[This, all this while, Akira has known it: these eyes, their smooth facets, are valuable beyond reason. Akira has been digging for this color, this clarity—he has been mining with his bare hands. These eyes should be coveted, and Akira knows now that Sai has seen them for, what, hundreds more games than Akira ever saw. If... He opens his mouth. If you wanted to play like I did, I would have taught you how...
When Shindou leans against him, Akira's body is too pliant, and he has to consciously remind himself not to let them both topple from their chairs. Shindou's head meets his shoulder, and, like he might melt, Akira exhales. It's nearly a shudder. His own hand begins to curl, slowly, fingertips drawing across the tabletop, and, riskier than his most aggressive uchikomi, he rests his head against Shindou's. His eyes close underneath the deep pull of relief. He has more time than he thought, maybe, before he's left alone.
His brain begins to process Shindou's voice. His hand freezes against the table, and his eyes snap back open.]
You're sorry—you're sorry you couldn't give me— Shindou! I told you, didn't I—I did. I said it was enough. That the Go you play is... [His mouth falls open a little bit more, while he pulls back to try and look at Shindou's face.] Enough...
[He stares, still mining for emeralds, taking in all notes of Shindou's pallor. There is nobody else who can understand this, and so he needs to understand it, right now, right now. He's thinking back to all he knows of Shindou, all he has filed away, trying to pick what to sift through first, until he grabs at the binder again. He separates its stack of kifu to its final pages all at once, and scans one of the last games with frantic eyes, an index finger. Comparing Shindou to Sai... the next page, too... At last, he turns to the final game. He looks at it without touching it, and then he wrenches his arm away from the cradle of Shindou's hand.
It's so he can grasp at Shindou's sleeve, instead, fingers a flurry.] You're mourning, [he breathes, with the alarm of true revelation.]
no subject
When Shindou leans against him, Akira's body is too pliant, and he has to consciously remind himself not to let them both topple from their chairs. Shindou's head meets his shoulder, and, like he might melt, Akira exhales. It's nearly a shudder. His own hand begins to curl, slowly, fingertips drawing across the tabletop, and, riskier than his most aggressive uchikomi, he rests his head against Shindou's. His eyes close underneath the deep pull of relief. He has more time than he thought, maybe, before he's left alone.
His brain begins to process Shindou's voice. His hand freezes against the table, and his eyes snap back open.]
You're sorry—you're sorry you couldn't give me— Shindou! I told you, didn't I—I did. I said it was enough. That the Go you play is... [His mouth falls open a little bit more, while he pulls back to try and look at Shindou's face.] Enough...
[He stares, still mining for emeralds, taking in all notes of Shindou's pallor. There is nobody else who can understand this, and so he needs to understand it, right now, right now. He's thinking back to all he knows of Shindou, all he has filed away, trying to pick what to sift through first, until he grabs at the binder again. He separates its stack of kifu to its final pages all at once, and scans one of the last games with frantic eyes, an index finger. Comparing Shindou to Sai... the next page, too... At last, he turns to the final game. He looks at it without touching it, and then he wrenches his arm away from the cradle of Shindou's hand.
It's so he can grasp at Shindou's sleeve, instead, fingers a flurry.] You're mourning, [he breathes, with the alarm of true revelation.]