Chapter Four

Syaoran woke to darkness and gasped in a breath only to regret it immediately as the air rasped down his windpipe like steel wool. He rolled onto his side, a series of racking coughs bursting from his damaged throat, each one eliciting its own stab of agony as it formed. Several seconds passed as he struggled to catch his breath, and even when he did, his body continued to ache.

It took him a minute to recognize the familiar lumps of his thin mattress, the scratchy sheets he'd curled up in for the past few days. I must have passed out during the fight, he thought. He tried to roll over, then realized something was pinning his shoulder in place. His eyes flashed to the obstruction, roving over the off-white bindings, the metal hinges of the brace. A fresh jolt of pain snaked down his throat, like fire crawling into his lungs, and he barely managed to suppress another coughing fit.

Outside, he could hear the daily movements of his companions. From the squeak of fabric against a hard surface, he guessed Fai was washing dishes, as he often did after a meal. Beneath that, voices from the television muttered in the familiar cadence of news reporters. From the low volume, Syaoran guessed no one was really paying attention to the news. It was background noise. Something to distract them from this miserable world.

After a few moments, he sat up and threw off the blankets, letting the cold, stale air drive away the last of his grogginess. The needs of his body suggested he'd been asleep for at least a few hours. His stomach grumbled in complaint. As he contemplated a quick run to the kitchen, he caught sight of the plate on his dresser. On it were two bagels. Beside those were containers of cream cheese and jam.

Syaoran's heart gave a peculiar little squeeze.

He picked up the plate and slathered jelly over the first bagel, wondering which of his companions had thought to bring him breakfast. The first bite scraped down his throat like a sword. He gagged, then forced himself to swallow before setting the plate aside and picking up one of the books he'd already read. These will be due back at the library soon, he thought, flipping to a passage about one of Infinity's political upheavals. He'd only read a few paragraphs when his bedroom door swung open.

He jumped, almost dropping the book. It was only by virtue of reflex that he kept it from falling out of his lap. Hastily, he set it aside, looking up to see who'd come to visit him, then froze. "Kurogane-san," he rasped.

The ninja looked back at him with an unreadable expression, closing the door behind him. "You didn't eat."

Syaoran looked to the bagel with a single bite taken from the side. "I can't."

Kurogane approached the bed, as silent as a shadow. Here it comes. Syaoran cringed, unable to look the ninja in the eyes. Kurogane sat down on the edge of the bed, as far from him as possible in the cramped room. "You didn't tell me about your shoulder."

"It got hurt during the fight."

Kurogane's fingers clamped down on his chin, jerking his head to the side so their faces were inches away. He reeled back, a lump forming in his bruised throat, but the ninja wouldn't release him. "Don't lie to me. I did that."

Syaoran pinched his eyelids shut.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

He remained silent.

"There's no one else here. If you have something to say, then say it."

"I'm sorry."

"For?"

He looked up, trying to hold back the flutter of panic in his chest. There was no way he'd be able to make himself say it, no way he'd be able to relive his shameful actions that way. Yet Kurogane was waiting for him to say something. "You know what for."

"Then say it."

"I can't."

Kurogane's eyes narrowed. Syaoran looked away.

"Why'd you do it?"

He exhaled, trying to formulate a response. He wrapped his arms around his torso, shielding himself from the suddenly frigid air. "I wanted to see what you would do."

"What the hell kind of reason is that?"

"It's the only reason I have," he whispered.

Kurogane made a sound of disgust and stood up.

"Wait," Syaoran rasped. At the word, he dissolved into a fit of coughing. Every spasm pricked at his throat, drawing him deeper into the fit.

Kurogane sighed. "You really are hopeless, aren't you?"

Syaoran flinched as if the remark had been a slap. His eyes found the carpet and stayed there. After a moment, he saw a shadow moving across the floor, the sudden rush of light flooding in from the living room.

The door slammed shut with a sound of finality.

Kurogane stalked over to the couch, flexing his fingers with pent-up frustration. It was bad enough that he'd hurt the kid in a fit of rage, however justified. It was worse that the boy was denying the injury, pretending their opponents had been at fault, acting as if the fault existed somewhere outside the group when the fissure behind it sat at the heart of it.

Worse still that he'd let his anger bleed into his reactions again. As if the kid isn't already scared enough, Kurogane thought bitterly.

He'd accepted—or at least tried to accept—that the boy's actions had been a mere impulse, a cry for attention. But every time he looked at the kid, every time he even saw the boy out of the corner of his eye, he wanted to throw him into a wall all over again. He nearly had, just now. The only thing that had stopped him had been the off-white bandages holding the boy's fractured shoulder together, the terror in his eyes.

The worst of it all was that the boy's shoulder had been broken for two days, and not only had the kid been too timid to bring it up, but Kurogane had failed to detect the injury until he'd seen the boy's painful stretches in the arena's prep room.

He snatched the remote from the armrest and flipped through the channels in a mindless attempt to control his frustration. By the time he heard Syaoran's door click open, he'd cycled through all five-hundred channels three times.

He continued clicking, thumb pressing down harder on the much-abused buttons. From what he'd catalogued of the kid's habits, this was likely a trip to the bathroom. He doubted the boy would venture to the kitchen—over the past two days, he'd only glimpsed the boy entering the kitchen once, hours after everyone had been asleep. Kurogane remembered waking up to the sound of something plastic hitting the floor, remembered getting up, sword in hand, and peering out the bedroom door to see Syaoran bending over to pick up a plastic cup from the linoleum floor. From the expression on his face, one would've thought the boy had tripped a landmine.

When he didn't hear the distinct creak of the bathroom door after a few seconds, he looked over to see the boy staring at him. As soon as their gazes met, the boy looked away, the light in his eyes dying like an ember tossed away from the fire pit.

"Yes?"

The boy's voice was hoarse, like before. "I thought you were going to shut me out like everyone else. That's why I did it."

Well, you've done a fine job of shutting him out, haven't you? mocked the darker half of his mind. He set down the remote. "Yeah?"

Syaoran's cheeks reddened slightly, his eyes crawling to the corner of the room. "I knew it was a bad idea, but I . . . I just . . ."

Kurogane arched an eyebrow. "It's done with now, right?"

"Yes," he said quickly. "It won't happen again."

Kurogane nodded once. The kid's eyes flashed up to his for a fraction of a second, then away. For the first time, Kurogane detected the strain in his uninjured shoulder, the rigidity of his legs, the unhealthy pallor of his skin. Under the embarrassment, the boy was afraid.

He stood, approaching slowly. Frustration swept through him when the boy cringed. "Stay still," he said. "Let me look at your shoulder."

The boy froze, every muscle rigid as Kurogane turned him to the side. The shoulder brace, attached to a thin leather strap wrapped around his ribcage, concealed most of the damage. All that remained of visible proof was the slight discoloration around the fracture. Fused together by the brace, the boy's shoulder blade would heal within a few weeks, less if he stayed in bed.

Kurogane probed the flesh around the shoulder, looking for other weaknesses. His years in Tomoyo's services had taught him the basics of field medicine—he could patch up moderate wounds until the healers arrived. But this country's medical care was centuries ahead of Nihon's, the shoulder brace much more refined than anything his country had to offer. What little knowledge he had was useless here. "Does it still hurt?"

"A little."

Kurogane ghosted his fingertips across the swollen spot, trying not to hurt the boy even as he measured how tender the flesh there was. When the boy shifted uncomfortably, he withdrew his hand. "The doctor prescribed some painkillers for you to take with your dinner. Do you want to eat now, or later?"

He shook his head. "I can't eat. My throat hurts too much."

Kurogane sighed. "Do you think you can take the pills, at least?"

"I don't need them."

"The princess wouldn't want you to hide your pain. Not even now."

Syaoran flinched. It was a low blow and they both knew it. But the boy's response still managed to surprise him. "I don't need anyone taking care of me."

Kurogane's hands dropped to his sides. "Fine. Go wash up. The mage took the princess out to stretch her legs. They'll be back soon."

The boy obeyed his commands wordlessly, slinking off to the bathroom. When the door closed, Kurogane walked over to the kitchen and picked up the orange bottle on the countertop. After almost a minute of trying to figure out the childproofed cap, he unscrewed the lid and dumped two pills into his hand.

He set them on a small plate and grabbed a banana from a bowl of fruit on the counter, peeling it from the bottom up. He slid the oblong mass into a bowl and mashed it up so no large chunks remained. Then he returned his attention to the plate with the pills, crushing them so the powdery substance inside spilled out. He dumped the white powder into the bowl of bananas and mixed them up so the bitter taste would blend in.

When Syaoran came out of the bathroom, he held the bowl out in offering. "This is the kind of thing my mother ate when she was too sick for solid food," he said, not allowing the boy to get a word in. "I mixed your medicine in with this so you won't have to taste it. Now eat."

The boy took the bowl uncertainly, meeting his gaze for the first time since the incident. The tension that had been coiled up in him for the past two days relaxed. "Thank you."

"It's my job to take care of you, whether you like it or not," Kurogane said. "So stop acting like your life means nothing to me."