Chapter One-Hundred-Six

Kurogane couldn't quite still the quivering unease in his stomach.

It wasn't fear. Kurogane feared only a handful of things, and this wasn't one of them. No, his unease edged closer to wariness than fear, fueled by the knowledge that there would be consequences for this unannounced visit. But he didn't want to go to Tomoyo with this, so, gritting his teeth, he raised his knuckles to Souma's door and knocked.

Maybe she's not here, he thought when no one answered after a few seconds. His tension eased a bit. He'd plucked up the nerve for this task, but if he could put it off a few more hours, maybe—

The door slid open abruptly, making him jump. "What are you doing here?" Souma asked, scowling at him. Wisps of shiny black hair stuck up from her scalp at odd angles, and rather than her usual outfit, she wore a silk robe. Must have woken her up. Crap.

"I, uh . . . I need your advice."

"Did you get into more trouble with Tomoyo already?"

"No." He grit his teeth, then forged on. "I need relationship advice."

Several seconds passed as Souma gaped at him. If he'd been an enemy, he could have taken advantage of her shocked paralysis to strike. But he could hardly blame her for being stunned—except for the kid, his longest romantic entanglement had lasted about twelve hours. And now I'm asking for relationship advice. She'll never let me live this down.

"Relationship advice," Souma repeated. "From me."

"It's not like I can go to Tomoyo with this," he said, exasperated. "She'll just spout some romantic nonsense at me and talk about how great it is that I've finally . . ." He stopped, shook his head, and exhaled sharply. "Can you give me advice or not?"

Souma stared at him a moment more, then opened the door wider, gesturing for him to enter. He stepped inside, unsurprised by the utilitarian layout. Like himself, Souma preferred function over aesthetics. She had a bedroll, a place to hang her sword, and a cupboard full of clothes, most of which made up her warrior's garb. As he entered, she pulled a mat from the corner and laid it out at the foot of her bedroll. "Sit," she told him, sinking to the floor. Once he'd positioned himself across from her on the mat, she went on. "Why do you need my advice?"

He explained, starting with the fistfight at the festival, glossing over the intimate details of what had followed, and ending with how he'd ended up standing outside her room asking for help. When he finished, he sat back, eyeing her warily. "So, how do I get the kid to look me in the eye again?"

Souma studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing in concentration. After almost half a minute, she said, "Have you considered doing something nice for him?"

He blinked. "Nice?"

"Romantic," she clarified.

He looked away. "I don't think he wants anything like that after what I did to him."

"Kurogane," Souma said, addressing him without any honorifics, as she had for years. "You need to stop thinking of relationships in terms of sex."

"I don't." He ran his hand through his hair. "You don't get it. I hurt him."

"Yes. While you were fucking him." Souma's dark eyes panned up to his. "You're focusing too much on the physical aspect of what happened. Good relationships are about more than that."

"Yeah, I know, but—"

Souma held up a hand to stop him. He shut his mouth. "Why don't we focus on the emotional injuries first?"

He sat back. "All right."

"You mentioned that you lost your temper because he wouldn't acknowledge that your bloodthirstiness is part of who you are. I'm assuming he's never killed anyone, so he can't empathize with you on that. So you're going to have to put yourself in his shoes instead. Think about it for a second. In the span of about ten minutes, he'd been mocked by a nobleman, seen you break said nobleman's nose, and been dragged away from the festival and yelled at by someone much more threatening than himself. How do you suppose he felt at that point?"

"Bad."

Souma rolled her eyes. "Be specific."

Kurogane scowled, but took a moment to think about it. "Angry. Afraid. Trapped."

"Trapped," Souma repeated, nodding. "Helpless. Desperate. Not solely because of you, but you played a big part in it."

Guilt stirred in his chest. "Yeah. I guess."

"At that point, he suggested that you two should go back inside for the night, together. Correct?"

He nodded.

"Why would he do that?"

"He said he wanted me."

"Yes," Souma said. "Which is exactly what I would have done in his position."

His head snapped up. "Really?"

She sighed, pinching her nose between her thumb and index finger. "Men are simple, Kurogane. They have simple needs. So, to soothe your anger, he appealed to one of those needs. He didn't actually want to sleep with you."

"How was I supposed to know that?"

Souma groaned, letting her head fall into her hands. "Oh for the love of . . . Look. Before Tomoyo sent you away, you'd spent fourteen years at Shirasagi Castle learning to kill. You channeled all your grief, all your frustration, all your emotion into fighting, and eventually, killing became your only means of dealing with any negative emotion." She leaned forward and poked him in the chest. "You never let yourself feel. That's why you struggle so much with empathy. You break things and hurt people, but you never stop to think about why. And now, after years of siphoning all your feelings into destructive habits, you're emotionally stunted. When was the last time you cried?"

He stared at her blankly. "What?"

"When was the last time you cried?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Just answer me."

He grimaced, thinking of last night, standing in the hallway outside his room. He hadn't really cried. The tears hadn't escaped his eyes. But he'd been close.

"It's not a difficult question," Souma said, scowling.

"Last night," he growled, his hand curling into a fist. "When I went to get him clean clothes."

Souma leaned back, surprise darting across her face. It took her a moment to respond. "And . . . before that?"

"I don't remember. Years." His lips twisted. Yes, except for that brief moment of weakness last night, it had been years since he'd wept.

"I cry about once a month," Souma said.

He gaped at her. Once a month? "Over what?"

"Various things." She shrugged. "Crying is cathartic. You shouldn't think of it as weakness."

He sat back, still reeling from the idea that Souma—Souma, one of the strongest people he'd ever known, one of Tomoyo's most dedicated warriors—cried so often.

"I believe we've gotten a bit off-topic," she mused, frowning to herself. "My point I was trying to make is that you need to practice empathy if you want to have a lasting relationship with someone. Also, flowers."

"Huh?"

"Give him flowers. That's my advice. Flowers and something small but meaningful. And don't sleep with him—work on the emotional wounds first and rebuild the relationship from there."

"You really think that'll work?"

"Given that he's already made the effort to forgive you, I think it'll put the relationship back on track. It's a temporary patch," Souma added. "You'll need more than that to regain his trust. You can't hurt him like that again."

He looked down, shame swelling in the back of his throat. "I won't."

"Good." She stood up, stretching like a cat and yawning. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I haven't even had my morning tea. Get out."

He got to his feet and started for the door. As it opened, he glanced over his shoulder. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Seriously, don't. I have a reputation to uphold."

He nodded once and closed the door behind him. Flowers and presents, he thought, shaking his head. It seemed to simple. He started for his room, mulling over his options. Flowers, he could manage. All he had to do for that was grab something from the imperial gardens. But what could he give the kid that was small but meaningful? It wasn't like the kid wore jewelry. Maybe he could find a book the kid liked somewhere in the palace, but he didn't know what kinds of books the boy preferred, and anyway, giving him a book wasn't thoughtful. Everyone knew the kid liked reading.

What would be meaningful to him? he wondered, reaching his room. He'd scrubbed the blood off the mattress last night and tidied up everything else this morning. As he stepped inside, however, he noticed a bundle of black cloth shoved into the corner of the room. Not recognizing it, Kurogane walked over and picked it up. The silk flowed through his fingers like water as the garment unfurled.

With a jolt, he recognized the outfit the kid had worn to the festival last night. The outfit he'd wanted the boy to wear so he could spend time unlacing the front. The outfit he had ripped apart with one hand in his rage.

Something meaningful, he thought, clutching the outfit to his chest. That'll do.