Chapter Seven

Fai rolled onto his back, surfacing from his nightmares as a corpse might surface from the lake it had been dumped in. Faint sunlight streamed in through the window, abolishing the dusky fragments of his dreams. Or perhaps it was his sharpened eyesight that pierced the gloom, not the sunlight. Infinity was a dreary place, after all.

He sat up, hand going automatically to the patch over his eye. It felt strange on his face.

Kurogane's bed was empty, which didn't surprise Fai a bit. The ninja stayed up late and woke early, never completely letting his guard down. The gurgle of the pipes was usually enough to pull him from his bed at night.

Fai got up, changed into a clean outfit, and stepped outside, figuring it was time to make breakfast. He pasted a smile on his face (always a fake smile, especially now, broken by Tokyo), and looked over to the couch, expecting to find Kurogane wide awake.

What he saw instead froze him where he stood.

Kurogane slept, his arm hanging over the side of the couch. From the lack of tension in his features, Fai guessed it was the deepest sleep he'd allowed himself in weeks. But that wasn't what shocked him. What shocked him was the boy curled up against the ninja's other side, sound asleep, seeming perfectly at ease out in the open despite his apparent determination to cloister himself away whenever he wasn't needed.

Fai fought to remain standing against the flood of guilt trying to sweep him away. Logically, he knew that this Syaoran had only been trying to help in Tokyo, but it was . . . difficult, to separate him from the boy who had ripped out his eye, who had smiled and laughed and searched for Sakura's feathers. Just looking at this Syaoran stirred up a tangle of grief and anger in him, regardless of how unjustified those feelings may be.

Fai sighed softly, and Kurogane's eyes flashed open, head snapping up as he searched for threats. When he realized they weren't under attack, he relaxed.

"Good morning, Kurogane," Fai said, the ninja's full name still sounding unnatural on his tongue. Kurogane's eyebrows slanted down, and he turned away without a word.

Fai supposed that was for the best.

Syaoran woke to the sound of crashing pans.

His eyes flashed open, head swimming with disorientation. The sound seemed too loud, as if his bedroom door had been removed while he'd been asleep. But as his mind cleared, he realized the light was all wrong for his room. The sunlight should be falling in front of the doorway, not across his eyes, not until later in the day.

When he felt something shift beside him, he realized why everything seemed so out of place.

In an instant, he was on his feet, almost slipping in his haste to separate himself from the ninja he'd evidently curled up against during the night. "Sorry!" Syaoran squeaked, back rigid as he bowed. Kurogane's face filled with a sort of confusion.

Unable to say anything else, Syaoran picked up the remnants of last night's meal and hurried to his bedroom. On his way there, he felt a pair of eyes crawl across the back of his neck. When he turned, a flash of blond hair alerted him to Fai's presence. So that's why there's so much noise.

Amidst the guilt and embarrassment, he felt a small pang of relief for the fact that Fai's breakfast preparations had roused him when they had. Much longer, and Kurogane would've probably grown irritated with his presence—and getting on Kurogane's nerves when he was the only one who acknowledged his existence was the last thing Syaoran wanted to do.

He locked his bedroom door behind him, eyes falling across the broken hinge. He had a vivid flash of that night, of the brutal vibrations of the doorframe as Kurogane's fists came down on the other side, and shuddered. I can't believe he didn't kill me then, Syaoran thought. He could have. So easily.

Disquieted, he set his rations for the day on top of his dresser, under the lamp with the burnt-out bulb. After a brief hesitation, he closed the curtains hanging over the diminutive window. It seemed . . . fitting, somehow, that his room should be as dark as the world they'd landed in. The weak winter sunlight would've done little to ease his mind, anyway. Even on the rare days when the sun was exposed, the sky seemed too small, like a cage.

He changed clothes, freeing himself from the outfit he'd worn yesterday. As he rifled through his drawers, his eyes fell across a disconcerting number of black outfits. Perhaps waking up to sunshine instead of the bleak dimness he usually woke to had jarred something in his mind, allowing him to see clearly for the first time in weeks. The dusky light, the somber clothes—none of it had bothered him before.

Nonetheless, he donned black jeans and a matching shirt, being careful to manipulate the cloth gently over his broken shoulder, so it wouldn't catch in the brace.

Invigorated by the brief touch of sunlight, he emptied his backpack and started loading it up with overdue books. He had some cash to spare after the last chess match, left over after the bills had been taken care of. Given that he wasn't in the best shape to replace the money again soon, he was a bit hesitant to spend it, but . . .

What else are you going to do with it? he asked himself. Save it for the next world?

With a sigh, he tucked the cash into his pocket and slung his backpack over his good shoulder. He might've been carrying a bag of bricks for how much the books weighed.

He abandoned his bedroom, keeping his head down. When Kurogane looked at him, he managed a quick explanation. "I'm going to the library to see if I can find anything interesting."

"You shouldn't be carrying that much weight."

He blinked. "Huh?"

Kurogane moved as if to stand, then settled back into the couch cushions. "You're going to hurt your other shoulder if you put that much weight on it."

"Oh." He frowned. "I think I'll be okay."

Kurogane sighed and turned away. "Be careful. If you slip and fall, you could freeze to death."

The concern left Syaoran speechless for a moment. He swallowed thickly. "Thank you," he croaked, edging toward the door. When no one said anything else, he ducked out into the stairwell attached to their basement apartment and ascended to the main level.

The lobby was brighter than their cheap apartment, if still a little shabbier than most lobbies. Smoke-stained curtains let in rays of sunshine, which played off the swells of dust in the air. A fluorescent light flickered above him, the fixture still on the fritz, like it had been when they'd arrived here. As it would presumably remain after they left. One of the employees sat at the front desk, a security guard, judging by his badge. He sipped from a Styrofoam cup of coffee, gazing into the nicotine-tinted windows as if they held some sort of mystery.

Syaoran hurried through the lobby and out the door, wincing when he felt the biting cold against his bare skin. I should get a jacket while I'm out, he thought, rubbing his arms to smooth the hairs that had risen there.

It wasn't a far walk to the library. Like the Hanshin Republic, the buildings were so densely packed, it was more practical to walk between destinations than try to find a ride. Unlike the Hanshin Republic, however, walking presented grave dangers. In the three blocks between the Ephemeral Apartments and the library, Syaoran saw perhaps a dozen people wearing the red bandanas he'd come to associate with criminal activity. With few exceptions, he'd always crossed this part of town with the others; they had to go this way to reach the chess arena. But now he was alone, and the figures that had only stirred a mild wariness in him before propelled his legs forward faster than usual.

They're just street gangs, he told himself. You have magic. If they come after you, you can fight them off.

They didn't come after him, and eventually Syaoran convinced himself no one was likely to attack him in broad daylight. Soon after, he reached the library and relaxed. This place, at least, was safe.

"Excuse me," he said to the librarian, pulling the stack of books from his bag. "Can you tell me where I can drop these off?"

"Right here," the woman said, gesturing vaguely to the counter as the phone shrilled. Syaoran started stacking books there, eyes falling across titles he'd read half a dozen times in his self-enforced captivity. As the librarian started scanning the labels with the little red laser, her lips twisted into a frown. "These are overdue. You'll have to pay a fine."

He pulled the wad of money from his pocket. "How much?"

She tallied up the cost and said a number. Syaoran gave her the indicated amount, unable to judge how expensive it was with as little knowledge as he had of this world. They must be almost a week overdue now, he thought, handing her the money. She gave him a handful of coins as change, and Syaoran wondered why they didn't make the metal coins worth more, given the cost it must've taken to mint them.

Once that was done, he headed over to the shelves to procure some new reading material.

Apparently, some of his clone's interests had worn off on him, because he spent the next six hours engrossed in historical texts. What he couldn't finish, he added to the stack of books he intended to bring back, and what he did, he returned to the shelves. By the time he was done, he'd amassed a collection of books half again the size of the one he'd returned this morning, and the sun was touching the western horizon.

"Come again soon," the librarian said as he left.

He smiled a little at the irony—a stranger showing more enthusiasm for his presence than most of his traveling companions—as he walked out into the cold. Right. I was going to buy a jacket. He took a moment to assess his remaining funds, judged that he'd probably have enough, then started looking around for someplace that sold winter apparel.

He wandered longer than he'd planned, window-shopping. None of the stores really looked promising, and while he considered going into one of those towering places that housed a different store on each level, he didn't really want to spend the extra time now that it was getting dark.

Syaoran sighed, giving up for the night. He could go looking for something to wear next time he went out. If I even leave the apartment over the next few weeks, he thought bitterly.

He'd drifted farther away from the Ephemeral Apartments in his search; his journey back was going to be bitter and cold. It didn't help that the one person he really wanted to acknowledge him probably hadn't even noticed his absence. After all, Sakura hadn't been in the room when he'd given his hurried explanation. Not that she would wait for me anyway. Or that she should.

His eyes roved emptily over the cracks in the sidewalk. Even when he heard someone shouting, it took him a moment to realize the words were aimed at him.

"Hey you!"

He looked up, blinking. His pace slowed automatically as he met the eyes of the speaker, and he looked behind him to see if he'd made a mistake. Surely, no one here would want to talk to him, least of all this rail-thin stranger with dyed red hair.

"Yeah, you. You're the kid from the chess tournaments, ain't ya?" the man asked.

"I am." And I don't like where this is going.

"Heard your team was doing pretty well. Thought I'd come see your skills for myself."

Syaoran hesitated. "I don't really think—"

The red-haired man dropped the cigarette he'd been holding and stamped the embers out under his feet. Syaoran looked at the stump with distaste. "Be a pal," the man said. "Show a guy a few tricks."

"I don't know any tricks."

The man rolled his eyes. Syaoran retreated half a step, torn between fighting back and bolting for the apartment complex.

"Little brat thinks he's some sort of tough guy," trilled a female voice. Syaoran looked over to see two more figures flake off from the wall where the red-haired man had been lounging a few moments ago.

I really, really don't like where this is going, he thought. "I'm not fighting today."

"Sounds pretty stubborn," said the thickset figure. "Maybe you should convince him otherwise, Jet."

The red-haired man grinned. "Yeah, maybe." He sauntered forward, hands burying themselves in his pockets. "What d'you say, brat? How 'bout we have an impromptu chess match right here?" He slid something shiny out of his pocket, and Syaoran squinted, trying to identify the odd shape. It looked heavy, almost like a misshapen pipe, or a hammer with a round head. As the man raised the weapon above his head, the moonlight caught in the crevices, throwing the odd shape into relief.

Syaoran fell into a fighting stance, and the wrench came down.