Chapter Seventeen
It was cold.
That was the first thing Syaoran became aware of when he woke. Memories of the previous night—of Kurogane's promise to take care of him, of the liquor burning down his throat, the warmth of the ninja's hand on his back—rushed back to him, distorted by the alcohol he'd consumed.
Kurogane must've brought me back to my room, he thought, crawling out of bed. An ache grew in his temple, but it wasn't nearly as bad as what he remembered of his clone's hangover in Outo. He got up and dressed in fresh clothes. He'd fallen out of his habit of hoarding food to avoid his traveling companions, which meant he had to venture out during the day to eat, which required him to wear something clean, even if it was practically identical to the rest of his outfits.
The living room was empty when he entered, as was the kitchen. Syaoran shuffled over to the refrigerator and pulled the gallon of milk from the door, planning to make cereal. It was quick, and perhaps if he ate fast enough, he could slip away unseen.
Just as he finished pouring himself a bowl of cereal, Fai walked in. The vampire glanced at him, as if startled to see him. As if he was an intruder instead of an ally.
Syaoran didn't know what bothered him more: Fai's unease around him, or how quickly he'd gotten used to it. He kept his head down, imagining an invisible wall between himself and the magician.
As usual, as soon as one person was up, the rest of the apartment bloomed with life. Sakura trudged out of her room, rubbing her eyes. Kurogane entered, glaring at the floor as if he couldn't fathom why he was awake at this hour.
It was all routine, all normal.
It hurt to watch.
Syaoran ate quickly, stomach bunching up under the oppressive silence of his companions. Every word spoken between them was the product of necessity. There were no polite "good mornings" or meaningless chatter. All words not directly related to the next chess match or the distribution of chores went unspoken, leaving their splintering family to sit in silence most of the time.
It's my fault, he thought. If I'd only made it to Tokyo a few minutes sooner, I might've been able to do something.
He sighed, then bit his lip at the whisper of sound it made. A moment later, he sensed someone watching him and looked up to see Kurogane staring at him from across the room.
Something passed between them, like a silent conversation. Concern flickered across the ninja's face. With an infinitesimal movement, Syaoran shook his head. He could endure the silence. He'd endured it for weeks, he could endure it now.
Kurogane's mouth settled into a frown, the line of his jaw hardening with disapproval. Syaoran tensed, bowing his head and returning his attention to the bowl in front of him. Every interaction was a careful dance, simultaneously polite and cold. Syaoran could only assume the look of disapproval was a direct result of a misstep on his part, a cue that he'd faltered in his dance. The ninja didn't want him to deny his suffering, but his own nature, and the presence of the others, prevented him from remarking on it.
They'd reached a stalemate.
The day passed uneventfully until the mage took Sakura out to stretch her legs. "We're stocking up for the week, so we'll be gone for a couple hours," Fai said, hovering by the door as Sakura shuffled to his side. Kurogane perceived her slight limp, noting that it was not quite as obvious as it had been a few weeks ago. Her daily excursions with the mage were helping.
Fai didn't wait for a response. As soon as Sakura was at his side, he opened the door and stepped out, Mokona perched on his shoulder.
It took only minutes for Kurogane to decide he had no intention of sitting around in this hell-hole any more than necessary. He walked to the kid's door and knocked lightly. "You awake, kid?"
He must've been, because a moment later, the door came open with a creak, and the boy peered out. "Is something wrong?"
Kurogane made a sound of annoyance. Why did the kid just assume something was wrong whenever someone spoke to him? Why, when the two of them had supposedly come to an understanding, did the boy construe his appearance as something negative, something that indicated discontent or danger? "Nothing's wrong," Kurogane said, more sharply than he'd intended.
"Oh."
He sighed. "You said you wanted someone to take care of you. That's what I'm doing now."
The boy's shoulders curled inward, as if the assertions of one drunken night embarrassed him now. Granted, the kid had been pretty hammered by that point, but still, it wouldn't kill him to make up his mind.
"You want to spar?" Kurogane asked.
Syaoran's head snapped up, eyes zeroing in on his face for the first time since he'd opened the door. Brittle hope warred with uncertainty on his face; he took half a step forward. "Can I?"
"I offered. You don't have to ask permission."
Something flickered across the boy's face, disappearing too quickly to be identified. This time, his reply was more confident. "Yes."
Kurogane nodded and picked Souhi from where it leaned against the wall. "Good. Follow me."
They left the apartment, each pausing only to don their coats. The kid seemed preoccupied with his jacket, though it took Kurogane a few minutes to figure out why. That was the first time someone's given him something since he met us. Of course it means something to him.
There was a park not far from their apartment building. Kurogane decided it had ample space for a sparring match; he selected a patch relatively devoid of snow and drew his sword. "You remember how this works?"
Syaoran nodded. "I remember."
"All right." He took a breath as the kid summoned his sword to his hands in a burst of flame. When Kurogane was ready, he darted forward and brought Souhi down. Steel collided with steel in a song of violence, the blades connecting and separating in rapid bursts of movement.
The kid had learned a lot through his clone's memories, it seemed. Kurogane recognized his own techniques—less refined, but still practiced, automatic—in the boy's movements. But there were other things there, things Kurogane hadn't taught the other kid, things this one had either picked up or, more likely, learned before being sealed away for seven years.
It was far from an even fight, but it was closer than any match between him and the other kid. Kurogane parried each blow, getting used to this kid's way of attack. When the opportunity presented itself, he let loose a counterattack, always stopping short of injuring the boy. This was a sparring match, not a fight, and anything more than a few shallow cuts would do neither of them any good.
Several minutes in, Kurogane noticed a change in the boy's movements. Every blow grew progressively rigid and powerful, the fight turning brutal in every way except in terms of damage caused. Curious, the ninja let the fight develop, letting the harder blows slide off Souhi. Sweat beaded on the boy's forehead, his face growing flushed with exertion.
Seeing an opening, Kurogane lunged forward, catching the hilt of the boy's sword and deflecting his attack. The movement threw Syaoran off balance; he staggered backwards, tripping over his own feet and falling into the snow bank. The ninja took advantage of the boy's mistake and pinned him where he lay, letting the tip of Souhi's blade rest just above his carotid artery.
The boy froze, not reacting, not even breathing. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated. The color had drained out of his face, leaving his cheeks pale. His hands trembled, whether from the cold or from fear, it was impossible to say.
Kurogane withdrew his sword and extended a hand toward the boy. After a brief hesitation, Syaoran took it. "You're afraid of me," Kurogane said simply.
The boy's head snapped up, shock flitting across his face.
Kurogane explained. "You fight as if your life depends on it, and your face is as easy to read as a book, especially when you're vulnerable."
Sorrow touched the boy's expression, and for just a moment, he looked as old as he claimed to be. "I'm sorry."
"I don't want you to be sorry," he snapped. Syaoran flinched, but said nothing. After a few seconds, Kurogane sighed. "Are you ready to go back?"
The kid nodded, not meeting his gaze. Kurogane sheathed his sword, while the boy's disappeared in a puff of fire. They started for the apartment, walking in silence. The boy stayed close to his side, head down. Every few steps, Kurogane caught the kid's eyes straying up to his face. The one time they made eye contact, Syaoran jerked his head down, as if Kurogane would forget his existence if he feigned disinterest.
When they finally stepped into their apartment, Kurogane stopped and turned to the boy. "Okay, what?"
"Nothing," the boy answered, too quickly, as he edged toward his bedroom. Kurogane pressed his hand against the wall, his arm acting as a barrier between the boy and his hideout.
"Just spit it out. I know you have something to say."
The boy stiffened, drawing his arms around his torso as if to shield himself. His gaze had focused in on Kurogane's face, but his eyes seemed distant, as if he was too lost in his musings to respond.
Kurogane waited.
Eventually, the kid spoke. "If you don't want me to be sorry . . . What do you want?"
He snorted. "What does it matter to you?"
"It matters."
"I don't want anything from you."
It wasn't until Syaoran closed his eyes that Kurogane realized how that must've sounded. He sighed. "Before you worry about that, what do you want?"
"Nothing . . ." Syaoran mumbled, cheeks flaring pink. Kurogane studied the change for a long moment, gears turning in his head. He wants something. He has to, otherwise he wouldn't act like this. Slowly, thinking, he lifted his hand and brushed his fingers across the boy's neck, watching for a reaction. Syaoran's breath caught, and then he swallowed hard, his shoulders rigid. There's no way. He was acting out. There's no way he's really thought about this. Kurogane let his fingers trail further down the boy's neck, to the hollow of his throat. The kid leaned closer, closing his eyes in surrender.
No, Kurogane thought, heart jumping. He needs this, and he needs to stop being ashamed of it. "Does this make it better?" he asked, keeping his voice soft, non-threatening. The kid's eyes flashed open, meeting his gaze. A thousand emotions swam through those eyes, the most dominant being shame and guilt and fear.
Syaoran didn't say anything. Kurogane brushed his thumb across the kid's jaw. The boy shuddered. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought the kid was in pain. "Listen," Kurogane said, cupping the side of Syaoran's face. I can't believe I'm doing this. "It's okay. Whatever you ask of me, it's fine, but you have to ask, got it?"
The boy said nothing, but a frantic desperation sparked in his eyes. Kurogane released him, stepping back and waiting for a response, a plea, anything. Syaoran continued to watch him, as if he was afraid the moment he asked for something, Kurogane would reject it out of hand.
And haven't you? whispered an insidious part of his mind. Why should he believe you, when you've pushed him away every time he's tried to ask for something?
Still, the boy was silent, back pressed against the wall as if to put as much distance between them as possible. If Kurogane hadn't been listening so intently, he would've missed the words that fell from his lips.
"Will you . . . kiss me?"