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Kung Lao keeps his footsteps as silent as possible over the rocky ground outside the academy’s walls. Despite his youth- though as he often reminds himself, he is almost ten, so really he is not so young at all- he treats the art of stealth with utmost seriousness. A sliver of orange between the leaves of a bush serves as a dead giveaway, and he reaches in to grab the back of another boy’s collar and pull him from his hiding place.
“Got you!” he crows in victory. The smaller boy- a sour-faced child called Wei who Kung Lao finds too mopey by half- sighs and rolls his eyes.
“Fine, fine,” he says, muttering something that sounds like “shouldn’t have played anyways” as he walks toward the gate. Kung Lao isn’t certain if the boy is talking about him or himself- either one seems just as likely. The other children do not dare to be cruel to him as they sometimes are to each other, but they also seem reluctant to be too familiar with him. Their concerns are those of children whose futures are a mystery to look forward to, while Kung Lao carries the legacy of his family like a boulder, the mark on his shoulder blade singling him out like a flashing neon sign. He has no such choice ahead of him- he knows even now what he has to be, and the pressure forces him to train harder, be better than the others his age, even some who are older. Better to grow up now and be aloof as they expect him to be, rather than trying to laugh and play and join in only to see their faces drop at the sight of him.
But today he had, mostly for the benefit of the boy only recently put under his charge. It is strange to be without his little shadow, but he had insisted that Liu Kang join the game with him, if only so that the other boys would not tease him for fearing to. Liu Kang is still an enigma in some ways- quiet, withdrawn, the marks Kung Lao had seen scattered across his skin speaking more of his life before the Academy than he has yet been willing to say aloud. But there is none of the others’ reverent distance toward Kung Lao in him- he has been told of Kung Lao’s ancestor since he arrived, but to him it is merely a story like any other, the weight of it entirely absent. To him, Kung Lao is simply the person who makes him feel safest.
Kung Lao has never been that for anyone before. It is a different weight to bear, but somehow just as important. And at the same time, it is freeing to have a companion who expects nothing more of him save what another child can give.
He has never been able to be that, either.
The game is winding down with the sunset, and the smell of the evening meal has begun to waft enticingly from the school’s communal kitchen. Kung Lao sits for a moment upon a large stone, eyes scanning every choice hiding spot on the grounds. All have been emptied once again of their occupants, but it is strange that Liu Kang has not yet found his way back to him.
Where is he?
“Kung Lao!” comes a rough but genial voice booming across the courtyard. “Enough play, it is time to eat.” Master Bo’ Rai Cho’s hands are damp and clean from washing after training, his sleeves rolled up in preparation- though as usual, he smells as though he has already begun his own evening meal in liquid form. It would be disrespectful to wrinkle his nose, so Kung Lao hides it by tilting his head down in a bow.
“Yes, Master.” He nearly follows, but pauses, searching the crowd of identically-dressed boys for a particularly small, bony frame and frowning when he cannot find it. “I- Master, has Liu Kang returned with the others?”
Master Bo’ Rai Cho frowns, crossing his thick arms over his chest. “Is it not your responsibility to know that, Lao?”
Kung Lao tries to keep his shoulders square and sure, even as his heart begins to race uncomfortably. It is, and he doesn’t. “...You are right. I…” he swallows around a suddenly dry throat. “May I have a few more minutes to look for him? He is new, he must not know yet when to come in for dinner.”
Master Bo’ Rai Cho quirks an eyebrow, surely not fooled by such a poor show of nonchalance. “Go,” he says, and the set of his mouth softens. He, too, is fond of the little boy he had brought back cradled in his arms, wrapped in his coat like a stray cat. Kung Lao will have disappointed him too, if he has allowed any harm to come to his shī dì. “If you cannot find him before dark, come back. We will form a search party if we must.”
Kung Lao nods, jaw clenched with determination, and sets off past the gates into the twilight.
He checks every last nook and cranny in the direction he had seen Liu Kang walk away, behind every tree, under every pile of leaves, and for a time it is almost still a game- thinking that in every spot he will find him and laugh, feeling silly for worrying so much. But as the sun dips lower in the sky and the shadows of the trees lengthen- and as he wanders further and further from the temple grounds- his stomach begins to twist with true fear. The silhouette of the academy is long out of sight, and there is more and more ground to cover as the smattering of vegetation thickens into dim woods. He will surely be longer than the few minutes he had asked for, and he already expects a reprimand at the very least when he returns, but that is the least of what concerns him now. Liu Kang had not wanted to play, Kung Lao had made him, and Liu Kang’s trust of him seems so fragile- and perhaps not deserved at all if Kung Lao has managed to lose him like this.
And if anything has happened to him-
Kung Lao is pulled from his frantic thoughts by a tiny sound, barely audible, yet clearly not part of the gentle hum of the wind and insects. A small, sharp intake of breath, then a familiar sniffle, like the one he hears from the curled form beside him in the night when Liu Kang thinks he is asleep. He lets out the breath he had not even realized he was holding and follows it.
Eventually, he finds Liu Kang curled in the hollow between the gnarled roots of a great old tree, face and clothes streaked with mud, looking as though he is trying to ball himself into the smallest space possible. The gap is barely big enough for Kung Lao to squeeze in beside him, and his eyes grow wide and wild at the intrusion, as though it takes him a moment to recognize that the older boy is someone he knows, someone safe.
“Shī dì,” Kung Lao breathes, relief audible in his voice despite trying to sound at least a little like one of the masters giving a scolding. “What are you doing out here? Why did you not return once it got dark?”
Liu Kang does not seem to be able to answer, at least not at first. He has not looked so panicked since his first days in their care, and his breathing comes in shallow little gasps, fingers clutching at the too-long sleeves that engulf his hands when not rolled up. “I…” he begins, voice tiny and so fearful that Kung Lao cannot help the guilt that creeps up on him. He should have paid better attention. “I did not mean to go so far, I….I tried to go back but I couldn’t see the temple anymore and I went the wrong way and-”
He’s babbling hopelessly now, tears welling in dark eyes that are still too hollow for a child, and Kung Lao reaches for one of his hands. For an awful moment, he recoils like he fears Kung Lao will strike him- and how many times must that have happened for him to expect it like this?- but then he loosens his vice grip on the orange fabric and allows Kung Lao to lace their fingers together.
“Shhh,” he soothes, feeling distinctly out of his depth, but unwilling to just sit and do nothing while his companion cries. “You didn’t mean to.” He can feel the mud soaking through his pants as he traces the jut of Liu Kang’s knuckles with his thumb, but it will take far more than that to make him move away now. After a quiet minute between them, he tugs Liu Kang’s hand and shifts to his knees. “Come on, let’s get back.”
But when he makes to stand, Liu Kang tugs back hard and refuses to budge. Kung Lao opens his mouth and nearly lets something irritable come out, but the other boy’s face silences him. His breathing is still too quick, too shallow, and his eyes are fixed somewhere in the roots and bark, looking through them as though he is seeing another place or time to which Kung Lao cannot go. He seems frozen, as though his legs will not straighten to lift him. Kung Lao does not know what to do for him, so he does the only thing he can- he kneels back down in the mud and reaches for Liu Kang’s other hand.
“Do you want me to just...sit with you for now?”
Liu Kang nods.
So he does, and to fill the silence, he speaks, murmuring about everything and nothing- what the monks are cooking for dinner tonight, which herbs he has been taught to blend together to make a strengthening tea, the time he had found a mother cat and her kittens hidden in a closet and held one of them in his hands, so tiny it was still blind to the world. He says nothing of his life before the Academy- it seems cruel to invite comparison, and it conjures an odd pang of sadness to think of those days himself. It feels sometimes like he has had two lives, one before and one after, the life before growing hazier and farther away by the day.
Kung Lao’s memories are as warm and wistful as Liu Kang’s are dark, yet there is no going back for either of them. But they have each other now, and that is something.
He loses track of the time after a while, as the shade of the tree deepens until they can barely see each other in the darkness, but eventually Liu Kang’s trembling calms, and the frantic clutch of his hands loosens. Kung Lao realizes suddenly that this is the first time he has spoken to Liu Kang of such trivial things in the weeks since they met. He has been so focused on getting the boy healthy and fed after his brush with death, teaching him the ways of the Academy, pushing him to begin his training. He has been perhaps too sharp, too stern- too busy trying to be a good shī xiōng to have time to simply be a friend.
It is not too late to start over.
When Liu Kang’s voice finally returns, it is soft and raspy. “...I’m sorry.”
Kung Lao shakes his head. “It’s alright. I am not angry with you. No one will be, I promise.” And if anyone is, he will make certain that all of it falls on him- he is the one who deserves it. He squeezes Liu Kang’s hands again, and this time, the eyes that look back are present and focused and seem to truly see him. He offers a reassuring smile, and murmurs, “Just...do not stray so far next time.”
Silent again, Liu Kang nods, but this time Kung Lao thinks that he catches the tiniest hint of a smile in return- the first he has seen on that gaunt, solemn little face. Perhaps it is merely a trick of the shifting shadows. But it is a beginning.
---
It is long past dinner by the time they make it back. Liu Kang clings to Kung Lao’s back, wrung out and half asleep, and Kung Lao carries him as easily as though he were made of straw- he weighs little more than if he were. It will be a long journey to get him into fighting shape, but Kung Lao promises himself then and there that he will not allow him to be left behind. The courtyard is quiet and empty as he walks slowly through, leaving a trail of dirt and muddy footprints that he will certainly have to scrub before bed. Liu Kang’s small feet dangle and sway, heels bumping Kung Lao’s thighs with each step, so at least there is only one set.
He pokes his head into the silent dining hall and, at the end of the closest table, finds two bowls of rice, and a third of cold tofu and vegetables left over from the evening’s meal. Beside them sits a note that Kung Lao recognizes as Master Li Bing’s sharp, immaculate handwriting- a glance confirms that it is a list of the extra drills he will be expected to complete in the morning to make up for what he had missed after dinner (plus extra, he does not doubt). He sighs, but cannot bring himself to sulk for more than a moment. What he did tonight matters much more.
They will have to find Master Bo’ Rai Cho and the others and account for themselves, but the sudden rumble of his stomach tells him that can wait a few more minutes. When Liu Kang gives no response to either the food or their surroundings, Kung Lao nudges the smaller boy’s shaven head with his own, receiving a sleepy little groan in return. It makes him smile.
“Wake up,” he murmurs. “You’re home.”