . . . shuts off. Turns away. Heads for one of the lounges, where he might escape the noise, the crowds.
As expected, the lounge is nearly deserted, with only a handful of patrons sitting at the bar, heads bowed, shoulders slumped: the friends and partners of those who didn't survive the first round.
He senses Ryuuo approaching from behind a moment before he feels a warm hand close around his. When he doesn't withdraw, Ryuuo laces their fingers together, tugging him gently toward the bar. "C'mon. I know something that'll make you feel better."
Frowning, Syaoran allows Ryuuo to tow him to a pair of unoccupied stools. "Hey, Kendappa, think you can get us some soft pretzels and rum?"
The bartender nods, selecting a pair of soft pretzels from a glass box overflowing with snacks. Syaoran glances at Ryuuo, his mind coming out of its haze, just a little. "I'm not sure if—"
"You'll feel better after you eat something. Trust me."
"I do trust you," he says, meeting Ryuuo's eyes.
Ryuuo draws back slightly, surprise darting across his face, and Syaoran wonders if he's spoken too directly, broken some social norm.
He doesn't get much time to think on it; less than a minute later, Kendappa brings them a basket lined with checkered paper. Syaoran stares doubtfully at the overlapping pretzels nestled within, but at Ryuuo's insistence, he dips the first into the ramekin of melted cheese and takes a bite. Then another. Then a third. In minutes, he's finished the entire pretzel and a third of the cheese, and Ryuuo hands him the remaining half of his own pretzel.
"Ah, I couldn't—" Syaoran begins, but Ryuuo merely shakes his head, pressing the pretzel more insistently into his hands. Ravenous and faintly embarrassed by the snarling of his stomach, Syaoran finishes the second pretzel as well, following it with the entirety of his rum and half the glass of water that the bartender discreetly drops off as she retrieves his empty glass.
"Feel better?"
Syaoran nods. Small wonder he felt so diminished after the first round—he hasn't eaten since breakfast, and even then, he was too nervous for anything substantial. The others would have chided his clone for skipping meals, particularly before such an important event, but . . . But not me, he thinks, his relief shifting to melancholy. They don't even seem to notice me.
"Hey, you okay?" Ryuuo asks.
"I'm fine." Which is a lie, but a familiar one. But Ryuuo's look of concern doesn't fade, so he elaborates. "I'm sorry. I think I may be a little distracted today."
"Yeah, maybe," Ryuuo murmurs, swirling the rum in his glass before downing it all in one shot. He grimaces, nose wrinkling in distaste. "You know, I've always heard that rum is an acquired taste, but I've been drinking the stuff for months, and it's still pretty awful. I'm half-convinced the people who claim to enjoy it are just doing it to sound cultured."
"Maybe it's nostalgia," he suggests. "Maybe rum reminds them of better times, so they keep drinking it even though it tastes awful."
He expects Ryuuo to laugh, or at least smile, but instead, the other boy's expression grows somber. "Could be." He sets the glass down, signaling to the bartender for another shot and setting a stack of coins on the table.
"What's wrong?"
"It's nothing." Ryuuo smiles, but it doesn't touch his eyes. He thanks Kendappa as she sets another glass in front of him, but rather than drinking it right away, he stares into the amber liquid, tapping his index finger against the glass, eyebrows furrowed. Syaoran leans forward, waiting, and finally, Ryuuo speaks. "Want to go back to my place?"
Syaoran blinks, then glances over his shoulder, toward the main gambling hall, where his companions are. I shouldn't, he thinks, insides twisting. The others will likely head back to the inn soon, and while he can hardly say he feels welcome among them, they provide a measure of safety. Besides, should anything happen, he ought to be there to protect the princess.
And yet . . . would it really make any difference, if he were there? Kurogane and Fai are capable fighters, and vigilant enough to spot any potential threats long before Sakura could be harmed. Syaoran is redundant. Useless. "I . . . I shouldn't," he says. "My companions . . ." Too late, he realizes it sounds like an excuse. That it is an excuse, even if he doesn't mean it that way.
Ryuuo sighs, tracing his index finger through the circle of condensation left behind by his shot glass. "Look, Syaoran, I like you. If you aren't interested in me that way, that's fine—we can just be friends. But the other day, when you came by my place, it seemed like you wanted it, too."
I did, Syaoran thinks, staring into his empty glass. That's part of the problem. "My companions and I will be leaving this country after the tournament. We have obligations elsewhere. I have obligations to them. Even if . . . Even if we were to do this, we'd have so little time."
"Exactly," Ryuuo says, sounding almost angry. "We only have a few more days together. Isn't it better to enjoy this while we can?"
"I . . ." Syaoran draws back, startled by the vehemence in Ryuuo's voice. For him, Ryuuo has been a pleasant distraction, a source of warmth and laughter, but until this moment, he hadn't considered what he might be to Ryuuo, hadn't believed he mattered. "I didn't realize you felt that way about me," he says at last. The words feel so inadequate.
"You didn't . . ." Ryuuo trails off, leaning forward. "You really didn't know?"
He shakes his head. "I'm . . . unaccustomed to being admired."
Ryuuo stares at him for a long moment, lips parted, a dent forming between his eyebrows. Then, abruptly, he starts laughing, pressing his forehead against the edge of the bar as his shoulders shake with the strange, helpless sounds of someone who, on the edge of a breakdown, has chosen laughter over sobbing. Syaoran starts to reach out, then hesitates, uncertain if Ryuuo would welcome his touch. As he dithers, Ryuuo throws his head back, wiping the corners of his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I'm sorry," he gasps between fits. "I'm sorry. It's just—ha!"
Just what? Syaoran wonders as Ryuuo dissolves into another fit. "Are you all right?"
"I'm—yeah, I'm good. I'm great." He takes a deep breath, and though it trembles a little on the way out, he doesn't break into laughter again. "It's just hard to believe you could be so observant about everything else and somehow not notice how hard I've been trying to . . ." He trails off, humor draining away.
"Trying to what?"
"Trying to . . . you know." Ryuuo reaches over, fingertips skimming across the back of Syaoran's forearm, raising a trail of goosebumps in their wake. "I've wanted you since that first night we talked, but I could never tell if you wanted me, too. And then we kissed, and you didn't push me away, so I figured you must have been interested, or at least curious. But then . . . then you left, and I thought I'd pushed too far."
"No, that's not—it wasn't your fault. It's me. I'm . . ." Broken. Worthless. Ruined. The words lodge in his throat. He swallows thickly, lowering his eyes. "I liked it. I like you. But you deserve better than me. You deserve someone who can stay with you, someone who won't . . . who won't ruin everything like I do."
Ryuuo jerks back. "What?"
Syaoran draws in a sharp breath. Closes his eyes. "I've done things. Things that hurt people who didn't deserve it, people I care about. You shouldn't . . . you could find someone better than me, someone worth the effort. I—"
"I don't want anyone else," Ryuuo says, fingers curling around Syaoran's hand. "I want you."
And somehow those are the words that finally break through. Syaoran lifts his head, glimpsing the desire kindling in Ryuuo's eyes as their gazes lock. He knows he should say something, but before he can, the other boy kisses him, just briefly, on the lips, right here in the middle of the lounge where anyone could see, and the last of his objections crumble like loose sandstone. He kisses Ryuuo back, taking hold of his chin, uncaring of the stares they're no doubt receiving from the other patrons, and the words that fall from his lips surprise him as much as they surprise Ryuuo. "Let's go back to your place."
