Chapter Fifteen

Syaoran slept, but only briefly. Every time he closed his eyes, fragmented nightmares intruded on his subconscious mind, laced with guilt as a wineglass might be laced with cyanide.

"I don't want to go back yet," he murmured, awake again, after Kurogane brought him a jacket from the front of the store. He didn't expect a response to his comment, so he was surprised when Kurogane grunted in agreement.

The new jacket was surprisingly nice. Soft, with faux fur lining the inside and storing his body heat while the coarse outer shell blocked wind and snow. Syaoran zipped the jacket up, glad he wouldn't have to venture out again to buy one. It seemed like every time he left the apartment, he got injured somehow.

My choices are between getting myself killed in the outside world or isolating myself in my room, he thought. Spending seven years in a tube had given him a healthy aversion to cramped quarters. Spaces like his closet-sized room felt claustrophobic, closed in. Like a prison cell.

He hated that room, hated the thought of returning to it. Yet there was no place for him in this unfamiliar city, in this unfamiliar world. Certainly not with Fai or Sakura. Yet straying too far from Mokona carried its own risks. It wasn't as if he could just leave, even if Kurogane would come with him.

Syaoran shook his head, shocked at the direction of his thoughts. He still had a job to do, still had a Sakura of his own waiting for him, somewhere, on some plane of existence he couldn't reach without help. She was waiting for him. Somewhere.

Somewhere. But not here. Not in this world where every tick of the clock ached like pressure on a bruise.

He followed Kurogane with little regard for their destination, only slightly worried about wandering out of Mokona's translation range. In a way, he wanted that, too. A way of isolating himself without sitting in that tiny, cramped room. But even that was too much to hope for.

He felt . . . lost.

Kurogane stopped rather abruptly, and Syaoran reeled back to keep from running into him. Automatically, he tensed, figuring some threat had triggered Kurogane's sudden stop. Only when he saw the man's calm posture did he allow himself to relax

The ninja turned toward him, his expression speculative. "Hey, you can read this world's language, right?"

"Yes. Is there something you want me to read?" That was odd. Kurogane had had no problems signing up for chess matches. Syaoran had assumed his written language was much the same as Infinity's.

"No. But there's a bookstore over there, if you want to go."

Without a conscious command, Syaoran's lips stretched into a smile. He banished it from his face as swiftly as he could. "I shouldn't. I tend to lose myself in the books. You'd get bored, waiting for me."

Kurogane shrugged. "When I worked for Tomoyo, I'd stand around for hours waiting for assassins. I think I've conquered boredom."

Syaoran smiled again, the expression lingering this time. How like Kurogane, to treat boredom as something to be conquered. "Is it really all right? If we go, I mean."

Kurogane shrugged. "If nothing else, the bookstore will close and you'll have to leave with whatever you find."

Syaoran could almost hear the reasoning behind Kurogane's offer: We might as well go, because neither of us want to go back to the apartment. Despite that, it was a strange sort of relief to realize Kurogane preferred his company over that of their other companions, at least for the moment. "All right. Where is it?"

Kurogane started forward, then paused when they reached the street, waiting for the line of cars to pass by. Syaoran mused about how his blood would've looked splattered over the front bumper of the car that had nearly run him down an hour ago. In the dark, it might've been indistinguishable from the street grime crusted to every car by the snow.

They crossed the street, Kurogane glancing back every few seconds as if to make sure he wasn't going to throw himself into traffic. When Syaoran saw the twinkling lights of the bookstore, he focused all his energy on not running ahead and abandoning Kurogane in the street. By the time they reached the door, he was practically bouncing in excitement.

"Go nuts," Kurogane told him, gesturing toward the expansive shop.

Syaoran took that as an order.

Kurogane had never seen the kid this happy.

He'd seen the other kid—the one he'd mentored, the one who'd betrayed them—this happy, but never this Syaoran. It surprised him, as he watched, just how easy it was to remove the weight from this kid's shoulders.

Syaoran flitted from shelf to shelf, plucking books from their places and paging through them with an almost unnatural efficiency. Despite the kid's quick replacement of books, the very act of reading seemed to enthrall him the same way a good fight sang in Kurogane's blood.

Smiles were rare in Nihon, where every minute shift in expression carried a thousand shades of meaning. Since the beginning of this journey, he'd come to realize that the same reservations were not held by most other places. Genuine smiles had grown scarce since Tokyo, replaced either by withering glances or false caricatures of happiness. Of all of them, it was the boy who smiled the least. It was strange to see him in such good spirits, strange to think something so simple could make him so happy.

Kurogane was content to watch, content with the fact that Syaoran was comfortable enough with his presence to forget he was there as he browsed through hundreds of books. Over an hour passed, but Kurogane no more lost interest in watching the boy than the boy lost interest in reading. When the speakers warned of the store closing, Syaoran scooped up his three-foot-tall pile of books and turned back to him, smiling apologetically.

Kurogane arched an eyebrow. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah, I just have to pay for these. It should only take a minute." The kid swept through the narrow passages between shelves, graceful despite the load in his arms. The mousy woman running the counter balked when she saw the stack, but started scanning the books with a look of pleasant surprise.

Kurogane had never liked to read much, himself. His parents had taught him, of course, and it was easy enough, but he'd never been interested in written words, especially when compared to the adrenaline rush of a sparring match. But he understood the merit of reading, the way it sharpened the mind as physical exercise sharpened the body. The kid probably knew random facts beyond count, and Kurogane didn't doubt his love of books had fostered his unusual maturity.

The kid understood. He'd lived a thousand lifetimes through such texts, and he understood enough of them to make it through this. Kurogane was sure of that.

Syaoran finished paying for his books, then returned to him, now carrying a paper bag in each hand. "Okay, we can go."

They left.

The temperature outside had dropped considerably since they'd come in. The peacefulness of the night was gone, replaced with the eerie howl of the wind. Kurogane gritted his teeth against the cold, facing it head-on while the kid trailed after him, using his body as a shield against the wind.

It struck Kurogane then just how different this kid was from the one that had left them. This kid was much more cautious than the other one, his desire to accomplish his goals tempered by hard experience. He was also more reclusive, holing up in his room instead of trying to mend the fissure in their group. Even if his habits and drive matched his clone's, this Syaoran was an entirely separate person.

"You're different," he finally said, as they rounded the corner and started down the street where their apartment was located.

Syaoran glanced up, eyebrows pulling together in apparent confusion.

"You have a lot of the same habits, but you're not like the other kid. You're more cautious, not as trusting." More adult.

Syaoran stared at him for a few seconds, eyes wide, lips parted. He opened his mouth, then closed it. When he decided to speak, his voice was soft, barely audible over the moaning wind. "Do you mean that?"

"Wouldn't have said it if I didn't."

A smile curved up Syaoran's lips, softer than the cheerful grin he'd worn at the bookstore, but more genuine somehow. "Thank you."

Kurogane shrugged. "It's the truth." He tousled Syaoran's hair. "It doesn't change anything. I won't hold the differences against you; you're probably better off being more cautious." Especially in this world. Especially now.

For some reason, the kid lost his smile. Oh, shit, Kurogane thought. Now he's going to get all depressed again.

"Kurogane-san . . ."

"Yeah?"

Syaoran hesitated. "I just . . . Have you ever wondered if . . . I don't know how to phrase this, exactly . . ."

Kurogane arched an eyebrow, slowing as they approached the Ephemeral Apartments.

"Do you ever feel like we're trapped in a book, and that the author is just playing with our characters?"

Kurogane blinked. Maybe taking him to a bookstore was a bad idea. "What do you mean?"

Syaoran struggled for words. "Just . . . Sometimes, nothing feels real to me. It feels like everything I've experienced so far has been a dream. Like I was never trapped, like I never lived . . . Like I could be erased from existence at any moment. Is that . . . strange, or . . . ?" He trailed off, frowning.

He's talking about fate, Kurogane realized.

They'd nearly come to a halt, moving so slowly to prolong the time before they had to return to the apartment, before the ghost of happiness was forced to fade altogether.

When Kurogane didn't answer, the boy went on. "The Other never knew he was a clone—how could he, when Fei Wong Reed had been so careful to keep him from realizing? Yet I've seen memories wiped clean, altered to fit new circumstances. Would it be such a stretch to think that my own memories could be artificial, that I might not even be real, or that I might be a clone myself?"

"Even if you were," Kurogane said, trying to pick his words carefully, "that doesn't make you less of a person. You have a mind of your own, and you make your own choices, regardless of who's influenced you or how deeply. You have a heart. You have a life. You should live it, and you should live it for yourself first, before you try to live it for anyone else."

Syaoran's eyes widened. "But Sakura needs—"

"You won't be able to help her if you don't have yourself put together. Until you do, she's at risk." Kurogane buried his hand in the boy's disheveled hair, further tangling it.

"Thank you." Syaoran looked up at him, solemn as ever despite the fact that his hair was in complete disarray.

For what? he wondered, just letting his hand rest atop the boy's head.

Syaoran didn't seem inclined to say anything else, and after a minute, they walked through the revolving doors of the Ephemeral Apartments.