Chapter Eleven
Kurogane stared at the door, fingers coiled tight as if to guard against the shock of what had just happened. That was . . . Several adjectives fought for dominance in his mind: wrong, immoral, thrilling, twisted, sick . . .
Abruptly, he spun so he was facing away from the kid's door. He's just a kid. But he's also mentally an adult. He shook his head, shaking off the thoughts. Even if that were true—and he wasn't sure he believed it like the kid seemed to—Syaoran was still trapped in a teenager's body. There was no way Kurogane could think to reconcile that with what had just . . .
He closed his eyes, lifting his fingers to his lips. His discipline was obviously slipping. Had been slipping since he'd thrown the boy into the wall the first time it had happened. I should've done it again, he thought. Not because he wanted to hurt the kid, but because some lines needed to be drawn in ink.
Kurogane opened his eyes. The walls were the same as always, cracked and painted an ashy gray. No decorations, not even a calendar—who would need one, when their journey was measured in places and experiences instead of weeks and months? But suddenly, the walls seemed too bare, their tiny cracks as wide as chasms. This apartment—the dingy couch, the cramped kitchen, the fuzzy television—was nothing more than a physical manifestation of the colorless, frigid space between their once-cohesive group, and he hated it.
He waited for that cold hatred to turn to burning anger, just like always. It didn't. He couldn't even call up the urge to slam his fist into the wall to provide some sort of catharsis.
He turned again and stalked into the bathroom, almost slamming the door behind him. Once inside, he turned on the sink, twisting the knobs so hard the rusted metal groaned. When the freezing water finally started flowing, he ran both hands under the stream and wiped his face, running his fingers along his scalp. His whole body felt grimy, as if he'd spent the afternoon fighting demons.
Finally, he gave up trying to cleanse himself at the sink and turned instead to the bathtub. He turned the knob, stripping off the sleeveless shirt he'd acquired their first day in this colorless country, then the rest of his clothes. He tested the water with his foot, growled when he found it at a temperature low enough to make the mage cold, then turned the knob until steam rose from the bottom of the tub. He stepped into the scalding water, taking a deep breath to steel himself, then hit the button to switch to the showerhead.
Water seared his back like dragon-fire. He stood there, letting it burn, letting all the horror of tonight wash down the drain.
Syaoran stared at the ceiling, tracing patterns with his eyes as he tried to justify his own actions.
He hadn't known what to expect—hadn't been thinking clearly enough to define his expectations. What he hadn't expected, though, was the bitter calm of Kurogane's reaction, the ice his voice afterward.
His lips tingled, blood beating beneath the surface. He lifted two fingers and pressed them to his lower lip. It didn't feel swollen or tender. If anything, the sensation was pleasant. One of the first pleasant sensations he'd felt since escaping his watery prison.
He supposed that was a fair tradeoff for the fact that Kurogane probably wanted to kill him now.
Syaoran rolled onto his stomach and closed his eyes, waiting for the ninja to burst through the door with Souhi in hand. Because of course that was what would happen. Syaoran had seen enough of the ninja's fury to know what happened to the people who sparked his temper.
Let him come, Syaoran thought. Let him kill me now while Sakura's asleep so she doesn't have to watch me bleed. The corner of his mouth twitched. Sakura. What was he going to do about her if he survived the next few hours? Their next chess match was only a few days away; she needed him for that.
Syaoran's hand slid to his temporary shoulder brace, tracing the metal edges. He could only imagine the shape he would've been in if Kurogane had reacted the same way this time.
Why didn't he? Syaoran wondered, burying his face in his pillow. The question tumbled uncomfortably through his mind, battering against the inside of his skull. When he thought about how it had felt to have someone else's mouth against his, he clutched the sheets in frustration. What's wrong with me? he wondered, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. Blushing. He was actually blushing, not out of shame but because even the memory of his first real kiss stirred a response in his body.
He laid there for a moment, waiting. He heard the hiss of the bathroom faucet turning on, then, a minute later, water rushing from the metal spout of the tub. Syaoran remained still, his head throbbing where he'd been struck with that wrench. Maybe he really did have a concussion, and he'd imagined the kiss. Or the impact had damaged his frontal lobe, impairing his judgment. That seemed reasonable.
In the next room, the sound of rushing water continued, pipes groaning. Syaoran listened for a while, tuning out the accusations working their way into his mind. He imagined the water playing over his skin, washing away the sinful things he'd felt in that exhilarating, terrifying moment. But cleansing turned to dwelling, which turned to remembrance, which left him exactly where he'd started off, heart pounding, body responding with a stab of desire he knew he shouldn't feel.
I must be broken somehow, he told himself, rolling over and letting his arms sprawl out so they dangled over the edge of the mattress. All of this, everything that's gone wrong . . . it's all my fault. Everything I touch falls apart. The chilly air of the bedroom swept over his skin, raising bumps there, and he forced himself to think only of his discomfort. There was no way he could justify what he'd done or what he was feeling now. Perhaps it was best not to try.
I should go to sleep, he finally thought. Then I can pretend this was all just a dream. His eyelids drifted shut, then flew open again as he remembered what Kurogane had said about concussions and falling asleep. I could slip into a coma and never wake up, Syaoran thought, fingers tightening convulsively around the papery sheets. A moment later, his body relaxed. Maybe it's better that way. Maybe, if I just closed my eyes, I could slip away quietly.
Sakura's face played across the inside of his eyelids, images of her pre-Tokyo smiles mingling with thoughts of her now-steely eyes. And the other Sakura, still alive somewhere, most likely in Fei Wong's grasp, or wandering around some pocket dimension, waiting for him. It's her I should want to kiss, he thought, guilt stirring in his stomach. So what am I doing?
But your Sakura's not here, whispered an insidious little voice in the back of his head. And this Sakura won't even acknowledge you, so where's the harm? Who has to know?
He groaned. Thinking about his Sakura had always been a point of light during his imprisonment. Those stolen glimpses of the cloned princess, too, had comforted him.
Why does it hurt to think about them now? he wondered. Have I betrayed them both? His throat ached as if someone had wrapped steel wire around his trachea and pulled it tight. Even if my Sakura is in another world, even if we never committed to anything . . . Is it still a betrayal?
He didn't know. There was no rulebook for relationships, especially not inter-dimensional relationships in which at least one of the parties still had a perfectly healthy, if despondent, clone walking around. And that wasn't even factoring Kurogane into the equation.
Yet he needed some sort of connection, something more than the chilly tolerance of his traveling companions. He needed intimacy, someone to confide in, someone who wouldn't shut him out or judge him. At the very least, he needed someone safe to interact with. And even if Kurogane had pushed him away, at least he hadn't hurt him.
It was too much to think about, he decided. Every path his mind took depended on a set of assumptions he couldn't make until he saw how the ninja acted over the next few days. He closed his eyes and, concussion be damned, slept.