Chapter Fourteen

As the headlights glared down at him, Syaoran realized he was going to die.

The clouds blotted out the stars above, and the street lamp overhead had burned out, leaving this stretch of the street in darkness. The only light came from a tacky neon sign clinging to the dingy, nicotine-stained window of a bar across the street.

Seeing that, Syaoran realized he was going to die alone in the dark.

His arms flailed, as a drowning man's arms might flail as he tried to keep his head above water. The man who'd bumped into him was several meters away now, probably not even aware that he'd inadvertently caused the death that was about to happen. Festive music twisted through the air, overcoming the breeze the way a piccolo pierced through a band.

He was going to die.

The realization brought with it an odd sense of calm. It would not be the most valiant death, or the most glamorous. He would not live to see his Sakura—none of his companions, except perhaps for a glimpse of the back of Kurogane's head as his own was crushed under a tire. But there were worse ways to die—tortured, impaled on a sword. And there were worse ways to live—tortured, stuck in a glass tube for seven years, alone.

All this, he processed before he even hit the asphalt. His shoulder brace cracked against the blacktop, shattering, but he didn't feel any pain. That's good, he thought. That probably means it will be a painless death.

Circular headlights bore down on him like the eyes of a demon. He looked up, merely waiting for the car to run him over. He doubted the driver had seen him. The back of his shirt was wet, and much colder than it ought to be despite being in contact with the ground. I must've landed in a puddle, he thought, staring at the moonless sky. I guess not everything's frozen.

A high-pitched squeal grated on his ears, and for a moment, he felt sorry for whoever was about to run him over. Even in this dismal world, killing someone by accident had to be a cause for grief. He hoped no one would suffer too badly for his death.

The brakes weren't enough. The car bearing down on him would not stop in time; it would crush his ribs, or his skull, or whatever happened to be in the way at the point of impact. And it was too close now to swerve out of the way, especially on this ice.

Syaoran closed his eyes.

Something warm snaked around his wrist and yanked him upward so fast his head snapped back. For the first time since he'd started falling, pain lanced through his body, sharp and sudden and dizzying. Instinct made him pull on whatever was yanking him away from the car, and that took him the last few inches from the shrieking wheels. The car's side-view mirror passed within an inch of his neck, almost taking his head off, then passed harmlessly by as the driver honked.

Oh, he thought, registering nothing more than dull surprise. I guess I'm not going to die after all. He tilted his head back to look at his savior, wondering what kind person had pulled him from death before realizing that he'd accepted his fate.

"What do you think you're doing out here?"

Syaoran blinked. "Kurogane-san?"

Eyes as red as blood glared back at him, much more intimidating than the eerie yellow headlights of the car that had almost run him down. Kurogane shook him, voice rising in volume and pitch. "What the hell are you doing?"

Almost dying, he thought. A strange feeling bubbled up in his chest, somewhere between shock and giddiness. "Almost dying," he answered, a hysterical chuckle escaping his throat. His voice shook. "What are you doing?"

Kurogane's body jerked as if he was about to slap him. Then, the ninja relaxed his hold, just enough that Syaoran was able to touch the ground again. "I meant: why are you jumping into oncoming traffic?"

"I didn't jump," Syaoran said, willing his hands to stop shaking. "I fell."

"You fell."

He nodded.

Kurogane stared at him as if he didn't quite believe that. But for once, he didn't press the issue. "It's freezing and your clothes are wet. Come on."

Syaoran allowed the ninja to drag him away from the street and into one of the well-lit shops nearby.

It was as if they'd been transported to another world. Flowing dresses with sequined accessories hung from plastic dolls made to resemble the human figure, if that figure happened to be anorexic. Dark suits, not unlike some of the ones his clone had worn during his journey, hung in neat rows from wire hangers. And, unlike most of the places he'd visited in this world, every single light seemed to be functioning at maximum power. He blinked rapidly against the brilliance.

Kurogane towed him toward the back of the store and pulled him into one of the changing rooms. "Take your shirt off."

Well, that's an odd request, he thought, still coming down from his adrenaline high. He tried to undo the buttons of his shirt, but his hands were shaking for some reason, and he hadn't even managed to undo the top button when Kurogane shoved his hands out of the way and unbuttoned it for him. The ninja tossed the soaked article into the corner, then started unzipping his own jacket.

We're doing this here, in a changing room? His thoughts spun in complex circles, and nothing made sense. From the look on Kurogane's face after the hasty, unreturned kiss, he'd figured the ninja had decided not to respond to him. "Have you changed your mind?" Syaoran murmured, almost to himself.

"What?" Kurogane sloughed off his coat and wrapped it around his bare shoulders. Belatedly, Syaoran realized his mistake. His thoughts derailed for a moment, then settled on a new track. Oh. He thinks I'm cold.

Syaoran opened his mouth to say otherwise, but Kurogane rested a hand on his cheek, and all Syaoran could think about was how his hand felt like fire against his skin.

"Stay here. I'm going to—"

"Don't leave!" The words burst from his lips, stunning both of them. "Don't leave . . ." he whispered again, bowing his head in shame. "Please don't leave . . ."

Kurogane knelt down in front of his bench so they were eye to eye. His callused hands found Syaoran's shoulders and rested there, bleeding warmth into his numb skin. For a long moment, Kurogane just stared at him, his face an odd mix of concern and shock.

I must've really scared him to make him look like that, Syaoran thought, his usual guilt finally making an appearance. He closed his eyes, head hanging. "I'm sorry."

"I don't know what to do," Kurogane said, and there was something in his voice Syaoran had never heard in it before. Something almost like defeat. "I don't know how to fix this."

"I'm s-sorry."

Kurogane weaved a hand through his hair. "You're freezing. Why weren't you wearing a jacket?"

"I've been stuck in a glass tube for the past seven years," he said bitterly. "I haven't gotten around to buying a jacket."

The ninja's fingers tightened, tugging on his hair. "I don't know how to fix that either."

Syaoran shook his head. "It's my fault—"

"Don't be ridiculous." Kurogane's voice whipped out, low and harsh. "None of this is your fault. None of it. Stop apologizing, and stop . . ." Kurogane exhaled sharply. "Stop. All of this."

"I . . ." He bit his lip, biting back the apology the ninja obviously didn't want to hear. He looked away.

"Do you feel cold?"

He hesitated. He didn't feel cold, exactly, but his body was shivering all over, and given the circumstances, he almost certainly had frostbite somewhere. His teeth chattered when he answered. "I d-don't know . . ."

Unease shot across the ninja's face; he sat down at Syaoran's side and pulled him into his arms. "I think you're hypothermic."

Syaoran shook his head rapidly. "I'm f-f-fine." But then Kurogane's hand pressed against his cheek, his touch like fire against his skin. Syaoran convulsed, curling up to preserve what little body heat that remained to him. The ninja wrapped his arms more securely around his frame, letting warmth seep into his flesh wherever they touched. It was an odd sensation—wearing patches of invisible fire while the rest of his body acclimated to the warm air of the changing room—but it didn't feel bad. A soft whimper escaped his throat.

"It's all right," Kurogane murmured. His voice was unusually soft. "You're all right."

"I'm cold."

"It's all right."

"I almost died," he whispered, a new chill spreading through his chest. If Kurogane hadn't been there, if he hadn't intervened . . . I'd have died. I would've bled out all over the pavement. His breath came faster, and his shivering grew more intense. Everything—the glaring headlights, the cold seeping into his bones, the fire of Kurogane's arms wrapped around his trembling body—seemed suddenly too real. He reached for the closest thing to him, grasping Kurogane's sleeve like a drowning man might snatch a life ring from the water. "I almost died."

For once, Kurogane didn't push him away. He just drew him in closer and let him press his frozen hands against the thin fabric of his shirt. Syaoran rested his cold cheek to the hollow of the ninja's throat. Oddly, the longer he sat there, the colder his body felt. Am I going into shock? he wondered, inhaling.

"Just relax," Kurogane murmured, smoothing Syaoran's hair back.

"I'm tired," Syaoran said. Like before, the words came out of his mouth without being filtered through his brain. It was true, though. He was tired. Tired of being awake, tired of trying to fight, tired of traveling. Most of all, he was tired of being hurt.

"It's all right. Close your eyes and sleep."

Syaoran did.