Chapter Seventy-Five

Alone in his room, Syaoran concluded that tonight's troubles had been his fault. I should've never asked for so much, he thought, drawing his sheets closer. I don't deserve it after what I said tonight. I'd have been better off if I'd never brought it up. Shame crept in as his brief conversation with Kurogane flitted through his mind. "You don't love me, and I don't love you." Why had he said that? He'd known how much it would hurt Kurogane to hear those words thrown back in his face. What's wrong with me?

He buried his face in his arms, sick with himself. No tears came, despite his body's trembling. He felt too exhausted to cry. I have no right to cry. I'm selfish. His fists tightened, and he curled up where he lay, letting the waves of guilt crash over him, pulling him farther and farther into turbulent seas.

Kurogane didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve any of the things I said to him. He'd be better off if I was gone.

If I was gone . . . The thought lingered in his mind. Of course, he couldn't actually leave, but he could withdraw, just as he had those first few weeks in this world. He could make himself invisible. The isolation would ache, but it was better than the alternative. Being alone was better than being hated. And it wasn't as if he'd cease to exist—he'd still answer when called. He'd do whatever needed to be done. But the rest? I'm so selfish. I don't deserve his companionship. I don't deserve his love.

He opened his eyes, staring at the familiar cracks in the wall, a storm churning inside him as he let the world beyond his room fade away.

Kurogane waited on the couch, expecting the kid to slip out of his bedroom within the next hour or so. Most of their arguments ended up that way, with one of them apologizing to the other soon after things came to a head.

The fact that the kid never came out of his room worried him more than he wanted to admit. Still, after three hours of watching documentaries, Kurogane concluded that the kid had fallen asleep. He'd have to take the boy aside before tomorrow's chess match to make sure things were all right.

It didn't occur to him that he wouldn't have the opportunity.

Syaoran quivered under his sheets, tears leaking from his eyes as he recovered from his latest nightmare. He'd been in that basement again, chained to the wall as Cassie's knife sliced into his skin over and over again. The nightmares had grown less frequent over the past couple months, but they still tormented him. As he glanced at the time display on his alarm clock, he decided there was no point in lulling himself back to sleep. He'd planned to wake up early anyway.

He slipped out of bed, dressed, and headed to the living room for breakfast. To his surprise, no one had taken the couch. After last night's disaster, he'd expected either Fai or Kurogane to sleep there. But apparently, they'd both slept in their beds.

It ached, not seeing either of them. But the alternative would have been worse. He pulled a box of cereal out of the cupboard, wincing at the sound of crinkling plastic and rustling cornflakes. He ate quickly, hoping to be out of the way before the others woke to find him here. Within twenty minutes, he was outside, heading for the library. Reading always relaxed him. Even before Fujitaka had instilled the Other with a love for books, Syaoran had appreciated the value of good literature. Books had distracted him during the harsher weeks in this world. Perhaps they could distract him from his guilt as well.

The kid had left a note on the counter. The fact that he'd used this world's language pretty much singled out who it was for.

Kurogane wasn't sure if the kid had intended to worry him or calm him by choosing to write it that way. Infinity's written language mimicked his own, though it lacked the finer nuances of the words he'd read during his lessons as a child. Or perhaps it had its own nuances. Either way, Kurogane could read it.

I've gone to the library, the boy had written. No preamble. No greeting. I'll be ready for tonight's chess match. If I'm not at the apartment by seven-thirty, I'll meet you there.

Then he'd signed his name, not in Infinity's language, but in his own. The kid had nice handwriting. Quick and flowing, like a painter drawing lines to give the impression of falling water. Not that Kurogane thought much about such things. He'd bulled through his own calligraphy lessons as a youth, only for Tomoyo to insist he improve his handwriting after taking him into her service. Even now, his calligraphy was functional, but not great.

"What does it say?" Fai asked, peering over his shoulder.

"He went to the library. He says he'll meet us at the arena." He didn't bother suggesting that the kid would be back before then—the fact that he'd said "I'll meet you there" pretty much guaranteed that was his intention. He's avoiding me.

The mage's smile dimmed a bit. "I see."

Kurogane folded up the note, let it drop into the trash bin. "According to the roster, we're going up against one of the top-level fighters. It might be a rough fight."

"Might be." Fai nodded absently. "Are you worried?"

Kurogane sighed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He shrugged. "We're already signed up for it. There's no point in worrying now. Maybe we'll finally get a lead on the princess's feather. Hell, maybe whoever we're fighting kept winning because they have one."

"Very possible."

And maybe we'll finally figure out who's been watching us since we got here, he thought, glancing out the tiny window that led to the street.

Syaoran sat at the edge of the lobby, counting the black and white floor tiles as he waited for the others to arrive. He'd left the library almost two hours ago, unable to dispel the cloud of guilt that hung over him. This wasn't any better, of course. Counting floor tiles didn't distract him from the weight of his shame. But at least in the battle dome, no one looked at you oddly if you just sat there and stared into space. The other chess players likely regarded his aloofness as a form of meditation.

People milled about, their conversations building a wall of sound around him that both drowned out his own thoughts and allowed him to hear conversations without really listening. Even now, the lilt of foreign languages sang in his ears, a symphony of blending voices. And when those voices changed into conversations he could understand, he knew the others were within range.

He kept studying the floor tiles. He'd counted one-thousand-six-hundred-twelve black tiles, which gave him a frame of reference for how many white tiles he had yet to count. So far, he was only at nine-hundred-fifty-two.

The others arrived before he finished counting. He saw them pass through the revolving doors one-by-one, each wearing the tattered clothes they usually wore to chess matches. Resigned, Syaoran approached, keeping his expression blank.

Fai greeted him first. "Ah, there you are. Find anything interesting at the library?"

He shrugged.

"Hey, kid," Kurogane said, nodding in his direction.

Syaoran resisted the urge to look away, instead meeting the ninja's eyes with the same distant courtesy with which he'd greeted Fai. "Good evening." He paused, body tense, as he waited for Kurogane to hint at last night's events. But the man said nothing, merely holding his gaze until the silence grew awkward. Eventually, Syaoran looked down, chest aching.

"Kurogane-san," Sakura called, waving the ninja over toward the check-in area. "It's almost time."

"Coming," he said, walking toward her.

The ache in his chest sharpened. Fai laid a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, Syaoran-kun. He's just clearing his head for the match. He's not mad."

Somehow, that only made him feel worse. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the shuffling feet, the chattering voices, the clink of coins changing hands. Most of the revenue for the chess games came from people gambling on their favorite team. Already, he'd heard dozens of conversations about tonight's match. Apparently, they'd be facing one of the top-ranked chess players in the city—the Final Master, they called him, though no one spoke of his true identity.

Ten minutes later, once all the appropriate papers had been filled out, an attendant led them to their usual prep room. They each split off, picking up their tournament collars as they headed to their separate changing stalls.

"Kid, I've been meaning to talk to you," Kurogane said, reaching for him.

Syaoran stepped back. "I have to get ready for the match."

The ninja's face fell. He lowered his hand, straightening his back. "It'll only take a minute."

He shook his head. "I can't."

"Kid . . ."

"I can't," he repeated, turning away. "I'm sorry."

Syaoran hurried into his changing room, pulling the curtain closed behind him as a tempest of conflicting emotions spun inside him. Part of him had wanted to stay, to hear whatever the ninja had been planning to say to him, whether it was a comforting word or a rejection. The other part of him warned against even that much. He didn't deserve closure. He didn't deserve to stand in the red-eyed man's presence after what he'd said last night.

I don't deserve love, he thought, slipping the collar around his neck.