Author's Notes:

I know the last few chapters of a story aren't really good places to experiment with your writing style, but . . . well, the first section of this chapter is in present tense. Sorry. Just felt right. It's in Syaoran's POV, and it covers part of the time he's unconscious and/or disoriented. Hopefully, this isn't too jarring (I've done it once before in this fic), but I'll understand if it's a bit bothersome—believe me, if I thought I could write it passably in past tense, I would. So here it is.

Chapter One-Hundred Fifty-Nine

Syaoran tumbles through a lifetime of memories, new and old, his own and his father's, and sometimes the two blend so seamlessly that he cannot tell where his mind ends and his father's begins.

The first thing he remembers is the girl—green eyes, hair kissed by the sunset, and a smile so gentle it makes him ache to see it. In both branches of time, she is a princess. In both, she has nearly every trait he admires in a person—compassion, selflessness, bravery. In both, he loves her.

In one of these branching timelines, she loses her memories, and he goes on a quest for her only to destroy himself in a place where the rain burns and monsters walk the earth. In that set of memories, they eventually reunite, though the price of their love is steep, their time together short.

In the second branch, it takes him seven days to fall in love with her and seven years for her to die of a curse he cannot stop. At first, he is unsure what to make of this second set of memories, if they're memories at all. They seem real, but surely they cannot be, if the first set of memories was. Or so he believes until he sees himself twist back time. He doesn't fully comprehend the consequences of that, not then and not now, but the memory dredges up so much guilt that he weeps and writhes inside his own mind. He thinks he must be the most selfish person in the world. His choice corrupts not only his own life, but the girl's, and his parents', who are actually copies of himself and the girl, which makes his attraction to her seem twisted somehow. That same choice corrupts other branches in time, other worlds. Images of a dangerous man in black armor and a flighty wizard in a fur coat flicker through his mind. He is a blight on this world, on their world, and even though somewhere in his mind he knows they forgive him, his grief and guilt threaten to pull him under.

His mind turns to other memories, seeking an excuse to keep living. Surely he cannot be the monster those first memories indicate. Surely . . .

His next memories are of the man in black armor. Kurogane is his name, and from the start, Syaoran admires him. He is dangerous and strong and unbreakable. He fights Seishirou to a draw in Outo—Syaoran gets the impression of watching this on some sort of monitor, then demanding to be brought back to the world where Kurogane fights. In another time, another memory, Kurogane and Fai fight each other, and Syaoran lays immobile in pain and terror, knowing that brute force cannot beat magic. Yet Kurogane wins anyway, which suggests Fai is not fighting as hard as he is able. Another fact slides into place: Fai has betrayed them, but he is terrible at betrayals because he cares too deeply and loves too much and holds onto people even when it brings him pain.

Other worlds, other memories. It's all out of order, but gradually, Syaoran finds a way to distinguish between his own memories and the memories of the Other—his father, his clone, his ally, his enemy. In the Other's memories, Kurogane and Fai are nice to him. In his own, they are cold and distant. It takes time to remember Tokyo, to remember the transition between the two, and this method is far from perfect because . . .

Because there are times, after, when his companions are kind to him. Kurogane especially, which seems odd because the ninja has always seemed the least trusting of the group. Yet Syaoran remembers curling up in his arms, their breathing in sync, feeling safe and warm for the first time in so long (and there are memories of his captivity there, too, memories of himself watching some of the very same memories that have invaded his mind). He remembers their mouths pressed together, their hands on each other's bodies, but he also remembers Kurogane buying him a winter coat in Infinity; Kurogane dabbing at his bruised face with a washcloth, his touch gentle, even tender; Kurogane bringing him sandwiches, which seems significant in a way he can't explain.

Syaoran remembers falling in love, and it is the most wonderful thing in the world.

In the sea of memories, he learns things about Kurogane. For one, Kurogane has all the same traits that Syaoran admires in Sakura: compassion, selflessness, bravery. Kurogane carries these virtues differently, but they are there.

His compassion comes in the form of small gestures. When Syaoran is in a wheelchair in Infinity, Kurogane brings him food, wheels him around, and makes his life easier in a thousand tiny ways. When Syaoran feels betrayed in Nihon after a particularly painful night with the ninja, Kurogane brings flowers to his room and sews the torn lace of his silk outfit together (one-handed, with thread that doesn't match, but that's beside the point). When Syaoran tells him about all the horrible things that came about because of his wish to twist back time, Kurogane forgives, and unlike Sakura, who will forgive anyone of anything if they are sincere, forgiveness must always be earned with Kurogane, and so it means much, much more.

Kurogane's selflessness is more evident. In Infinity, he shields Syaoran with his body as Fai's magic threatens to destroy them all. In that same world, a world Syaoran hated almost as much as he hated Tokyo, Kurogane reassures and comforts him, watches over him when he is hurt, sacrifices his time and causes himself great pain and inconvenience to keep Syaoran from falling apart. His selflessness reflects in other ways—he saves Fai's life, becomes the solitary source of sustenance for the damaged vampire he supposedly despises. Later, Syaoran discovers that Kurogane is so selfless that he will sacrifice his own arm for someone he doesn't even like, and that makes him beautiful.

As for bravery . . . well, no one has ever accused Kurogane of being anything less than brave. Syaoran wishes he weren't, sometimes. Next to someone so unflinchingly fearless, Syaoran feels cowardly, despite evidence to the contrary. But he loves him anyway, and . . .

And Kurogane loves him, too. There are a dozen reasons why this shouldn't be, but thousands of reasons—thousands of moments when they are together and everything else seems far away—why it should. And it is for those moments, those reasons, that Syaoran presses through the darkest days of his own life and his father's, through his imprisonment and his clone's enslavement by Fei-Wang Reed. It is for those moments that he pushes against the onslaught of memories, a man standing alone against a hurricane, and forces himself to wake again.

It is for those moments that he chooses to live.

The boy stirred.

Kurogane woke from a light doze in the chair he'd occupied since arriving at the hospital, fully alert in an instant. "Kid?"

The boy's head lolled to the side, but the subtle tension in his face suggested he was on the verge of waking up. Kurogane reached forward, then hesitated. Should he shake the kid awake or let him keep resting? The healers claimed the kid had gone into this coma to facilitate healing, but it was still unnerving, sitting with the boy day and night and never seeing him so much as roll onto his side. Maybe waking him wasn't a good idea, but . . .

Fuck it. It's been six days. "Kid," he repeated softly, curling his fingers around the boy's palm. "Hey. Wake up."

Syaoran's fingers curled over the back of Kurogane's hand. Slowly, he opened his eyes, struggling to focus. He made some sound that might have been the start of a sentence, but the syllables ran together, becoming muddy. Kurogane felt a spike of worry. Fuck. He hadn't expected the kid to be so disoriented. Was that normal? Or did having someone else's memories jammed into your mind make you brain-dead?

At last, the kid's eyes focused on his face. "Kurogane-san . . ."

Thank the gods. "Hey." He clasped the kid's hands between his own. "Hey. Good to see you."

The boy mumbled something, lifting his free hand to his lips. Kurogane couldn't puzzle out what he'd said, but the gesture pretty clearly indicated he wanted something to drink. "I'll go grab you some water. Stay here." Right. Because he's just going to wander off. He'd probably fall on his face if he tried to stand up right now.

On second thought, maybe the warning was necessary. The kid didn't need to add head trauma to his list of injuries. Kurogane hurried out of the room, heading down the hall and drawing some water from the pump at the end of the hallway.

He returned quickly with the glass of water, kneeling next to the bed. The kid had gotten into a sitting position since he'd left, though he still looked dazed, and that made it easy for Kurogane to hold the edge of the glass to the kid's lips and dribble water into his mouth. It didn't occur to him until after the kid had drained the entire glass that he was acting almost . . . motherly. Face warming, he stood, only to sit down in his chair again so he wouldn't loom over the kid. "Do you want more water?"

Syaoran seemed to consider it for a moment, then shook his head. "Are we alone?"

His heart quickened, and he felt a twinge of annoyance at his reaction to such an innocuous question. "More or less. There are people all over the hospital, but I'm the only one who knows you're awake." That won't last long, he thought grimly. The princess will want to know he's awake, and so will the mage. The healers will probably want to check up on him, too.

Syaoran cleared his throat. "You have a really nice smile."

Kurogane's brow furrowed. What?

"When you're happy, I mean," the boy went on. "When you're happy enough to smile, everything about you changes. You become . . . brighter. Like when a prism catches the sun and throws rainbows."

"Uh, kid, this is getting sappy."

Syaoran smiled, then, and his heartbeat drummed faster. Because for a second, he could understand what the kid meant about prisms and rainbows. Because the kid's face really did light up like that when he smiled.

"You don't smile very often," the kid went on, his own smile fading.

Kurogane tensed. If he says one word about how me not smiling is somehow his fault . . .

"I like that about you. That you don't smile very often. It makes me feel like I have to earn it. Like I have to earn your love."

"That's . . ." Kurogane scowled, taking the boy's hand. "You never have to earn my love."

"But there was a point where I did have to earn it. I realized something important, while I was sleeping." The kid rolled onto his side with a wince, and Kurogane reached out to still him before he could hurt himself. Thankfully, Syaoran stopped moving when their eyes met. "There is one thing—one very important thing—that separates you from Sakura."

There were a lot of things that separated the two of them, he thought, but he firmed his jaw and waited for the kid to finish.

"Sakura loves everyone. She loves easily, forgives easily, trusts easily. That's part of what makes her wonderful. It's part of the reason I fell in love with her in the first place. But you . . . None of those things come easily to you. Every day in Infinity, I had to work to earn your approval, and even after we started being together, there were so many times I worried you would never love me in return. The same is true of forgiveness: you rarely forgive. Trust . . . It took you weeks to trust my clone, and months to trust me. My point," he said just as Kurogane opened his mouth, "is that it wasn't easy, getting you to love me. And that's what makes what we have so precious. I know I don't have to work at making you love me anymore. I'm relieved that we've reached that part of our relationship. But if I hadn't had to work at it . . . I don't think I'd love you as strongly as I do now."

Kurogane frowned. "So you're saying you liked the challenge of it."

"I'm saying that the world is a difficult place, and that you can be especially difficult. I'm saying that I would feel . . . empty, without that resistance. I love Sakura. But I don't think I could be with her the same way I can be with you. I would protect her and love her and do nice things for her, but . . . I couldn't take her with me. I have to keep traveling, and she's not . . ."

"Not battle-ready?" Kurogane suggested.

The kid nodded. "I would always have to leave her behind, and every time, I'd worry that she'd follow me. With you, it doesn't have to be that way." He paused, then let his voice drop to a whisper. "Do you . . . Do you understand?"

"You want me to travel with you. To stay with you." Forever.

"Yes."

"Then I will."

"But I don't want to keep you from your home if . . . if you still plan on staying next time we land there."

"If the choice were between staying in my world, not knowing if or when you'd be able to return—if you'd even return within my lifetime—and traveling with you . . . Hell, it's no contest. I'd stay with you even if it meant sleeping outside every night for the rest of my life."

Syaoran's eyes widened. "Really?" he whispered, as if he couldn't quite believe it.

"Yes, really," he said, annoyed. "Did you think it would be any other way?"

The boy regarded him for a few more seconds, then let out a breath. "In that case, I need to talk to Sakura. She needs to know that we're . . . She needs to know," he said, voice firming. "It's time to tell her the truth."