Chapter Five
The relief was immediate.
Syaoran swallowed another spoonful of mashed banana, surprised at how violent his hunger had grown in his self-neglect. Only half-solid, the bananas were much easier to swallow than the bagels that had tempted him earlier, and the bitterness of the crushed-up pills took no joy from the meal. If anything, he was more grateful for the promise of a reprieve than the relief from his nagging hunger.
He felt . . . better. Until he'd nudged his door open, he hadn't been sure he'd be able to face the ninja again. Until he'd spoken, the weaker part of his mind had urged him to retreat, to isolate himself even further than he already had.
He was glad he'd ignored that impulse. Glad he'd set things right—or as right as things could be, at least. And equally relieved at Kurogane's quiet acceptance. There had been a moment, when he'd felt the ninja's fingertips brushing across his shoulder, that he'd been certain Kurogane would shove him into a wall again, certain he'd end up with a new set of bruises, if not another fracture. But Kurogane had done no such thing.
Not being hurt, having someone offer him relief from the pain—it was the closest thing to genuine affection he'd received in years.
When he was finished, he set the bowl on his dresser, planning to take it back to the kitchen later tonight, after everyone else had gone to sleep. He laid down on the bed, lacking much else to do. He supposed he could read, but he'd already worked his way through the books he'd picked up during his last visit to the library. I should bring those back, before they're overdue, he thought, eyes sliding shut. As the painkillers leached away the aches of his body, drowsiness settled in, and he slid into sleep.
His dreams were disjointed things, fragments of the Other's memories blurring together with the fresher, sharper memories of this world. Replayed over and over again were images of Fai's unnatural frowns, Mokona's ears lying flat against her back, Sakura's empty gaze in the arena. The only face that ever popped up with anything remotely like approval or acceptance was Kurogane's, and even those dreams were tinged with the sense that those fleeting moments could be stolen away from him like all the rest.
Syaoran woke when he felt the patch of warmth across his face. His eyes snapped open, body convulsing as if he'd woken to a bucket of cold water. Unwilling to believe his senses, he sat up, eyes darting to the tiny rectangle of a window above his dresser. Sure enough, sunlight streamed in through the narrow opening, bright enough to leave afterimages printed across his vision. Morning had come, snatching away any chance he might have had of slipping out in the night to stock up for the day.
On his dresser sat the uneaten bagels from last night. He stared at the meager rations, arms coiling around his abdomen as he registered the seed of hunger growing in his stomach. There was no way he was going to make it through the day with those alone.
He'd have to leave his room. He'd have to face the others. What little that remained in his stomach curdled at the thought.
Syaoran sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. A steady throbbing grew in his shoulder, and he knew the painkillers had worn off while he'd slept.
He passed the first few hours much the same as he usually did—rereading borrowed books and laying in bed. He ate the bagels bit by bit, letting the stale bread slide down his raw throat. When those dwindled, he stacked the bowl from last night on top of the plate and brought the stack out to the kitchen, keeping his head down. With every step, he felt the pressure of his companions' eyes crawling across the back of his neck.
He set the bowl on the countertop and turned the faucet on, letting the water warm before pulling a washcloth from the cupboard. From there, he rinsed and cleaned out the dishes, until they reflected the dull fluorescent lighting. With a clean towel, he dried them and put them away in the cupboards. All this was done with a sense of duty. Even if he seldom abandoned the sanctuary of his bedroom, he could lighten the load he burdened the others with. He could make his existence less of an irritant to them.
Out of a vague compulsion to please the others, he washed the rest of the dishes and put them away, then wiped down the counter, scrubbing away long-ignored grease spots. Boredom had tormented him so long, even chores held some appeal. Without even realizing it, he'd cleaned the entire kitchen.
He felt a pair of eyes on his back and caught Fai staring at him. The vampire glanced away before their eyes even met, but there remained a tension in Fai's shoulders, as if Syaoran's lingering presence chafed at him.
Syaoran hurried to the fridge and gathered some supplies for an evening meal, hoping he wouldn't have to intrude into the living room again. For the last time that day, he closed and locked his door.
Kurogane stared up at the ceiling, identifying shapes and patterns in the pocked surface. Silence pervaded the apartment, broken only by the occasional groan of the plumbing or noise from another apartment. Almost as quiet as a peaceful night in Nihon.
Unease pooled in his stomach. Their little group had visited all kinds of worlds, some peaceful, some not. Kurogane had always kept his guard up, even when the magician had insisted on relaxing, even when the kids had acted lighthearted and happy.
The fact that none of them were able to relax set him on edge. This wasn't the natural silence of a night at Shirasagi Castle. This was the unfamiliar, disquieting silence of tension, and he hated it.
This was only made worse by the fact that he knew at least one other person in the apartment was still awake. In the other room, muffled by paper-thin walls, Syaoran shifted, his mattress creaking as he abandoned it. Kurogane heard the footsteps ghosting across the cement floor, a book sliding across the table, paper rustling like dry leaves.
Kurogane waited, alert to every sound, every shift. He'd known for weeks how restless the boy was, how he woke in the middle of the night as if it was the most natural time to move about. Up until a few nights ago, these patterns had been irregular, occurring sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes only in the hours before dawn. But now, like a soldier in training, the kid controlled his sleep cycles, getting up at the same time every night, the first time an hour after everyone went to bed, and the second before the magician woke up. Every night, the kid would read for a while, sometimes getting out of bed to pace back and forth in his room. Then he stay silent for several minutes before unlocking his door and creeping into the kitchen.
Always the same routine, ever since their encounter two days before their last chess match. As if the boy was too afraid to face them, instead developing these strange habits with the express purpose of remaining unseen.
It was maddening. And worse, it worked. Kurogane had seen the boy once since their post-chess-match talk five days ago, when the boy had cleaned the kitchen.
The apartment had fallen silent again. Kurogane waited, breathing slowly, keeping control of himself.
A minute passed, and the kid unlocked his door. More faint footsteps allowed Kurogane to track the boy's progress as he moved toward the kitchen. The refrigerator door came open. Glass jars clinked together. Fruit rolled across the glass shelves, only to be caught by reflex. His reaction time is still slower than the other kid's, Kurogane thought. A cupboard opened and closed. Plastic bags crinkled. A drawer rumbled open.
Kurogane glanced over at the vampire lying facedown on the bed across from his. The idiot always rolled onto his stomach once he fell asleep, no matter what position he'd started in. Kurogane supposed that meant he was out until morning.
The springs in his mattress creaked as he got out of bed. Kurogane walked over to his door and opened it. Unlocked, he didn't have to go through the noisy motions of turning the little latch above the knob.
The kid didn't notice him. Kurogane stood silent in the doorway, watching the boy move through his nightly rituals as a child might peer downstairs to observe a conversation between their parents.
The kid busied himself making sandwiches. A stack of four sat on the countertop, all made primarily of lettuce or peanut butter. Things that will keep, Kurogane realized, eyebrows coming together. Just like what he made that night.
The thought raised hairs on his arms. After the initial adjustment period, traveling between dimensions had become routine: deal with any immediate threats, determine whether there was a feather nearby, get some money and make living arrangements, then retrieve the princess's feathers however possible. Simple. Routine.
Not anymore. Not now, with the kid acting so erratic. The fissure in their group was deepening, spreading infinitesimally wider with each passing day. Something had to give.
Syaoran smeared another glob of peanut butter onto a piece of bread and set the knife in the sink. His movements were precise, cautious. Like he was disarming a bomb.
He plucked several plastic bags from a box and started wrapping the sandwiches in them. Kurogane stepped forward, deliberately announcing his presence with the soft thud of his step. Syaoran flinched twice, the first in reaction to the sound, the second in reaction to the pain the first movement had caused in his fractured shoulder. The boy turned just enough to see him, then turned away, hurrying through his nightly ritual.
"You're up late," Kurogane said, brushing a hand along his arm to flatten the hairs that were sticking up.
"I'm sorry for waking you."
He shrugged. "I was already up."
"Oh."
The kid didn't seem inclined to say anything else, so Kurogane spoke again. "You're up a lot at night."
"It depends on the night."
"Don't lie to me."
The kid flinched, turning toward him with an armful of sandwiches. All the blood had slithered out of his face, making the dark rings around his eyes much more prominent. His pupils dilated until only a thin ring of brown was visible around them. His shoulders were rigid, bones visible under the skin.
Fury pulsed through Kurogane's veins. Everything in his field of vision took on a reddish tinge, as if a thin layer of blood covered his eyes. "You're supposed to be taking better care of yourself than this."
The boy's eyes flickered to his bedroom door.
Kurogane modulated his voice so he wouldn't wake the others. "Do you actually eat what you bring into your room, or are you just keeping up appearances?"
Surprise crossed the kid's face. "Of course I eat it. I just . . . I don't like to leave my room during the day."
"Why not?"
Syaoran hesitated.
Kurogane crossed the last few paces between them and grabbed the kid by the arm. The kid's head snapped up, eyes going impossibly wider. "Tell me the truth," Kurogane said. "Why won't you come out during the day?"
Syaoran hesitated again, then looked down at his feet. He mumbled, "I'm scared."
Kurogane released the boy's arm, hands dropping to his side. "Of what?"
Silence. That damned, pressing silence, just like the disquieting silence he'd endured all night.
"Afraid of what? Me?"
He saw the defensive inward curve of Syaoran's shoulders.
"You don't—" He broke off, trying to regain control of his fury. It was so close to the surface these days. When he finally managed to rein it in, he found the boy staring up at him, fear hidden behind a mask of curiosity. "You don't have to be afraid. I won't hurt you."
The boy sighed. "There's no way you'll be able to stop hurting me," he said, his voice distant, far from the timid whisper he'd used thus far. He cradled his dinner closer to his chest and stepped out of the way. Just as he opened his door, he said, "So don't even try."