Chapter Fifty-Five

The worst part about having a broken knee was having to rely on the others for things that had seemed so trivial before.

Confined to a wheelchair, Syaoran couldn't reach the bathroom sink, which meant he had to roll himself over to the bathtub whenever he wanted to wash his hands or brush his teeth. He could barely see the top of his head in the mirror when he sat up to fix his hair. When he had to go to the bathroom, he needed a basin, which he then emptied into the toilet. And of course, it was nearly impossible to climb from the couch to his chair by himself. He'd tried the third day, when Fai had deemed him healthy enough to try moving on his own. Halfway between the couch and the chair, the wheels had turned half a rotation and the chair had slipped away from him. He'd landed on his back, scraping his elbows on the cement floor. The cast on his leg had followed, and when after it hit the ground, the pain had left him paralyzed for almost ten minutes before he allowed Kurogane to pull him back onto the couch.

It had been three weeks since then, and the others hadn't let him move from the couch to his chair without supervision. Not once.

The only positive side to this was that at least now everyone was talking to him. Even Sakura, clunking around in her leg brace as an omnipresent reminder that things could've been worse, came out of her room to see him. "Fai-san and I made soup," she said one morning, holding out a blue bowl. The smell of chicken and spices rose from the dish. "Do you want some?"

"Sure."

She stepped forward and lowered the bowl so it sat on his lap. Syaoran pulled it closer, sitting up a little. "Thanks," he murmured, holding the spoon delicately and raising it to his lips. Warm broth and bits of celery flowed across his tongue, and a pang shot through him as memories of an older, simpler life flashed through his mind. Chicken soup. Sakura fussing over him. Being able to reach the sink at will. He only wished things were less complicated so that he might enjoy the companionship more.

Yes, the best thing about being injured was getting to see Sakura on a regular basis. But it still hurt. Deep down, buried beneath the spark of happiness her appearance gave him, it hurt a lot.

The days crept by. Except for his home world and Clow, he'd never spent so much time in one dimension. Yet still, he felt like a foreigner, an unwelcome presence. This attention and care was fleeting, a direct result of his inability to live for himself. Until he recovered, he was helpless.

"Can you help me into my chair?" he asked a few days later, when all that remained of the chicken soup were a few dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. Kurogane, being the closest, walked over without a word and pulled his wheelchair over to the front of the couch, so he could slide off the cushions and into the seat. The ninja held onto the back of the chair, stabilizing it so it wouldn't roll away, as Syaoran laid his injured leg on the raised extension and maneuvered himself into the chair. Even practiced, the shift took nearly half a minute, and by the time he'd secured himself in place, a sheen of sweat had formed over his face and neck from the exertion.

"Where to?" Kurogane asked.

"Just the bathroom. I can make it there on my own."

The ninja stepped back, allowed Syaoran to wheel himself toward the bathroom. Once inside, Kurogane closed the door behind him. "Call if you need anything."

Syaoran said nothing, but his throat constricted, and it took him a few minutes to collect himself. This was routine. A pathetic, inconvenient routine, but still. He went through the motions, collecting his basin from beneath the sink. Though he rinsed it often, the scent of bodily fluids still rose from the basin when he picked it up. Grimacing, he dealt with the most pressing concerns, every step frustratingly difficult for what had once been a simple task.

When he was finished, he poured the waste into the toilet, rinsed the basin out using the bathtub faucet, flushed it all down, and rinsed everything again for good measure. He washed his hands in the bathtub, since he couldn't reach the sink, and let the water run, pulling his chair up to the edge of the tub. Several minutes went by, water gushing from the spigot. Syaoran ran his hands under the lukewarm water, mind drifting back to the ruins of Clow, where he'd first encountered his Sakura. Where, in the space of a week, he'd fallen in love with her. Where fountains had been embedded in the walls, flowing constantly, prospering with life-sustaining water.

The ruins of Clow, where everything had started.

He sat there for a long time, barely cognizant of the hiss of running water. After a while, he sighed and slid out of his chair, moving carefully to avoid jamming his broken knee when his cast hit the ground. Almost half a minute passed as he tried to find a comfortable sitting position. Unlike the rest of the apartment, the bathroom floor was linoleum, not cement. Not soft like carpet, but it didn't leach heat from his body as readily as cement did. And, unlike the rest of the apartment, this floor didn't remind him of that basement, where those monsters had cut into him again and again and again.

Syaoran took a deep breath, pressed his cheek against the edge of the bathtub, and listened to the rushing water. Imagined lying in the bathtub, cast propped up so it didn't get soaked, and just tilting his head back as the warm water rushed over his chest, his face. Imagined opening his mouth and taking a deep breath. Maybe struggling a little, purely by instinct, as the water rushed into his lungs. Maybe wondering if he'd been wrong, maybe even regretting it, in those last moments, as he drowned.

There were worse ways to die.

Instead, he just sat there, face pressed against the side of the tub, chair pushed off to the side. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for someone to come in and see him like this, ask why the water had been on so long. He wondered which of his companions would find him if he drowned, how they'd react. If they'd heal or if they'd be traumatized. If, in the end, his life meant anything to them at all.

Syaoran took a deep breath, surprised to hear how it shook, and then another, the tremor more noticeable. His lower lip prickled as he bit into it, trying to stifle the pathetic sobs building at the back of his throat. He'd never been this weak before. Crying was reserved only for those situations that merited tears. He wasn't weak, he wasn't, he was just . . . tired. He wanted to sleep, wanted to have an excuse to hold his head under the water and just breathe in. But he wasn't weak enough to try. Or maybe he wasn't strong enough.

Another sob tore free of his throat, swallowed up by the sound of rushing water. Too much. The wheelchair, the cast, the inability to make it to the bathroom without help—the sheer force of his helplessness crashed against him like a wave crashing against the shore. He folded his arms over the edge of the tub and buried his face in them, his lower back cramping from his awkward position. For a while, he fought against the torrent of emotion, forcing it back behind whatever walls he could build up. But it overflowed, sobs ripping from his chest for the first time since he'd been chained up in that basement. And this time, his voice wasn't hoarse from screaming.

A few minutes passed before he heard a knock on the door. "Kid, you all right? You've been in there a long time."

He froze, the sobs cutting off instantly. His fingers coiled around the edge of the tub, the water still running, flowing down the drain despite the frequent clogs in the pipes. For a moment, he sat there, unsure if he should feign nonchalance. But if he tried to talk, Kurogane would hear the wavering in his voice, would know he'd been crying, so Syaoran stayed silent, staring at the water as it drained away only to be replaced by more from the spigot.

"Kid?"

Syaoran swallowed, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. His breathing hitched only once, and then he leaned over the side of the tub and let his mind drift, ignoring the pounding of the door, the increasingly-frantic demands for a response. Just leaned forward and let his hair hang over the edge, growing damp as steam wafted over it.

"I'm coming in." The doorknob squeaked, and the warped door scraped against its wooden frame. He felt the ninja approaching, his mind automatically cataloging the man's movements. "Kid, what the hell? Didn't you hear me yelling?"

"No," he lied. "I guess not."

"Why are you just letting the water run like that? Why the hell are you out of your chair?"

He stared at the water, not speaking.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? Damn it, kid, don't you . . . Kid?"

"I'm sorry if I upset you," Syaoran murmured, not even sure if the ninja heard him.

"Is he all right?" Fai asked, peering in through the doorway.

"He's fine. I'll deal with him. Tell the princess not to worry."

The magician disappeared like a wisp of smoke. Kurogane closed the door and walked over to the tub. With a sharp, frustrated motion, he twisted the knob controlling the faucet. The stream of water guttered down to a trickle before finally stopping. And still, Syaoran's gaze remained on the miniature whirlpool circling the drain.

Kurogane rested a hand on his back, kneeling down beside him. "Why aren't you in your chair?" he asked again, his voice softer than before. Syaoran shrugged. The hand on his back tensed, then relaxed. "Then what was with the running water?"

Again, he shrugged.

"Kid . . . Syaoran."

He winced, his eyes flashing to the ninja's face, then away as he remembered he'd been crying. Shameful. Weak. Pathetic. And still, all he wanted to do was run away.

Kurogane sighed, wrapping an arm around his chest and pulling him back so the back of his head rested on the ninja's collarbone. "You okay?"

He opened his mouth to say he was fine. Just fine. That there was nothing wrong at all. Then he said, "No. I'm not okay."

"Good."

His head snapped up. "Huh?"

The arm around his torso tightened. "I've been waiting for you to say that. I never thought you'd admit it."

Curiosity bubbled up in his throat, loosening the sudden tension there. A shaky breath escaped his lungs, and he slumped against the ninja's chest, eyes burning as if they'd been filled with shards of glass. "I don't understand. Why . . ."

"Because you needed to say it, and you weren't going to start getting better until you did."

"But I . . . Isn't that weak?"

"It's better than thinking you can live with the lie. Now, come on. Let's get you back in your chair."

"Kurogane-san . . ."

The ninja arched an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

He considered telling the man about how he'd imagined sinking under the water, how he'd contemplated ending it, leaving them to find his body. Then he set it aside. It was too shameful. "Thank you," he finally said. Thanks for checking in.