[Something honest, huh. Hikaru shoves the sweet bun back into his mouth, stifling a response before it can strike anywhere. It's hard not to take that comment as a personal slight, which just tells him he's being too sensitive, as usual. The worse he feels about himself, the easier it is to feel like the entire world is out to get him... But that doesn't change the fact he hasn't been honest with Touya. Believe it or not, he doesn't want to hide things from Touya, but it's a matter of pure instinct at this point. It's another form of protecting himself from ridicule, or contempt.
He chews, swallows, and chews some more, all while directing Touya down the sidewalk in the direction they came from.] Yeah, well... [He can't think of anything to say that won't incriminate him, so he just sighs and shakes his head a little. His bleached bangs sway into his eyes, then, and he really notices they're longer than ever, badly in need of a trim. Not now. Later. If not later today, then sometime tomorrow. It'll be fine. As long as he can convince himself to get out of bed, it'll be fine.]
If you want to take me literally, then sure, whatever, you're not wrong... [But even when Touya screws up and misses an otherwise obvious atekomi, Hikaru has felt less and less like berating him for it. On his worst day, in his most poorly played game, Touya Akira will be a hundred times the player that Shindou Hikaru is. Self-righteousness is just about impossible to hold on to when that's also a fact of life.] But I don't think most people could do what you're doing right now. That has to count for something, right?
[His other hand brushes up against Touya's elbow, in what can't be and somehow still is an intimate gesture.]
[Akira's really wondering how fine it'll be, and when. He's been wondering that in increasing spikes over the past few weeks—seems like longer, has been mounting all along, but he sees in himself that it's frazzling him, now. He feels like—Shindou, it's fine, I'll drive. Slipping into the driver's seat, watching Shindou slouch into the passenger's. And, somehow, Akira cannot hold onto the steering wheel. The faster they go, the more Akira loses his grip, the worse their swerves grow, the closer they come to smashing into a telephone pole. And it's not like Shindou is taking the wheel, either. Akira thought it was that way, at first, that Shindou was trying to steer everything himself. He realizes now that Shindou is barely even watching where they're going. Shindou isn't even wearing his seat belt.
...Ashiwara-san has got to stop reading excerpts from the driver's handbook. He tries reminding Ashiwara-san that he's not going to be eligible to drive for a couple of years yet, but Ashiwara-san just talks about how nice it would be to go on a drive. Nobody else in the room will even really acknowledge that sort of thing from him, and Akira has found himself sighing, thinking it might not be bad to drive Ashiwara-san along the coast, once he learns how.
Meanwhile, he's pretty sure the brakes have given out, for himself and Shindou.
Akira only makes a noncommittal hum in his throat, first off. It's not dismissive—he just won't commit to speech, when his steps slow, until he stops completely. He expects Shindou to do the same, and it's clear in his own body language: he turns a few degrees, facing nearer to Shindou but still partially away. He keeps his arm, his elbow, exactly at the touch of Shindou's hand. It's less like he doesn't mind that it's there, and more like he refuses to move from it. What he says doesn't sound like a response to anything Shindou has said, but it is one:]
You look bad. You know that, right?
[It's a response to everything Shindou has said, and everything Shindou has done, this morning and yesterday and for quite some time now. It's a criticism, it is one, but it's also a demand, and, through the thick of it, apprehension branches out like veins. Most people, Shindou says, like he's putting Akira far away. Akira wants to shake him.]
[As they slow down to a stop, stalling out together, Hikaru is more and more aware of the people pushing past them. He doesn't know why they're stopping here, or what he might have said wrong--he couldn't have said anything disrespectful. He meant all of that as a compliment, and that much should be more than obvious. In case something happens to him, he wants Touya to know it was a privilege ever getting to know him in the first place...
It's still annoying that Touya is the slightest bit taller than he is. He has to tilt his head whenever he looks into Touya's eyes, just as he does now, wary but watchful. But then, before he can ask what the problem is, Touya stabs him right in the chest. That's what it feels like, honest to god, and that's what he's convinced of. He's expecting to find blood all over his shirt when he erratically looks down and then off to the side, no longer seeing the pedestrians or anyone else at all. His field of view has shrunk down down to this one horrifying confrontation.]
W-What's with you... saying that, all of a sudden... [Hikaru might be smiling right now, smiling in sheer disbelief, but he can't figure out if he is or not. His lips are numb.] What makes you think you can just... just come out, and say that to me, like... [The chill of exsanguination causes him to him shiver and draw his arms into himself, far away from Touya. He isn't sure where his hot chocolate or his sweet bun have gone off to; he can't really feel if his hands are still full.] Just because I've been having a--a rough go of things--that doesn't mean you should-- ["Rough night, eh, Shindou?" Waya asked, laughing at the sight of Hikaru's sullen, sleepless face. Waya tended to poke fun at him on the days they had matches together, not realizing a rough night had preceded that one, and another one before that. Not realizing those rough nights were all related and relentless and fucking endless, threatening to drive Hikaru out of his mind.
So what's with Touya thinking he can just point it out like he would a bit of food stuck in someone's teeth? No, scratch that--Touya would be a hell of a lot more polite when doing that kind of thing.]
You don't have to be such a jerk, Touya.
[Not just offended, but deeply wounded, Hikaru can only stare at his shoes and refuse to make eye contact. His shoelaces aren't even tied the way they should be--one looks like it could turn into a tripping hazard. Touya might be the biggest and stupidest jerk in the universe, but he isn't wrong about what he just said. Hikaru used to take pride in his appearance, from his designer jeans to his well-groomed hair, because it felt good for him to look as good as possible. It's yet one more part of his personality that has been swallowed up by his obsession with a dead man.]
[It's quick, rushed, one of those too-fast text messages on a too-bright screen. At once, Akira is seething. He feels like maybe he shouldn't be, but Shindou is refusing to look at him—he refused for so long, and he's refusing now. Akira wants to scream at him. Really, actually scream, maybe not even with words, maybe with words—Look at me right now. Right now. I need you to see me. The seething gets worse, and Akira huffs out a hot hiss of breath through his teeth, which he thinks might start to crack for how hard he's clamping his jaw. The bakery bag in the crook of his arm is heavy like lead, now. It's toxic like lead. All of his strength is put into holding it up; there's no strength left to keep his voice low inside his lungs.]
Then why didn't you say it's been rough, why didn't you tell— Why do you never tell— [Me, he means, and maybe that's evident in the awful volume coming out of his mouth. He's shameless about that, by the way. He cannot heed it.] I said it all of a sudden because all of a sudden, today, you're here, when you haven't been here! So when I see you, [finally, he means, in a distressingly desperate way,] you're like this... What am I supposed to think, Shindou?
[That's honest. That's earnest. At this point, he just wants Shindou to tell him which train of thought to choose. Give him somewhere to start, at least.
Swallowing hurts. He feels a little sick with saliva, but his throat is dry regardless. The breath he takes is shaky; his whole body is shaking, he realizes. Hard to tell whether it's rage or anxiety. But his voice is reduced to a creak when he says,] I was waiting for you until today. But you didn't even bring all of yourself with you. I saw you when you studied that game! When you watched the goban, your face was Shindou's face. But now, you're still... [There's a scary moment when he doesn't know what to do with his hands; he wants to touch Shindou, but he's holding too much from the bakery. It actually does scare him. If he doesn't reach out right now, he might not get the opportunity again. Some insane nerve pulled tight in his brain is telling him that.
So he just cannot care about how dramatic it is when he drops his paper cup of green tea onto the sidewalk. It sprays a small arc of droplets onto his pants, but it wouldn't matter to him even if he noticed it. He can only grab at the first part of Shindou's shirt he can reach. His grip is flimsy, even though his knuckles are white; his hand trembles hard.]
What's so good about your bedroom? [The strain in his voice is like splitting lumber.
I'm right here.
It's written in the pinch of his eyebrows, the deer-frantic shine of his eyes, and if Shindou doesn't look at him and read those things right now, Akira is going to throw this bag of bread into the gutter. He's trying to grip harder at Shindou's shirt, but his hand is ineffective, just rice paper.]
If you wanted to come get my book with me, why didn't you do it?
[Hikaru doesn't want to look at Touya right now. He really, seriously, sincerely does not want to look in Touya's direction. It's taking everything in him to not look up, to keep looking away, even after Touya takes hold of his shirt in a last-ditch effort to prove he's fed up with this. But then, all at once, the sick and morbid fascination of seeing a trainwreck up close drains Hikaru of the last of his willpower. He looks up, his eyes half-closed, even more glazed over, into that senseless burning tragedy that he can practically feel the heat of. He's seeing a reflection of his own wreckage, he realizes. The fear in Touya's eyes, written all over his face, practically oozing from his pores, could be the same fear that prevented Hikaru from leaving his room for more than a week. He opens his mouth, then closes it, a million excuses ready to go and none of them coming. His throat feels like it's been sealed by a mysterious force. He makes a pitiful sound, then, like a wounded animal, knowing it can't get to safety but trying to anyway. It's with that same useless strength that he tries to get away from Touya, taking one half-step back, then another--
He ends up bumping into someone else behind him, just another person on another daily commute, and it's too much of a shock for his bound-to-break nerves. Something snaps. He prefers his bedroom, Touya, because it's a quiet place, and it's secluded, and "I'll eat later" guarantees he won't be bothered for a blessed while. It's nothing like your high-octane and high-octave shrieking about stuff that doesn't matter. It's nothing like car horns or street vendors or the people on their cell phones swarming everywhere, just talking and talking and talking. Maybe the worst part about this is how superficial everything feels. How unreal it feels. If he could reach that high, he's pretty sure he could pull down the backdrop of this moment and reveal it's nothing more than a bunch of actors on a set with a fucking Z-list script. The only person who does feel real is Touya, always Touya, Touya Touya Touya, as brilliant as he is foolish, as foolish as he is brilliant. He's always in the wrong place at the wrong time.]
Touya...
[When Hikaru speaks up, it feels like an eternity has passed, even though it's only been a few seconds. His voice doesn't sound like his own. He doesn't even know what he's saying anymore. He says, haltingly,] With everything else going on... I didn't want to... give you too much to worry about, I guess. [So far, so good. If he can just placate Touya, he can go home after this and stay in bed until he literally atrophies.] I've already caused all these problems and I'm just... I just wanted to go away until I'm--I'm better, a lot better, and I'm not... not like I am now, not causing problems, and... [Something wet hits his face, and he's stupid enough to wonder if it's raining. The tears spilling out of his eyes only come faster after that. (When he was a baby, he cried a lot. He cried constantly. His parents decided to leave him in his crib, crying his eyes out, because surely he'd get tired of it and learn not to rely on them so much.)]
J-Just give me more time, Touya. I just need some more time to improve my game. I'll be fine after that.
[He can't even comprehend that Touya cares about more than whether or not he's still playing Go.]
[Every word from Shindou's mouth feels like brick upon brick upon brick stacked at Akira's shoulders. The gap between their heights is going to close fast, and then reopen in the opposite direction. Akira will have to stare a long way, head tilted too far back, if he wants to keep watching Shindou's face. That's going to happen if he sinks as far as he knows he deserves to sink.
He doesn't have it in him to keep yelling, now. The trembling in him, too, is waning, weighed down. The anger in his face hasn't ebbed, but it's transformed. It's deeper, but quieter, and its depth and quiet give life to dark, murky colors. Akira's face holds the same grim expanse of trying to look down into the bottom of a lake. He exhales, shakily, and then inhales. He doesn't breathe out again until he's sure he can do it without shaking. The accomplishment of a smooth breath permits him to speak.]
Shindou. [Saying Shindou's name feels like a privilege Akira shouldn't have right now, but he wants it to be rightfully his.] Come on. Come over here.
[In childhood, Akira sometimes wanted to catch birds. They were so small, seemed to be so soft, and he wished to hold them in his hands. He'd tiptoe toward them, heart full of promises to be gentle, not wanting to scare away such a dear thing. Reapproaching Shindou makes Akira feel like his hands are that small again. Like his hands are those of a small child's, even when his promises aren't as pure. But as long as Shindou doesn't fly away...
Akira's fingertips find Shindou's elbow, their touch a declaration of presence, of intent, and then his whole hand slides and curls to cradle the elbow's point. He's not dragging or pushing Shindou away—he's just trying to guide him. There's the edge of an awning, two buildings fit nearly together at their corners, offering a moment removed from other human beings.
Even when he's no longer guiding Shindou by the elbow, navigating through the paths of pedestrians, Akira stays drawn in close. He stays close so he can slip his handkerchief out of his jacket pocket—so he can press the folded cloth, soft and such a dark blue, against one of Shindou's cheeks.] You didn't even ask me if I wanted you to go away. [His voice has the qualities of the cloth: the softness, the darkness. He's ashamed of himself for doing this to Shindou, for scaring him so badly. He saw that in Shindou, rearing back, colliding with passersby just because he wanted to get away from Akira—real fear. Meanwhile, the cold steel coil that comes just before fear is winding tight in Akira's own gut, for the words working their way out of him.] Did you mean—all this time—did you want me to go away? I don't...
[Understand. Want that. Know what to do.]
You're not fine right now, [he confirms, at last. The words scrape his throat raw when they come out of him. He hopes at least that his own flesh wears down their edges, so they'll be softer when they're out in the air. He moves his handkerchief to the other side of Shindou's face.] I'm mad. Are you mad?
[Despite how very afraid he still is, Hikaru doesn't try to stop Touya from touching him again. He doesn't try to fly away, either, and he couldn't fly away, even if he wanted to. His body feels more like a series of crumbling cinder blocks than hollowed-out bones and soft, streamlined feathers. It's painful enough just stumbling in Touya's wake, following him over to the awning and its brief promise of privacy. Yet again, he's following Touya's lead because he's incapable of an original thought. Yet again, it's Touya who knows what to do, and how to do it, and how to do it a million times better than he does. This is the sort of thing that makes him want to cry all the time, now that he understands the distance between them. Touya is standing pretty close to him right now, for now, though, almost too close for comfort. Close enough to see how he's engraved with concerns all over, like the sculpture of a world-weary saint. It didn't even occur to Hikaru to wipe at his tears, but Touya's got a handkerchief and he's doing it for him. He didn't fully realize he was crying until Touya's voice pitched low like it just did, like Touya was trying to talk him down from the edge of a building.
He wouldn't blame Touya if Touya did want him to go away. He's put Touya through so much over the years, just so much bullshit, (pathological lies,) (half-baked promises,) (poorly played games,) and it'd be easier if Touya hated him for it like he must have in the beginning. Instead of saying so, Hikaru sucks in a breath and says this:] No, no, that's not what I meant. That's not it, at all. Touya, it's not... [He sounds a little faint, a little dizzy, maybe getting dizzier from exerting himself. His fingers curl into his shaky, sweaty palms, which proves he lost his hot chocolate and his sweet bun at some point...] Shit, I wouldn't even be here if it weren't for you... [And he means that in more ways than just one.
At Touya's question, he starts to nod, then hesitates, then kind of shakes his head, before finally looking frustrated with himself. He doesn't know what he's feeling other than not fine with an extra helping of physical, mental, and spiritual exhaustion.]
I'm sorry.
[An unqualified apology, then. That's a rare move for Shindou Hikaru.]
Maybe I should've listened to you on the whole sleeping thing.
[The muscles of Akira's hand are tight, nearly cramping, for all his tension, but by some miracle, he manages to make only careful contact with Shindou's face. Even while he moves with the wooden anxiety of one handling a bird's egg, he blots his handkerchief against either side of Shindou's jaw, and then finally at his chin. At last, he finds one of Shindou's hands, and tries his best to uncurl his jittery fingers. He wants to press his handkerchief into Shindou's palm.]
You could stand to do a little listening.
[Akira would rather Shindou defer to obedience than to be stubborn and then apologize later. Probably. Except when Akira thinks about that stubbornness, something slips through his rib cage alongside all the frustration—some line like a thin river edges through the exhaustion, and fans out the further it goes, creating a delta too like aspiration. Too like yearning after a goal. It's fertile, against Akira's will, and it's only going to get more lush. There's no stopping it, save for a catastrophic drought.
Akira doesn't sound angry anymore, at least. He isn't about to pitch into a yell. But his voice regains a familiar quality: a fraying bow wielded over an out-of-tune violin... The pressure in his chest must be excruciating. He swallows, which doesn't help enough.]
At least tell me what I should be doing.
[If he's going to be a reason for Shindou to be here, Akira needs to know how to wield and cultivate that power. If he wins titles, will Shindou pursue him? If he travels for study, will Shindou agree to wait as many days as it takes? If he buys a book, one honest and without pretense, can he tell Shindou to take a turn reading it, too?]
[Hikaru's hands seem like they're just as stubborn as the rest of him, refusing to cooperate, at all, right up until they do. Now he's holding Touya's handkerchief, which is surprisingly soft, and it's warm, too, having been nestled against Touya for however long. He never expected anything like this. God damn, even his own mother wouldn't have done this for him... Another tear falls, and this time Hikaru has the presence of mind to wipe it away on his own, with the edge of the handkerchief. His shoulders jump up a little at the same time, maybe from trying to suppress a sob--he's trying harder to hold himself together. A full-blown identity crisis is the last thing he wanted Touya to see today.]
I-- I don't know.
[If he knew something like that, he'd also know how to help himself, and none of this would be happening right now. It's funny in a pathetic way, actually, to hear Touya asking him what he's supposed to be doing. Touya would've rather eaten his own shoe than follow Hikaru's advice about that nozoki the other day. So to ask about something even more complicated than a board state...]
But what I do know... is... [He exhales audibly: not as soft as a sigh, but it lacks the heart of real laughter. It's some bastardization of wonder and disbelief.] You have got to be the nicest person I've ever met, Touya. I don't think there's more you could be doing, because you're already... [He smiles in a way that can only be described as heartbreaking. Adjusting the handkerchief, he pushes back against the fresh threat of tears.] Like, the guys n-never believe me when I say you're really nice. They think you're just... like you're an arrogant prince looking down on a bunch of peasants, but that's like... so wrong, as wrong as it can get, like... [You deserve a lot better than this.
If Sai had haunted Touya instead, Touya would have been unstoppable. Literally unstoppable. He also would have been a good person throughout it all, because he's inherently a good person. Whatever cloth he's cut from, it's what Hikaru wishes he could wrap himself up in. It's what Hikaru covets just as much as Touya's strong ability to play Go. The more time he spends with Touya, the more he hopes Touya's goodness will simply rub off on him... Maybe that's why he's resting his forehead against Touya's shoulder now, with one hand grasping his brand-new jacket, anchoring him there. He could fall asleep like this, probably. It wouldn't be such a bad thing.
His voice floats up from the space in between their bodies:]
You're gonna give yourself a hernia, Touya. Just stop thinking about it for a while.
[Shindou's smile is such that Akira purses his lips. If he does that, maybe the sound of breakage in his chest won't come up out of his mouth. This doesn't make sense to him. For things to have gone this far, to have gotten this bad—Shindou spends time with other people. He's spent much more time with other people than he ever has with Akira. What are all of them missing? What has everyone, including Akira, been missing all this while? He can only say,] Oh. [It's tight, of course, all of his being in knots. What he means is: You don't know the half of what they think of me. That's all right. Akira didn't know the half of it, either, for a long time. Kaio Middle School was eye opening, and he felt like an idiot for having them closed as long as he did.
Akira's mother had bought him that handkerchief. That, and several others. He's had one in his pocket since childhood; he was taught that it's simply the appropriate thing to do. Carry a handkerchief. When he was small, they were in soft colors, or light colors. These days, they look more and more like the ones his father carries. He hasn't put much thought into them before this—it's simply the appropriate thing. That's all. But this morning, seeing his own handkerchief in Shindou's hand, at Shindou's face, he's relieved for it. It's more than appropriate: it's right.]
Shindou... [As if in rebellion, Akira's brain goes into overdrive. Thinking about where to place his hand shouldn't be as trepidatious as thinking about where to place a stone during a game stacked against him. He can't make his breathing sound normal when Shindou is this close. He doesn't even try. His inhale is discordant, but deep, as if he can catch a little of Shindou's voice from the air.] You don't just stop thinking about things. [Or so he seems to believe. That belief probably explains a lot about him. He wets his bottom lip with his tongue, and then decides to just settle his teeth against it, instead. So too comes the settling of his hand, his hand so far from lax, his hand trying to curve like proper flesh. He finds Shindou's elbow again, but then slips his hand just slightly higher, fitting his fingers against the angle of Shindou's arm.]
There's plenty more I could be doing. [In all things, but...] Shindou, when I said what I said, about you looking... [You don't have to be such a jerk. And then, I say you're really nice. Akira's thumb settles a little firmer against Shindou's arm. Not hard, but almost like a request.] I can't just stop thinking. I was already thinking, before I saw you today.
[It's an amazing privilege to be able to listen to Touya breathe. Up close and personal, even. These are the lungs that draw in oxygen, and that's the oxygen that enters his bloodstream, which flows up to his brain and lets him to do all his brilliant thinking. For Hikaru, when he inhales, he's mostly trying to learn something new about Touya. There's the faint trace of cigarette smoke from time spent in study sessions and Go salons, but also... the leather jacket, of course, but also... Touya himself. Warm, a little bitter, but ultimately bright and clean. Hikaru wants so badly to smear this scent all over his body (and maybe that's obscene, and maybe he doesn't care if it is). He's pressing his face closer, more insistently, as if he can make that happen for real.]
I told you... I thought I told you, I've been having a rough time with some stuff... I know I didn't tell you before, so I'm telling you now, so you don't have to yell at me. [Touya can say hurtful things to him--cruel things--downright savage things--but they never outweigh the miracle that is knowing him. It isn't like Touya is trying to be sadistic when he insults his Go or his appearance or whatever else. Touya wants him to be a better person, that's all. To make some improvements. The way his mind works, Touya is always looking for things to improve. That's why it's so scary when Hikaru looks at himself in the mirror and realizes he's at a standstill, if not already regressing.] It feels like... there's a mountain I have to climb, and I don't have any way of doing it. No gear, no tools, no nothing. I don't even know where to begin. [Yeah, he's still winning more games than not, but that doesn't change how paralyzed he feels inside...] Every time I think about it, I just want to go to sleep instead... but I can't sleep, so I end up staying awake... I'd give anything to sleep right now...
[And then, with renewed vigor, with actual spite in his voice,]
It sounds so stupid when I say it out loud, right?
[Sai probably never wasted his time on existential bullshit like this.]
[A single move, if unexpected, can change a game completely. Akira has known this for the whole of his life. With Shindou's insistent closeness, all that occurs to Akira is how close they are—closer than usual, but not so close as the time Shindou brought their faces together, their mouths together. It was abrupt. It was one of those game-changers. Akira didn't know what he should do—I'm trying to do the things I need to do—in return. Shindou parted from him, and Akira was unbearably aware of every part of that: the dryness of Shindou's bottom lip, and the resistance from Akira's skin in separating from it; the give of his own mouth returning to its fullness when relieved just from that bare pressure; his lips parting once Shindou left them, and the peep from Akira that followed Shindou's retreat. Maybe it was an aborted protest that Akira couldn't justify as truth, or maybe it was just surprise let free. But, that night, Akira lay awake in his futon, replaying his own little sound in his head too many times. For all Shindou's arguing against whatever nozoki Akira might play, Akira had never made a sound like that in response. He might snap, or yell, or...]
I'm not yelling at you. [Not now, anyway. He doesn't know that he needs to; he fears his heart is loud like the sort of siren that heralds a natural disaster, calling for evacuation. Shindou is never this close when Akira is playing a game, so Shindou has no way of knowing that Akira's heart riots into action like this when an amazing opponent presents a kodate Akira doesn't immediately know how to respond to. Akira can feel its quickness all through him, but he manages to keep his hand steady at Shindou's arm, just as he manages to place stones with grace even when adrenaline fills every groove in his brain. What should I do next? Or, why did you do that back then? Or, why haven't you done it again? Always: what should I do?]
What's your mountain? [Tightly, Akira confesses,] I don't... understand. [And he hates confessing it, because he hates not understanding, but he doesn't think he ever will understand if Shindou doesn't give him a fighting chance of it. If it's Go, why wouldn't Shindou feel like he's climbing higher and higher? Even when he does stupid things, it's breathtaking to watch Shindou's sleeplessness distill into keen focus when he's kneeling before a goban...
Akira shifts in place. He doesn't want to shift away from Shindou, but he doesn't know what will happen if he shifts closer. So: left foot to right foot. The useless bakery bag crinkles in the crook of his arm, but his other hand slides firm and further along Shindou's bicep.]
You do seem very tired. Whether it's stupid or not, it's not good for you.
[Important moves, even novel ones, don't necessarily change the whole game around them. For Hikaru, that kiss wasn't so much a game-changer as it was a natural development. Something like that made perfect sense when he looked over at Touya, bent over the same kifu as him, in the middle of discussing a difficult path through yose. He felt like kissing Touya just because he felt like he'd enjoy it. At the time, they were visiting the Nihon Ki-in's kifu room, the one with all the oldest compilations... It was a haunting place, a special place, painful but also inspiring like a memorial. The room had a certain feeling to it, this pressure to it, all the weight of so many games; it made him think seriously about how he wanted to play Touya forever. Somehow, and he doesn't know how exactly, he started thinking about how much he liked the way Touya's hair fell across his eyes as he studied the pages. And he liked Touya's voice, with its spirited undertow, which could've swept Hikaru away if only he let it. And he liked the shape of Touya's mouth, too, and he liked it even more after it made that little sound in protest or surprise or maybe delight... He has wondered just how much of himself he's revealed in the time since then. Just how much Touya might want him to do it again. Playing against Touya, a daring atari at 16-2 can say, I want to touch you all over. Tengen is always its own outrageous flirtation, and he knows just where to cut Touya's shapes to make sure Touya will feel it.
He has no hands to play now, but he's bringing up both of his hands anyway, all ten fingers desperate to make a connection. He grabs at Touya's jacket and presses himself closer, hanging on for what feels like dear life. And, in the worst way, he feels sorry for Touya, for having to deal with someone who takes and takes and takes from him, barely giving anything in return. That kiss might have been Touya's very first, but he never apologized for taking it.] If I explain it to you, [he murmurs, then,] you're going to have more questions, and I won't know what to do with them, and, just... let me just...
[Keeping Touya in the dark hasn't made anything better.
He turns and lifts his head slightly--only far enough for his lips to brush into Touya's hair. His hair has a silky texture that Hikaru just wants to explore with his fingers for the sake of exploring it. Not now. Maybe later. Deliberately, like he's reciting a game from memory, he says,] The Divine Move. I made a promise to someone that I would be the one to play the Divine Move... [For most people, the Divine Move is one of those abstract, intangible, but still universal goals, which everyone chases after even when they have no hope of reaching it. Links in the chain to infinity and other new-age, feel-good platitudes. Hikaru, though... Hikaru speaks of it with an almost religious fervor, like he truly believes it's possible, like he could do it right now, right this instant, if he were a little stronger. His intensity is that of a fucking cult leader, and Touya could be his next convert.] It's been a while since then, already, and I'll be damned if I break that promise, Touya.
The way I am now, I won't be able to do it. That's why I have to be something greater.
[Ungraciously, Akira thinks about how this is Shindou's fault. He remembers the first time they sat on a bench pressed up together. Things were fine when they were shoulder to shoulder. It was a comfort, and it was a novelty for that. To align himself with the warmth and horizon of somebody else was a good feeling, and Akira was content with it—he had felt content. It was akin to satisfaction.
Shindou's kiss showed Akira a full body flush, and Akira was confronted with the unfathomable possibilities of his nerves. Shindou's atari began to constrict his throat, and not with fear. Akira wanted to see what would happen if he let Shindou take that stone, and then used a steady hand to lay down hamete. He wanted to see what Shindou would do, in more than just atop the goban. When Shindou plays atari, when he brazenly plays tengen, Akira wants to show off the lines of his own fingers, the aptitude of his hands and hard focus.
But, all the while, Shindou has been sleepless and faded over some commanding mystery. Someone whose grasp is relentless and suprior.
Akira opens his mouth. It stays that way for a few seconds, open, his tongue restless and uncertain. He doesn't say, The Divine Move is an impossibility. Nor does he say, I'm going to be the one to play that hand. And he doesn't even tell Shindou, I believe you're capable of that. He says this:] Don't you think I'm the one you should be making promises to? [And while he says it, that bag of bread is crushed between them, its paper crinkling like an overbearing static, almost entwining with Akira's voice. Akira feels the same way paper feels, thin, that delicate texture, or maybe he feels as though he's the one tearing paper with his own hands. And he's overwhelmed by the selfishness of what he's just said. There's a flush prickling up his neck—not for shyness, nor embarrassment at Shindou's closeness, but for shame in his demands. Even then, though, he's thinking, Haven't I earned that by now? Isn't that my title? When he grimaces, he grinds his teeth into that grimace, and the rest of him is coiling like that industrial spring: crafted for efficiency, maintenanced too little. The shame in himself gives him the instinct to step away, but he just keeps coiling...
He's holding onto Shindou's shoulder, now. It's miraculous: his hand now refuses to tremble at all.]
Anyway, I'd like to know what's left of yourself to make greater after too much longer of this.
[He thinks—thinly, vaguely, not with any real consciousness of it—he thinks he'd rather burn at the stake than bow in worship to whatever Shindou does. And he thinks, with certainty, that he'd rather scale Shindou's mountain himself than burn at any stake.]
[Hikaru turns his head the other way, tilting it back to the way it should be, so he's finally looking at Touya's face again. He isn't crying anymore, but his eyes have the damp quality of a marsh, and the same water-logged colors, too. Especially today, he can't be sure what he's feeling, exactly, but he wasn't expecting this brand of confusion. He wasn't expecting Touya to say what he just did about promises and who deserves to have them. It's kind of... well, Touya is an assertive person, and he knows what he wants; stating what he wants isn't what's surprising about this. Hikaru just didn't expect Touya to lay a claim on him. Touya is staking out his territory right now, against an opponent he can't even see. In all this time, it never occurred to Hikaru that Touya might be as possessive of him as he is with Touya. It always felt like a lopsided arrangement, an unbalanced fixation, with Touya settling for less when he could have so much more...]
Promises... [Usually, when their faces are this close together, it's because they're screaming at each other about something stupid. This feels very serious, though. Possibly game-changing. He doesn't realize just how much the angle of his gaze is changing. There are times when he can be calm and inscrutable, impossible to read, and this must be one of those times.] If that's how it is, then... I promise I'll try not to give you more reasons to worry about me. I'll really try, okay? [And, on a whim, he decides to seal that promise with a kiss.
Weeks later, on Touya's birthday, Hikaru gives him a dark blue scarf--the same color as his handkerchief--to better survive the winter cold fronts. It's very soft, very warm, and very fashionable, of course. Hikaru actually looks happy, happier than he has in a while, as he helps arrange it around Touya's neck.
Then he drops off the face of the planet.
Another two weeks go by, and other than a Hibagon-like sighting of him on the fringes of an amateur Go tournament, no one has seen or heard from Hikaru in all that time. Not even Waya has heard anything--who, by the way, really doesn't appreciate Touya Akira trying to talk to him. Ochi is sick of hearing about Touya's flaky rival, and other pros generally keep to their own insulated circles. Only Isumi is more helpful than not, more sympathetic than not, offering some insight no one else could...
Hikaru, meanwhile, is wondering how long it'd take for his parents to notice if he died in his bed. A couple days, surely, because he'd start to decompose and the smell of that is supposed to be pretty nasty... Downstairs, the doorbell rings. Hikaru doesn't pay attention to the delivery or whatever until the muffled sound of his mother's voice is joined by someone else's. Someone more strident, more intense and insistent, but still managing to be as polite as possible. No way, he thinks, opening his bleary eyes. There's just no way that's Touya down there, even though he would know Touya's voice anywhere. Not right now, please... just not right now.]
[Underneath the awning, still too close to streams of people, Akira tells himself that this is no time to start trembling. When Shindou kisses him, again, in a tide of exhaustion for both of them, Akira closes his eyes, but he won't let his muscles betray him. He just ends up curling his arm around Shindou and holding him there, for close to a full, fraught minute. Shindou is going to try, (for him,) and Akira wants to be satisfied with that. Good, he thinks, no more reasons. Akira is laden with reasons, all sorts of reasons, in everything, and his spine can only stay so straight. But Shindou is going to try (for him).
Birthday gifts are not a novelty—he gets them from his parents, from his father's students and many of his colleagues, from people who respect his family, and from people who are charmed by his childhood rise in the world of Go. This year is no different. He receives a few books from a few different people. Ogata-san arrives because he's expected to, and gifts Akira with a glaringly bright blue necktie. Ichikawa-san stops by to say hello, bringing with her a modestly sized bouquet—bluestars, beautyberries, and anemones in white and purple—as well as some tea she'd picked out for him. Ochi-kun's grandfather had urged and urged and urged him to take a gift to the Touya household. When Akira accepts it, he does it knowing full well that it's a forced gesture, and when Ochi watches Akira open the gift bag, he does it knowing full well it's a historical book on Go Akira has on some shelf somewhere already. Akira's parents present him with a dress kimono: a black montsuki, strong and refined, with hakama colored deep between forest green and a prudent slate. He does a lot of bowing, that day. His smile is mild and pleasant, and when he laughs, it's soft, full of congenial breathiness.
But, later on, when he and Shindou have the couch to themselves, Akira seems more than cordial. His laughter comes from the belly, not just the throat, and there's range in the warmth and curves of his smile, rather than static, a pleasant plateau. He sits with a new book in his lap, absently moving his fingers along its edges, and rests the side of his head against Shindou's. He laughs about something, again, and when Shindou leaves to go home, Akira thinks that it's all right. They'll see each other soon.
Shindou doesn't turn up for a few days. Akira texts him and doesn't hear back; Akira leaves voicemail, which he already knows is futile, and it is. He tells himself not to push, even though he wants very much to push, but Shindou had said he wouldn't do anything else to make Akira worry, and so Akira should not be worried...
By the eighth day of total silence, Akira isn't worried. He's pissed. Over the next few days, Waya Yoshitaka is no help, which isn't surprising, not least because Akira had marched up and demanded of him like a criminal interrogator. Ochi-kun can only scoff, and Akira doesn't have time to put up with it for long. Nobody knows anything, and maybe Akira knows the least out of all of them. He's radiating Arctic fury, gnawing on his top lip, when Isumi Shinichiro comes up to him and speaks to him gently about some things he thinks Akira should know.
Shindou's mother seems like a harmless woman when she first opens her front door, but Akira's opinion changes very quickly: she's actually feckless. He bows to her and hands her a very small bouquet of flowers. When she offers tea, Akira says, "I would be very grateful." When she startles herself with the realization that she'd forgotten to shut off the kitchen faucet—oh, forgive her, she's just washing dishes—Akira says, "Would you like some help? Oh, I would be glad to, ma'am. No, it's all right; why don't you sit down for a little while?" She hems and haws, but once she's sitting, she chatters on and on. Ultimately, she tells him absolutely nothing about Shindou, which tells Akira a lot. After he's cleared her sink of dishes, listening to her and acknowledging her words when appropriate, he tells her he'll go upstairs to visit Shindou, now, if that's all right. Ohh, yes, of course, go see him... But she stops, and exclaims that, come to think of it, she hasn't seen him this morning; perhaps he's gone out somewhere after all. Akira gives her a beautiful little smile when he tells her he'll go to check.
He opens Shindou's bedroom door, and stands in the doorway for several seconds, surveying silently. Then he shuts the door, strides powerfully across the bedroom, and wrenches open the curtains. He opens the window, too, harsh and indelicate about it. The sleeves of his mint green sweater are still rolled up to his elbows from doing dishes for Shindou's mother. His hair is smooth and impeccable, though the ends are beginning to curl inward a little, not having been cut straight for several weeks now. The air from late December is cold and sharp, and it tickles through Akira's hair. He's leaning with his hands steadied against the windowsill, staring outside, grinding his teeth behind pursed lips. Shindou had better say something, and he had better say something good, or Akira is going to heft him out of this window himself.]
[Listening to Touya move around downstairs, socializing with his mom, is unexpectedly agonizing for Hikaru. This is another form of fucking torture, that's what it is--Touya has no right to be doing this to him. Touya has no right. But, rightful or not, it doesn't change the fact that Touya is in his house, mere minutes away from coming upstairs to find him. Hikaru is running out of time. He can practically hear the EKG-like beeping of a game clock as it's counting down byo-yomi. The bathroom? No, nope, judging by the sound of rattling pipes, his father is already in there. His closet? That's just stupid, Touya will probably check everywhere before he leaves, you have to fucking think, idiot. Under his bed? Same problem as the closet. Fuck. He could try climbing out the window, hiding out on the eaves, but that's a surefire way to fall and break his neck and end up a paraplegic for the rest of his miserable life. Fuck, he thinks, noticing Touya's footsteps on the stairs, then just outside. Fuck, fuck, fuck me, fuck this...
Hikaru's bedroom might be surprising for how orderly it is, how immaculate it is, to Touya's eyes. There are two large bookshelves on one side, stocked with old manga and plenty of Go reference books; they're adorned with a string of Christmas lights, not turned on, just a sad attempt at holiday spirit. There's a small fridge, a television set, a DVD player, a hand-me-down boombox, and other knick-knacks tucked into a modest entertainment center... In the middle of the floor, the only thing both out of place and not at all, is a goban with both gokes arranged together. The outline of a game is already sitting on the board--it looks like it's barely gotten started. Finally, over by one of the windows, atop the Western-style bed, is a clump of blankets that's trying not to breathe. It's trying very hard not to move at all, even when Touya stalks closer to them, even when Touya lunges on top of the bed to confront them. Touya detours to the curtains and then the window, having both thrown wide open in short order. The chill from outside is immediate, offensive to the senses, but the balled-up blankets stay perfectly still.
The fresh air really proves just how thick, stagnant, and--strangely enough--spicy the miasma of Hikaru's room is. There's a lingering smell of incense, the strongest kind, from when Hikaru tried to carry out his own séance. The reason he's been gone for two weeks is not something he can even begin to explain. Touya would think he's insane, if not outright deranged, for going to that self-proclaimed celebrity psychic. Hikaru did tons of research into ESP itself, he studied every testimonial on her website--she had recommendations from actors, singers, athletes, even a few politicians. She was the real deal, or so it seemed. A private appointment with her cost a fuckton of money, too, but he thought it was going to be worth it... up until she couldn't respond to a simple keima. He kept calling out moves at her, and she didn't know what to say, and he realized she was nothing more than a charlatan. Nothing more than a waste of time. All he ever wanted was a chance at closure, to apologize to Sai for failing him, but every lead he's followed--every book on the occult, every Tarot reading, every swinging fucking pendulum--has ended in disappointment. He's done with chasing after ghosts. He's just done.
The blankets scrunch up a little, shivering visibly.]
Tou... [His voice is feeble, disused, all sticky in his throat like a layer of old cobwebs.] Touya. [He's too mortified to show himself anytime soon, but he's still trying to say something. Something good, he hopes.] You're...
[Great, deep, stabbing gulps of freezing December air. That's all Akira can rely on. He holds them in his lungs, and while it hurts to do so, it's better to let the cold sedate him. He has at least enough presence of mind for that. From what Akira can tell, Shindou's mother is oblivious and useless, but it still wouldn't do to mercilessly raze one of the bedrooms in her home.
...Don't be dramatic, he tells himself, aggravated by his own line of thought, but this does feel like a dramatic situation. His fingertips are paling, from the cold and his grip on the sill. His body's natural reaction to kneeling was to slip into seiza, and he balances there for several awful moments, knees sinking into Shindou's mattress.
The mummified quality of Shindou's voice almost sends Akira over the edge. Akira isn't sure where that edge leads, or what, exactly, he would be falling into. But he knows that it's bad, and if he doesn't move back from Shindou's body right now, one or both of them will choke. He pushes away—nearly shoves himself—from the window, and moves himself off of Shindou's bed. He's got half a mind to yank at Shindou's blanket and take it with him, but what he wants more than that is for Shindou to obey him right now. So Akira doesn't bother saying this, but commands it instead:] Get out of bed. [Despite speaking calmly with Shindou's mother just a few minutes ago, his voice is hoarse. His voice is worse than metal over metal; it's rust over rust. And his words are rough, too clipped to be polite.] It's well past noon.
[Whirling away from the bed is safest for both of them, he's sure, so he does that. He's flinging open the door to Shindou's closet in lieu of flinging Shindou away from his pillows. He's harsh with it; it smacks into the wall.] If you're cold, get some warm clothes. Look! [At random, he snatches out one of the hangers, bearing a thin long-sleeved shirt.] No, the weather's bad for this one, so never mind that.
[He drops it to the hardwood floor, and immediately neglects the sad heap of it. He's already wrenching out another hanger. It's just a t-shirt.]
Obviously not!
[He drops it, too. In fact, he drops a few more shirts, forming a discordant pile, all sorts of colors and fabrics, abandoning them in a heartless flurry. Never mind the tidiness of Shindou's bedroom otherwise. Never mind the coming wrinkles. All that matters is that he finally manages to pull out a sweater. He brandishes it at that miserable bundle of blankets, flushed, maybe from the cold, maybe radiating as much cold as the world outside.]
This might work. You'd need a jacket too though. If you don't like it, you can pick something else!
[If nothing else, he needs to rid this room of its air. The oxygen feels comatose, and the incense is only going to facilitate madness. Akira is certain of that, since that's what it's doing to him.]
[Yep, there's no doubt about it: Touya's angry silence is one of the worst things in the known universe. Every moment of it feels like its own freezing vacuum of space, threatening to crush Hikaru's skull from the inside out. If Touya came here to denounce him, renounce him, and disown him as a rival--he should come out and say it. He should just fucking say it already so they can get this on and over with. He broke his promise to Touya, so that's what he deserves. He knows he deserves that. He's aware of the betrayal with every fiber of his being. Say it, he thinks, clutching his face with his sweaty hands. Just say it already and stop fucking with me. But Touya gets off of the bed, then moves away from him completely, and Hikaru has to wonder what the fuck is going on. He can still hear how deep and forced Touya's breathing is. Touya is absolutely incensed, far past his boiling point, well on his way to a radioactive meltdown... All that's left is for him to turn his fury on Hikaru for failing so many times. Hikaru made that promise knowing he was going to fail sooner or later.
Get out of bed.
It isn't a request. It isn't a suggestion, either. It's a full-on order, a demand, like something he'd hear at boot camp, condescending and goading in equal measure. Hikaru almost doesn't believe it, but he's listening more intently as Touya moves over to--to his closet?--and rips it open without warning. The sound of the door smacking the wall is ridiculously loud, loud enough to incite a spark of panic in Hikaru. The panic subsides easily into the dregs of his heart, though, and he's left to puzzle wearily over what Touya is trying to do. Cautiously, Hikaru shifts the blankets around so he can see what's going on. Touya is... raiding his closet, apparently, pulling out each piece of clothing as he comes across it...]
What in the hell, Touya...
[His voice is shaky, and queasy, like he's ready to laugh in disbelief. He doesn't get out of bed, but he does find the strength to sit up a little, then all the way, rising slowly like a mummy from its accursed tomb. He's just this lopsided pile of blankets with half of his face visible in the middle. His complexion has too much much in common with a bowl of wax fruit, and his eyes are so pale that they're nearly see-through. The sunlight from the open window isn't bright enough to hurt him, but he's still in no hurry to meet it.
I'm trying to do the things I need to do to have you here.
Inside an echo of the past, Hikaru suddenly understands why Touya is here and what he's trying to do by being here. Hikaru feels delirious with understanding: Touya isn't preparing to break up with him. After everything, in spite of everything, Touya still believes he can do something to help him out. Touya wouldn't be doing this, dealing with this bullshit, if he weren't trying to save him. Touya was never the arrogant prick of a prince like Waya used to say; he's a pure-hearted hero who belongs in a storybook, all gallant and beautiful, a happy ending in waiting. Even cascading with anger, he's so fucking generous.
Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on Hikaru's part.]
Where... am I supposed to go?
[After hours of crying, of cycling through the stages of grief like a hamster in a treadmill, this is at least something different for Hikaru to focus on.]
[Shindou is sitting upright. Shindou is peering at him from the safety of his blankets. Akira stares back for moments longer than he means to. His lips are pursed tight, nearly sewn shut, and his eyes are wide like a panicking deer's. He's white-faced while he looks across the bedroom to Shindou's awful state—he can feel its tingle in his cheeks. More like a numbness. More like a disarray of nerves. His very skin is suffering for the stress of this.
He spins on his heel, back around to the closet.]
I don't care. [But he isn't uncaring. He's rifling through the shelves in Shindou's closet until he finds a pair of jeans he thinks is appropriate. Still forceful, or more forceful:] Pick somewhere. Anywhere. [Akira grabs the first pair of underwear he finds, and the first pair of socks, too.] It can be anywhere, Shindou, just choose.
[The curtains are billowing, as if trying to soften the edge of the moment. They're gentle, much unlike the cold air or Akira's voice. Akira marches back to the bed, and dumps his armful of Shindou's clothing beside him.]
Are you going to take a shower first, or are we going now?
[These are still the demands of a drill sergeant. Still the commands of someone in charge. Akira can almost tell himself it doesn't matter anymore if this is the right thing to do. It just needs to be done. Whether that's something that makes sense, even if only to him, is something he won't confront. If I can just do this, he's telling himself, if I can just have him one more time...
If Shindou is going to leave him for good, Akira at least wants to make peace with it. If Shindou is going to leave him for good, Akira needs to be looked full in the face. He needs to press shoulder to shoulder with Shindou once more, so that Shindou can confirm it's not worthwhile. He needs Shindou to leave him properly. He needs to leave Shindou unable to escape from this—oiotoshi, helpless no matter the hand, no matter the loss for Akira. If this match ends here, he needs Shindou to look back on its record and regret its cost.
He looms heavy over Shindou's bed, his clothing vivid (he's shoved the clothes given to him by Shindou into the back of his closet), his hair sleek (he bathed not long before coming, using fragrant shampoo and soap and gulping in steam to try and make the best of himself), and his frigidity harsh (he is more the dead of winter than the weather outside).]
[Hikaru is well and truly transfixed with the sight of Touya going through his belongings like they also belong to him. Just having Touya in his bedroom is indescribable on every level--this is the closest place he has to a sanctuary. It's where he spent countless hours learning how to play Go, and then perfecting his Go, all to impress Touya. And, when Touya returns to the bed, he walks right through the space where Sai used to sit, where he'd point out moves on the board with his fan. Hikaru feels like he's going to throw up if he thinks about it too hard. Sitting this close to Touya, Hikaru can feel--like an electrical charge in the air--just how much kinetic energy Touya is holding back right now. He might as well be stranded under a transmission tower. He looks down at Touya's sweater, then, which is an awful pattern, an awful color: mint belongs on a scoop of ice cream, not a sweater. Then he looks off to the side at the proffered pile of clothing. His eyes are still too pale for him, but his eyebrows are drawing closer together, a vague sign of something.]
A-Anywhere... [The answer crystallizes in his mind like an audacious plan that could turn the game around. Even if he's going to lose anyway, he still owes Touya a full explanation of what's happening to him. He owes Touya a lot of things, but he shouldn't waste time on stuff that's superfluous. Honestly, Touya would probably chase him to the ends of the earth to get some closure if he had to. Hikaru doesn't want to see him lose his mind over unanswered questions. Hikaru knows how that sort of thing can gnaw you down to nothing.]
If I can go anywhere, [he says, closing his eyes,] then I want to go to the Nihon Ki-in. The kifu room, at the Nihon Ki-in. [It all fits together rather conveniently, he thinks. It might even be poetic as another dividing line in his life. Before, and after. Before and after. That room is where he realized Sai was the genius who deserved to play every single game (all of the games, all of them, all of them). That room is where he realized he wanted to be with Touya in more ways than just inside shapes on the board. A single tear slips through his eyelashes, now that he's thinking back, but he doesn't bother with rubbing it away.]
There's something... I need to tell you, Touya. In the kifu room at the Nihon Ki-in.
[Touya doesn't look any more inviting than a walk-in freezer. Like a room where corpses go at the hospital. The morgue. That's the word for it. Maybe he was wrong about why Touya is here--not as a prince, but as a murderer. A shivering exhale, and then Hikaru shifts around a little, trying to get back onto the pins and needles known as his feet. He had to take a shower a few days ago, on Christmas Day, to avoid causing a scene at dinner, so it should be fine if he skips one now. Regardless, he isn't about to wear any clothes that Touya Akira of all people picked out for him. Crippling, soul-crushing depression doesn't mean he's going to dress like a colorblind invalid. Even the worst people in the world get to look good at their funerals.
He shuffles unsteadily over to the closet, to pick out something less conspicuous than an ugly sweater his distant relatives gave him.]
Just give me a few minutes, and then we can go...
[And he's very careful about not stepping where Sai used to sit.]
[This is it, Akira realizes. Shindou is going to take him to the Nihon Ki-in, to the kifu room, where they shared—Shindou is going to end everything, there. In the kifu room at the Nihon Ki-in, Shindou is going to say that he doesn't want this anymore. Akira tells himself that it's fine. That's fine. It's happening by Akira's own agency, on Akira's terms. If he loses the only rival he really wanted, it won't be by docile concession.
He still feels like he could start crying. When Shindou walks toward his closet, it's like watching him take his first steps really and truly away from Akira. Akira is staring at the navigation of Shindou's awkward feet when he sits down on the edge of Shindou's bed. Then he looks down at his knees, at his hands clenched tight in his lap. Shindou's blankets are bunched up, an empty chrysalis all sunken in, surely warm still from holding his body. The part of Akira that's full of hurt yearning wants to take Shindou's place in the blankets. He wants to suck up Shindou's remaining body heat for himself. He wants to leave Shindou's bed smelling faintly of green tea and tea tree. He wants Shindou to inhale that right before he falls asleep, so he can never fully get it out of his mind.
Throwing open the window seems like such an overdramatic gesture, now. It's very cold in this room, and Akira feels like a small fool, his posture bowing bit by bit while he sits where he sits.] We'll go, [he says, and the sentence ends there, but its inflection makes it feel like it's missing something. The rest of the words are, perhaps, sucked dry, dehydrated by his throat, by his eyes. His eyelashes are damp. He tries to swallow, and only barely manages for the pain.]
[Dress warmly, huh. As if that matters. As if he isn't going to walk into traffic as soon as he tells Touya everything and Touya tells him he's fucking crazy. All the same, Hikaru does make an effort to dress warmly, beginning with a long-sleeved T-shirt the color of the sun. He picks out a yellow sweatshirt, too, and some dark blue running pants, and he decides to wear his jacket (that's in a lighter shade of brown) for the extra layer of warmth. In the mirror, the one anchored to the inside of his closet door, he confirms that he looks like death warmed over. It's all right. He doesn't have time to call a mortician for some beauty tips.
He makes sure to grab his wallet, his cell phone, and then his fan (after twenty seconds of staring at it), before moving back to the bed. He looks down at Touya, sitting there, not facing him anymore--it's all right. By the end of this, Touya is going to wish he never met him in the first place. Hikaru actually climbs onto the bed, then, but not to return to his chrysalis of blankets. He's leaning forward, he's reaching into the space between his bed and the wall--]
I thought...
[He retrieves a three-ring binder from its cold, lonely resting place.]
I thought I'd have more time to put this together.
[It's a neutral purple on the outside, and it's pretty thick, containing hundreds if not thousands of pieces of paper. Leaning back again, he offers the binder to Touya with his eyes downcast.]
It doesn't have everything ever, but I really tried to... I mean, you're just going to have to deal with that. --Don't look at it. Just hold on to it for me.
[If Touya does try to sneak a peak, he's going to find out it's filled with... kifu, apparently. Page after page after page of kifu. Hikaru doesn't say anything else about what it is or what it means as he gets off the bed and zips up his jacket. Maybe he should say goodbye to his parents, before he leaves. Maybe he should text Waya, and Isumi-san, and thank them for putting up with him when he was just a snotty, ignorant insei. He's still fucking ignorant, but he won't inflict himself on anyone else. Shaking his head a little, convinced there's not enough time left, he heads for the doorway to his bedroom.
On the subway, he doesn't say anything at all. He's too busy trying to figure out what he's going to say when it counts.
Finally, the Nihon Ki-in--it looks more like a mausoleum from the sidewalk outside. He lets Touya handle getting permission to unlock and enter the kifu room. No building admin would be willing to tell Touya Akira 4-dan, the Go world's one great hope, he can't do whatever the hell he wants to do, after all. And Hikaru is more interested in staring at the line of vending machines out in the lobby. Sai never quite got over how innovative the design of a vending machine was. Human progress...
A random girl--one of the top insei, if he remembers right--comes up to him and starts nattering about some game or another that he won. He can barely hear her praise through the field of cotton balls that's invading his ears: the shock of the moment, now setting in. He simply looks in the direction of the front office, hoping Touya will return soon. This is it, he realizes.]
[The binder is heavier than Akira expects: when he takes it into his grasp, the weight makes his hands dip. He looks at its face, and its glossy color is vague and meaningless. The temptation to just open it anyway is there, but so is exhaustion. Maybe this needs to be done all at once. Akira doesn't want to let himself be worn down by spreading this out for too long. Just heap it on him, just let him dig his way out in one go. One mouthful of harm is easier to swallow than bite after bite of it.
The steps he takes in Shindou's wake are steps Akira refuses to walk toward any death sentence. A fork in the road at worst. Shindou can pursue the height of whatever mountain he's been eyeing, or he can fall apart at its base. Akira has mountains, too, you know. He wants to say that. You know that, right, Shindou?
But he's gone very quiet. As he's leaving Shindou's bedroom, he turns his head to look a final time at the unfinished game on the goban. Downstairs, he takes his coat, his scarf (cream colored), and he leaves the house unseen by Shindou's mother. He doesn't seek her out himself to bow or thank her. He just lets Shindou shut the door.
The subway is only a little crowded, but Akira still sits as though the throngs are thick; his shoulder presses against Shindou's. He doesn't acknowledge it to Shindou, and he keeps his face turned so he's looking out of the window. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The intent was to make Shindou miss it, but Akira is the one who feels awful, stomach sinking lower and lower and his heart following after. His grey coat and Shindou's warmly-colored jacket don't look like they belong together. Akira's fingers are worrying along the edges of the three-ring binder—like with the book, on his birthday, sharing his couch with Shindou, except there's no peace in this. There is no peace in him, even as he's telling himself to make peace.
It doesn't take much wheedling to gain access to the kifu room. Really, all he needs to do is speak gently—unexpectedly difficult, for once, but he asks in a soft voice, and his hair is soft, too, in the way it falls, when he inclines his head in gratitude. These are foreign feelings, today. He can hardly bear his own softness, when he otherwise feels like the edge of a knife.
Shindou's eyes are on him as soon as Akira comes out of the office. Akira is determined to hold that stare with his own weight. This young woman is talking at Shindou with real enthusiasm, and Akira strides upon them both before his eyes even slip toward her. She must be thinking Shindou is listening to her. She must be thinking the things she says are grabbing his attention. Akira realizes dimly that she's praising Shindou, that she's delighted to see him, to speak with him. If you knew, he thinks, if you knew even a little about Shindou Hikaru, if you knew about his Go, you wouldn't be smiling. You would be terrified. Akira looks at her for a flat five seconds, thinking he could almost muster pity for her, before he touches Shindou's upper arm with a firm hand. Then he turns away abruptly, not bothering to acknowledge anything else in any other way. If he hears that young woman exclaiming in surprise, it doesn't stay in his head long enough for him to remember. Akira is marching. If clusters of people are parting for him, he doesn't notice.
An office attendant is waiting, keys in hand, at the door of the kifu room. Akira presses Shindou's binder to his chest, crosses his arms over it, and dips into a shallow bow. He might be overdoing the politeness at this point, but he knows he'll fly off the handle if he isn't hyper-focused on projecting calm. It's nearly too difficult an undertaking, until the attendant leaves and he clicks the door shut behind himself and Shindou. He leans with his back against it, and he's holding the binder so tightly that its plastic edges cut uncomfortably into his arms. There's pressure in his head, just behind his eyes. If it bursts, he's going to actually start crying; his chin might be trembling, even through his glare.]
[The kifu room is a lot more claustrophobic than Hikaru remembers. It's more like a coffin, all the walls pressing in on him, trapping him inside a strikingly cluttered space. If he has half a hope of changing his mind, of getting out of this eulogy alive--he turns back around and finds it's already too late to escape. Touya is standing at the door like a snarling guard dog, just glittering with fury; it's really a scary as fuck thing to see up close. In a game, Hikaru can usually forget being intimidated by this guy's berserk strength, and he never seems to notice how scary Touya is when they're yelling at each other. Right now, it's different. It's so different. The context is all wrong for Hikaru to not be scared shitless.]
T-Touya, I... [He takes one step backward, then another, and another, and this time he bumps into the edge of the reading table instead of a random passerby. There's nowhere else for him to run, by design. That's honestly what he wanted. So, out of instinct, he reaches behind himself and tugs the fan out of his back pocket, like he always does prior to an official match. It's his way of reminding himself that he can get through the next two or three hours without losing his shit, even when he feels like that can't be true.] Look, can you just... you don't have to stand all the way over there. Come sit down. Sit here with me. We can go through it together.
[He uses the fan to gesture at the two chairs waiting beside the table. In this moment, he looks frightened, and exhausted, and like he'd rather bury himself under all these random cardboard boxes and let them smother him to death. He's especially frail and anemic under the harshness of florescent lighting, which doesn't do anything to hide any flaws, any blemishes. As he sits down, he suddenly remembers he left his bedroom window open, which is just great, just wonderful; his mom's going to be ecstatic about that; it's all Touya's fault for opening the fucking thing in the first place. Then he remembers that it doesn't matter the least bit anyway. An open window is so far beyond the scope of what actually matters: this room, Touya Akira, and that purple binder.]
It's yours, by the way. I'm giving it to you. [He sighs heavily, tapping the tip of the fan against his cheek.] So now you're allowed to look at it, [he adds with a hint of morbid finality.
The very first page--the very first record, written down by hand like all the rest--is the very first game "he" played against Touya at the Go salon. It's a game of shidougo, which Hikaru didn't understand at the time, but now its inquisitive contours are more than obvious. Sai wanted to find out just what he was dealing with, no handicap necessary...
The second page. Mercilessly, it's the second game they played against each other at the Go salon. Hikaru speaks up, now, and his voice is softer than sunflowers, totally unlike the cutting edge of Sai's play:] I never meant to let things get so out of hand, you know. But, it's like... I'd lie about it, and I'd start lying about the lie, and lying about the lie I just lied about, and then it was a huge mess and I didn't know what to do. I still don't know what to do. [The third page. It isn't a game against Touya, but against... his father. And if this particular kifu could speak for itself, it would have plenty to say about trespassers and protecting what's important. This game, though, didn't last very long for whatever reason.
Every single page in this binder is a game that Sai played, roughly arranged in chronological order. Years of games, in total. Literal years of games. Against Hikaru. Against people on the Internet. Against Touya in a few places. But mostly against Hikaru, the up-and-coming protégé, whose skillfulness took mere months to congeal. It should be impossible for Hikaru to have remembered this many games, stretching back this far, back to when he had no clue what he was doing, but the binder is sitting right there. It exists. Like Hikaru's hand on Touya's elbow, it exists.]
But I'm not lying to you when I say these are all Sai's games.
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bakerstreet2017-10-13 01:48 pm
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He chews, swallows, and chews some more, all while directing Touya down the sidewalk in the direction they came from.] Yeah, well... [He can't think of anything to say that won't incriminate him, so he just sighs and shakes his head a little. His bleached bangs sway into his eyes, then, and he really notices they're longer than ever, badly in need of a trim. Not now. Later. If not later today, then sometime tomorrow. It'll be fine. As long as he can convince himself to get out of bed, it'll be fine.]
If you want to take me literally, then sure, whatever, you're not wrong... [But even when Touya screws up and misses an otherwise obvious atekomi, Hikaru has felt less and less like berating him for it. On his worst day, in his most poorly played game, Touya Akira will be a hundred times the player that Shindou Hikaru is. Self-righteousness is just about impossible to hold on to when that's also a fact of life.] But I don't think most people could do what you're doing right now. That has to count for something, right?
[His other hand brushes up against Touya's elbow, in what can't be and somehow still is an intimate gesture.]
That has to count.
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...Ashiwara-san has got to stop reading excerpts from the driver's handbook. He tries reminding Ashiwara-san that he's not going to be eligible to drive for a couple of years yet, but Ashiwara-san just talks about how nice it would be to go on a drive. Nobody else in the room will even really acknowledge that sort of thing from him, and Akira has found himself sighing, thinking it might not be bad to drive Ashiwara-san along the coast, once he learns how.
Meanwhile, he's pretty sure the brakes have given out, for himself and Shindou.
Akira only makes a noncommittal hum in his throat, first off. It's not dismissive—he just won't commit to speech, when his steps slow, until he stops completely. He expects Shindou to do the same, and it's clear in his own body language: he turns a few degrees, facing nearer to Shindou but still partially away. He keeps his arm, his elbow, exactly at the touch of Shindou's hand. It's less like he doesn't mind that it's there, and more like he refuses to move from it. What he says doesn't sound like a response to anything Shindou has said, but it is one:]
You look bad. You know that, right?
[It's a response to everything Shindou has said, and everything Shindou has done, this morning and yesterday and for quite some time now. It's a criticism, it is one, but it's also a demand, and, through the thick of it, apprehension branches out like veins. Most people, Shindou says, like he's putting Akira far away. Akira wants to shake him.]
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It's still annoying that Touya is the slightest bit taller than he is. He has to tilt his head whenever he looks into Touya's eyes, just as he does now, wary but watchful. But then, before he can ask what the problem is, Touya stabs him right in the chest. That's what it feels like, honest to god, and that's what he's convinced of. He's expecting to find blood all over his shirt when he erratically looks down and then off to the side, no longer seeing the pedestrians or anyone else at all. His field of view has shrunk down down to this one horrifying confrontation.]
W-What's with you... saying that, all of a sudden... [Hikaru might be smiling right now, smiling in sheer disbelief, but he can't figure out if he is or not. His lips are numb.] What makes you think you can just... just come out, and say that to me, like... [The chill of exsanguination causes him to him shiver and draw his arms into himself, far away from Touya. He isn't sure where his hot chocolate or his sweet bun have gone off to; he can't really feel if his hands are still full.] Just because I've been having a--a rough go of things--that doesn't mean you should-- ["Rough night, eh, Shindou?" Waya asked, laughing at the sight of Hikaru's sullen, sleepless face. Waya tended to poke fun at him on the days they had matches together, not realizing a rough night had preceded that one, and another one before that. Not realizing those rough nights were all related and relentless and fucking endless, threatening to drive Hikaru out of his mind.
So what's with Touya thinking he can just point it out like he would a bit of food stuck in someone's teeth? No, scratch that--Touya would be a hell of a lot more polite when doing that kind of thing.]
You don't have to be such a jerk, Touya.
[Not just offended, but deeply wounded, Hikaru can only stare at his shoes and refuse to make eye contact. His shoelaces aren't even tied the way they should be--one looks like it could turn into a tripping hazard. Touya might be the biggest and stupidest jerk in the universe, but he isn't wrong about what he just said. Hikaru used to take pride in his appearance, from his designer jeans to his well-groomed hair, because it felt good for him to look as good as possible. It's yet one more part of his personality that has been swallowed up by his obsession with a dead man.]
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[It's quick, rushed, one of those too-fast text messages on a too-bright screen. At once, Akira is seething. He feels like maybe he shouldn't be, but Shindou is refusing to look at him—he refused for so long, and he's refusing now. Akira wants to scream at him. Really, actually scream, maybe not even with words, maybe with words—Look at me right now. Right now. I need you to see me. The seething gets worse, and Akira huffs out a hot hiss of breath through his teeth, which he thinks might start to crack for how hard he's clamping his jaw. The bakery bag in the crook of his arm is heavy like lead, now. It's toxic like lead. All of his strength is put into holding it up; there's no strength left to keep his voice low inside his lungs.]
Then why didn't you say it's been rough, why didn't you tell— Why do you never tell— [Me, he means, and maybe that's evident in the awful volume coming out of his mouth. He's shameless about that, by the way. He cannot heed it.] I said it all of a sudden because all of a sudden, today, you're here, when you haven't been here! So when I see you, [finally, he means, in a distressingly desperate way,] you're like this... What am I supposed to think, Shindou?
[That's honest. That's earnest. At this point, he just wants Shindou to tell him which train of thought to choose. Give him somewhere to start, at least.
Swallowing hurts. He feels a little sick with saliva, but his throat is dry regardless. The breath he takes is shaky; his whole body is shaking, he realizes. Hard to tell whether it's rage or anxiety. But his voice is reduced to a creak when he says,] I was waiting for you until today. But you didn't even bring all of yourself with you. I saw you when you studied that game! When you watched the goban, your face was Shindou's face. But now, you're still... [There's a scary moment when he doesn't know what to do with his hands; he wants to touch Shindou, but he's holding too much from the bakery. It actually does scare him. If he doesn't reach out right now, he might not get the opportunity again. Some insane nerve pulled tight in his brain is telling him that.
So he just cannot care about how dramatic it is when he drops his paper cup of green tea onto the sidewalk. It sprays a small arc of droplets onto his pants, but it wouldn't matter to him even if he noticed it. He can only grab at the first part of Shindou's shirt he can reach. His grip is flimsy, even though his knuckles are white; his hand trembles hard.]
What's so good about your bedroom? [The strain in his voice is like splitting lumber.
I'm right here.
It's written in the pinch of his eyebrows, the deer-frantic shine of his eyes, and if Shindou doesn't look at him and read those things right now, Akira is going to throw this bag of bread into the gutter. He's trying to grip harder at Shindou's shirt, but his hand is ineffective, just rice paper.]
If you wanted to come get my book with me, why didn't you do it?
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He ends up bumping into someone else behind him, just another person on another daily commute, and it's too much of a shock for his bound-to-break nerves. Something snaps. He prefers his bedroom, Touya, because it's a quiet place, and it's secluded, and "I'll eat later" guarantees he won't be bothered for a blessed while. It's nothing like your high-octane and high-octave shrieking about stuff that doesn't matter. It's nothing like car horns or street vendors or the people on their cell phones swarming everywhere, just talking and talking and talking. Maybe the worst part about this is how superficial everything feels. How unreal it feels. If he could reach that high, he's pretty sure he could pull down the backdrop of this moment and reveal it's nothing more than a bunch of actors on a set with a fucking Z-list script. The only person who does feel real is Touya, always Touya, Touya Touya Touya, as brilliant as he is foolish, as foolish as he is brilliant. He's always in the wrong place at the wrong time.]
Touya...
[When Hikaru speaks up, it feels like an eternity has passed, even though it's only been a few seconds. His voice doesn't sound like his own. He doesn't even know what he's saying anymore. He says, haltingly,] With everything else going on... I didn't want to... give you too much to worry about, I guess. [So far, so good. If he can just placate Touya, he can go home after this and stay in bed until he literally atrophies.] I've already caused all these problems and I'm just... I just wanted to go away until I'm--I'm better, a lot better, and I'm not... not like I am now, not causing problems, and... [Something wet hits his face, and he's stupid enough to wonder if it's raining. The tears spilling out of his eyes only come faster after that. (When he was a baby, he cried a lot. He cried constantly. His parents decided to leave him in his crib, crying his eyes out, because surely he'd get tired of it and learn not to rely on them so much.)]
J-Just give me more time, Touya. I just need some more time to improve my game. I'll be fine after that.
[He can't even comprehend that Touya cares about more than whether or not he's still playing Go.]
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He doesn't have it in him to keep yelling, now. The trembling in him, too, is waning, weighed down. The anger in his face hasn't ebbed, but it's transformed. It's deeper, but quieter, and its depth and quiet give life to dark, murky colors. Akira's face holds the same grim expanse of trying to look down into the bottom of a lake. He exhales, shakily, and then inhales. He doesn't breathe out again until he's sure he can do it without shaking. The accomplishment of a smooth breath permits him to speak.]
Shindou. [Saying Shindou's name feels like a privilege Akira shouldn't have right now, but he wants it to be rightfully his.] Come on. Come over here.
[In childhood, Akira sometimes wanted to catch birds. They were so small, seemed to be so soft, and he wished to hold them in his hands. He'd tiptoe toward them, heart full of promises to be gentle, not wanting to scare away such a dear thing. Reapproaching Shindou makes Akira feel like his hands are that small again. Like his hands are those of a small child's, even when his promises aren't as pure. But as long as Shindou doesn't fly away...
Akira's fingertips find Shindou's elbow, their touch a declaration of presence, of intent, and then his whole hand slides and curls to cradle the elbow's point. He's not dragging or pushing Shindou away—he's just trying to guide him. There's the edge of an awning, two buildings fit nearly together at their corners, offering a moment removed from other human beings.
Even when he's no longer guiding Shindou by the elbow, navigating through the paths of pedestrians, Akira stays drawn in close. He stays close so he can slip his handkerchief out of his jacket pocket—so he can press the folded cloth, soft and such a dark blue, against one of Shindou's cheeks.] You didn't even ask me if I wanted you to go away. [His voice has the qualities of the cloth: the softness, the darkness. He's ashamed of himself for doing this to Shindou, for scaring him so badly. He saw that in Shindou, rearing back, colliding with passersby just because he wanted to get away from Akira—real fear. Meanwhile, the cold steel coil that comes just before fear is winding tight in Akira's own gut, for the words working their way out of him.] Did you mean—all this time—did you want me to go away? I don't...
[Understand. Want that. Know what to do.]
You're not fine right now, [he confirms, at last. The words scrape his throat raw when they come out of him. He hopes at least that his own flesh wears down their edges, so they'll be softer when they're out in the air. He moves his handkerchief to the other side of Shindou's face.] I'm mad. Are you mad?
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He wouldn't blame Touya if Touya did want him to go away. He's put Touya through so much over the years, just so much bullshit, (pathological lies,) (half-baked promises,) (poorly played games,) and it'd be easier if Touya hated him for it like he must have in the beginning. Instead of saying so, Hikaru sucks in a breath and says this:] No, no, that's not what I meant. That's not it, at all. Touya, it's not... [He sounds a little faint, a little dizzy, maybe getting dizzier from exerting himself. His fingers curl into his shaky, sweaty palms, which proves he lost his hot chocolate and his sweet bun at some point...] Shit, I wouldn't even be here if it weren't for you... [And he means that in more ways than just one.
At Touya's question, he starts to nod, then hesitates, then kind of shakes his head, before finally looking frustrated with himself. He doesn't know what he's feeling other than not fine with an extra helping of physical, mental, and spiritual exhaustion.]
I'm sorry.
[An unqualified apology, then. That's a rare move for Shindou Hikaru.]
Maybe I should've listened to you on the whole sleeping thing.
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You could stand to do a little listening.
[Akira would rather Shindou defer to obedience than to be stubborn and then apologize later. Probably. Except when Akira thinks about that stubbornness, something slips through his rib cage alongside all the frustration—some line like a thin river edges through the exhaustion, and fans out the further it goes, creating a delta too like aspiration. Too like yearning after a goal. It's fertile, against Akira's will, and it's only going to get more lush. There's no stopping it, save for a catastrophic drought.
Akira doesn't sound angry anymore, at least. He isn't about to pitch into a yell. But his voice regains a familiar quality: a fraying bow wielded over an out-of-tune violin... The pressure in his chest must be excruciating. He swallows, which doesn't help enough.]
At least tell me what I should be doing.
[If he's going to be a reason for Shindou to be here, Akira needs to know how to wield and cultivate that power. If he wins titles, will Shindou pursue him? If he travels for study, will Shindou agree to wait as many days as it takes? If he buys a book, one honest and without pretense, can he tell Shindou to take a turn reading it, too?]
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I-- I don't know.
[If he knew something like that, he'd also know how to help himself, and none of this would be happening right now. It's funny in a pathetic way, actually, to hear Touya asking him what he's supposed to be doing. Touya would've rather eaten his own shoe than follow Hikaru's advice about that nozoki the other day. So to ask about something even more complicated than a board state...]
But what I do know... is... [He exhales audibly: not as soft as a sigh, but it lacks the heart of real laughter. It's some bastardization of wonder and disbelief.] You have got to be the nicest person I've ever met, Touya. I don't think there's more you could be doing, because you're already... [He smiles in a way that can only be described as heartbreaking. Adjusting the handkerchief, he pushes back against the fresh threat of tears.] Like, the guys n-never believe me when I say you're really nice. They think you're just... like you're an arrogant prince looking down on a bunch of peasants, but that's like... so wrong, as wrong as it can get, like... [You deserve a lot better than this.
If Sai had haunted Touya instead, Touya would have been unstoppable. Literally unstoppable. He also would have been a good person throughout it all, because he's inherently a good person. Whatever cloth he's cut from, it's what Hikaru wishes he could wrap himself up in. It's what Hikaru covets just as much as Touya's strong ability to play Go. The more time he spends with Touya, the more he hopes Touya's goodness will simply rub off on him... Maybe that's why he's resting his forehead against Touya's shoulder now, with one hand grasping his brand-new jacket, anchoring him there. He could fall asleep like this, probably. It wouldn't be such a bad thing.
His voice floats up from the space in between their bodies:]
You're gonna give yourself a hernia, Touya. Just stop thinking about it for a while.
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Akira's mother had bought him that handkerchief. That, and several others. He's had one in his pocket since childhood; he was taught that it's simply the appropriate thing to do. Carry a handkerchief. When he was small, they were in soft colors, or light colors. These days, they look more and more like the ones his father carries. He hasn't put much thought into them before this—it's simply the appropriate thing. That's all. But this morning, seeing his own handkerchief in Shindou's hand, at Shindou's face, he's relieved for it. It's more than appropriate: it's right.]
Shindou... [As if in rebellion, Akira's brain goes into overdrive. Thinking about where to place his hand shouldn't be as trepidatious as thinking about where to place a stone during a game stacked against him. He can't make his breathing sound normal when Shindou is this close. He doesn't even try. His inhale is discordant, but deep, as if he can catch a little of Shindou's voice from the air.] You don't just stop thinking about things. [Or so he seems to believe. That belief probably explains a lot about him. He wets his bottom lip with his tongue, and then decides to just settle his teeth against it, instead. So too comes the settling of his hand, his hand so far from lax, his hand trying to curve like proper flesh. He finds Shindou's elbow again, but then slips his hand just slightly higher, fitting his fingers against the angle of Shindou's arm.]
There's plenty more I could be doing. [In all things, but...] Shindou, when I said what I said, about you looking... [You don't have to be such a jerk. And then, I say you're really nice. Akira's thumb settles a little firmer against Shindou's arm. Not hard, but almost like a request.] I can't just stop thinking. I was already thinking, before I saw you today.
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I told you... I thought I told you, I've been having a rough time with some stuff... I know I didn't tell you before, so I'm telling you now, so you don't have to yell at me. [Touya can say hurtful things to him--cruel things--downright savage things--but they never outweigh the miracle that is knowing him. It isn't like Touya is trying to be sadistic when he insults his Go or his appearance or whatever else. Touya wants him to be a better person, that's all. To make some improvements. The way his mind works, Touya is always looking for things to improve. That's why it's so scary when Hikaru looks at himself in the mirror and realizes he's at a standstill, if not already regressing.] It feels like... there's a mountain I have to climb, and I don't have any way of doing it. No gear, no tools, no nothing. I don't even know where to begin. [Yeah, he's still winning more games than not, but that doesn't change how paralyzed he feels inside...] Every time I think about it, I just want to go to sleep instead... but I can't sleep, so I end up staying awake... I'd give anything to sleep right now...
[And then, with renewed vigor, with actual spite in his voice,]
It sounds so stupid when I say it out loud, right?
[Sai probably never wasted his time on existential bullshit like this.]
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I'm not yelling at you. [Not now, anyway. He doesn't know that he needs to; he fears his heart is loud like the sort of siren that heralds a natural disaster, calling for evacuation. Shindou is never this close when Akira is playing a game, so Shindou has no way of knowing that Akira's heart riots into action like this when an amazing opponent presents a kodate Akira doesn't immediately know how to respond to. Akira can feel its quickness all through him, but he manages to keep his hand steady at Shindou's arm, just as he manages to place stones with grace even when adrenaline fills every groove in his brain. What should I do next? Or, why did you do that back then? Or, why haven't you done it again? Always: what should I do?]
What's your mountain? [Tightly, Akira confesses,] I don't... understand. [And he hates confessing it, because he hates not understanding, but he doesn't think he ever will understand if Shindou doesn't give him a fighting chance of it. If it's Go, why wouldn't Shindou feel like he's climbing higher and higher? Even when he does stupid things, it's breathtaking to watch Shindou's sleeplessness distill into keen focus when he's kneeling before a goban...
Akira shifts in place. He doesn't want to shift away from Shindou, but he doesn't know what will happen if he shifts closer. So: left foot to right foot. The useless bakery bag crinkles in the crook of his arm, but his other hand slides firm and further along Shindou's bicep.]
You do seem very tired. Whether it's stupid or not, it's not good for you.
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He has no hands to play now, but he's bringing up both of his hands anyway, all ten fingers desperate to make a connection. He grabs at Touya's jacket and presses himself closer, hanging on for what feels like dear life. And, in the worst way, he feels sorry for Touya, for having to deal with someone who takes and takes and takes from him, barely giving anything in return. That kiss might have been Touya's very first, but he never apologized for taking it.] If I explain it to you, [he murmurs, then,] you're going to have more questions, and I won't know what to do with them, and, just... let me just...
[Keeping Touya in the dark hasn't made anything better.
He turns and lifts his head slightly--only far enough for his lips to brush into Touya's hair. His hair has a silky texture that Hikaru just wants to explore with his fingers for the sake of exploring it. Not now. Maybe later. Deliberately, like he's reciting a game from memory, he says,] The Divine Move. I made a promise to someone that I would be the one to play the Divine Move... [For most people, the Divine Move is one of those abstract, intangible, but still universal goals, which everyone chases after even when they have no hope of reaching it. Links in the chain to infinity and other new-age, feel-good platitudes. Hikaru, though... Hikaru speaks of it with an almost religious fervor, like he truly believes it's possible, like he could do it right now, right this instant, if he were a little stronger. His intensity is that of a fucking cult leader, and Touya could be his next convert.] It's been a while since then, already, and I'll be damned if I break that promise, Touya.
The way I am now, I won't be able to do it. That's why I have to be something greater.
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Shindou's kiss showed Akira a full body flush, and Akira was confronted with the unfathomable possibilities of his nerves. Shindou's atari began to constrict his throat, and not with fear. Akira wanted to see what would happen if he let Shindou take that stone, and then used a steady hand to lay down hamete. He wanted to see what Shindou would do, in more than just atop the goban. When Shindou plays atari, when he brazenly plays tengen, Akira wants to show off the lines of his own fingers, the aptitude of his hands and hard focus.
But, all the while, Shindou has been sleepless and faded over some commanding mystery. Someone whose grasp is relentless and suprior.
Akira opens his mouth. It stays that way for a few seconds, open, his tongue restless and uncertain. He doesn't say, The Divine Move is an impossibility. Nor does he say, I'm going to be the one to play that hand. And he doesn't even tell Shindou, I believe you're capable of that. He says this:] Don't you think I'm the one you should be making promises to? [And while he says it, that bag of bread is crushed between them, its paper crinkling like an overbearing static, almost entwining with Akira's voice. Akira feels the same way paper feels, thin, that delicate texture, or maybe he feels as though he's the one tearing paper with his own hands. And he's overwhelmed by the selfishness of what he's just said. There's a flush prickling up his neck—not for shyness, nor embarrassment at Shindou's closeness, but for shame in his demands. Even then, though, he's thinking, Haven't I earned that by now? Isn't that my title? When he grimaces, he grinds his teeth into that grimace, and the rest of him is coiling like that industrial spring: crafted for efficiency, maintenanced too little. The shame in himself gives him the instinct to step away, but he just keeps coiling...
He's holding onto Shindou's shoulder, now. It's miraculous: his hand now refuses to tremble at all.]
Anyway, I'd like to know what's left of yourself to make greater after too much longer of this.
[He thinks—thinly, vaguely, not with any real consciousness of it—he thinks he'd rather burn at the stake than bow in worship to whatever Shindou does. And he thinks, with certainty, that he'd rather scale Shindou's mountain himself than burn at any stake.]
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Promises... [Usually, when their faces are this close together, it's because they're screaming at each other about something stupid. This feels very serious, though. Possibly game-changing. He doesn't realize just how much the angle of his gaze is changing. There are times when he can be calm and inscrutable, impossible to read, and this must be one of those times.] If that's how it is, then... I promise I'll try not to give you more reasons to worry about me. I'll really try, okay? [And, on a whim, he decides to seal that promise with a kiss.
Weeks later, on Touya's birthday, Hikaru gives him a dark blue scarf--the same color as his handkerchief--to better survive the winter cold fronts. It's very soft, very warm, and very fashionable, of course. Hikaru actually looks happy, happier than he has in a while, as he helps arrange it around Touya's neck.
Then he drops off the face of the planet.
Another two weeks go by, and other than a Hibagon-like sighting of him on the fringes of an amateur Go tournament, no one has seen or heard from Hikaru in all that time. Not even Waya has heard anything--who, by the way, really doesn't appreciate Touya Akira trying to talk to him. Ochi is sick of hearing about Touya's flaky rival, and other pros generally keep to their own insulated circles. Only Isumi is more helpful than not, more sympathetic than not, offering some insight no one else could...
Hikaru, meanwhile, is wondering how long it'd take for his parents to notice if he died in his bed. A couple days, surely, because he'd start to decompose and the smell of that is supposed to be pretty nasty... Downstairs, the doorbell rings. Hikaru doesn't pay attention to the delivery or whatever until the muffled sound of his mother's voice is joined by someone else's. Someone more strident, more intense and insistent, but still managing to be as polite as possible. No way, he thinks, opening his bleary eyes. There's just no way that's Touya down there, even though he would know Touya's voice anywhere. Not right now, please... just not right now.]
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Birthday gifts are not a novelty—he gets them from his parents, from his father's students and many of his colleagues, from people who respect his family, and from people who are charmed by his childhood rise in the world of Go. This year is no different. He receives a few books from a few different people. Ogata-san arrives because he's expected to, and gifts Akira with a glaringly bright blue necktie. Ichikawa-san stops by to say hello, bringing with her a modestly sized bouquet—bluestars, beautyberries, and anemones in white and purple—as well as some tea she'd picked out for him. Ochi-kun's grandfather had urged and urged and urged him to take a gift to the Touya household. When Akira accepts it, he does it knowing full well that it's a forced gesture, and when Ochi watches Akira open the gift bag, he does it knowing full well it's a historical book on Go Akira has on some shelf somewhere already. Akira's parents present him with a dress kimono: a black montsuki, strong and refined, with hakama colored deep between forest green and a prudent slate. He does a lot of bowing, that day. His smile is mild and pleasant, and when he laughs, it's soft, full of congenial breathiness.
But, later on, when he and Shindou have the couch to themselves, Akira seems more than cordial. His laughter comes from the belly, not just the throat, and there's range in the warmth and curves of his smile, rather than static, a pleasant plateau. He sits with a new book in his lap, absently moving his fingers along its edges, and rests the side of his head against Shindou's. He laughs about something, again, and when Shindou leaves to go home, Akira thinks that it's all right. They'll see each other soon.
Shindou doesn't turn up for a few days. Akira texts him and doesn't hear back; Akira leaves voicemail, which he already knows is futile, and it is. He tells himself not to push, even though he wants very much to push, but Shindou had said he wouldn't do anything else to make Akira worry, and so Akira should not be worried...
By the eighth day of total silence, Akira isn't worried. He's pissed. Over the next few days, Waya Yoshitaka is no help, which isn't surprising, not least because Akira had marched up and demanded of him like a criminal interrogator. Ochi-kun can only scoff, and Akira doesn't have time to put up with it for long. Nobody knows anything, and maybe Akira knows the least out of all of them. He's radiating Arctic fury, gnawing on his top lip, when Isumi Shinichiro comes up to him and speaks to him gently about some things he thinks Akira should know.
Shindou's mother seems like a harmless woman when she first opens her front door, but Akira's opinion changes very quickly: she's actually feckless. He bows to her and hands her a very small bouquet of flowers. When she offers tea, Akira says, "I would be very grateful." When she startles herself with the realization that she'd forgotten to shut off the kitchen faucet—oh, forgive her, she's just washing dishes—Akira says, "Would you like some help? Oh, I would be glad to, ma'am. No, it's all right; why don't you sit down for a little while?" She hems and haws, but once she's sitting, she chatters on and on. Ultimately, she tells him absolutely nothing about Shindou, which tells Akira a lot. After he's cleared her sink of dishes, listening to her and acknowledging her words when appropriate, he tells her he'll go upstairs to visit Shindou, now, if that's all right. Ohh, yes, of course, go see him... But she stops, and exclaims that, come to think of it, she hasn't seen him this morning; perhaps he's gone out somewhere after all. Akira gives her a beautiful little smile when he tells her he'll go to check.
He opens Shindou's bedroom door, and stands in the doorway for several seconds, surveying silently. Then he shuts the door, strides powerfully across the bedroom, and wrenches open the curtains. He opens the window, too, harsh and indelicate about it. The sleeves of his mint green sweater are still rolled up to his elbows from doing dishes for Shindou's mother. His hair is smooth and impeccable, though the ends are beginning to curl inward a little, not having been cut straight for several weeks now. The air from late December is cold and sharp, and it tickles through Akira's hair. He's leaning with his hands steadied against the windowsill, staring outside, grinding his teeth behind pursed lips. Shindou had better say something, and he had better say something good, or Akira is going to heft him out of this window himself.]
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Hikaru's bedroom might be surprising for how orderly it is, how immaculate it is, to Touya's eyes. There are two large bookshelves on one side, stocked with old manga and plenty of Go reference books; they're adorned with a string of Christmas lights, not turned on, just a sad attempt at holiday spirit. There's a small fridge, a television set, a DVD player, a hand-me-down boombox, and other knick-knacks tucked into a modest entertainment center... In the middle of the floor, the only thing both out of place and not at all, is a goban with both gokes arranged together. The outline of a game is already sitting on the board--it looks like it's barely gotten started. Finally, over by one of the windows, atop the Western-style bed, is a clump of blankets that's trying not to breathe. It's trying very hard not to move at all, even when Touya stalks closer to them, even when Touya lunges on top of the bed to confront them. Touya detours to the curtains and then the window, having both thrown wide open in short order. The chill from outside is immediate, offensive to the senses, but the balled-up blankets stay perfectly still.
The fresh air really proves just how thick, stagnant, and--strangely enough--spicy the miasma of Hikaru's room is. There's a lingering smell of incense, the strongest kind, from when Hikaru tried to carry out his own séance. The reason he's been gone for two weeks is not something he can even begin to explain. Touya would think he's insane, if not outright deranged, for going to that self-proclaimed celebrity psychic. Hikaru did tons of research into ESP itself, he studied every testimonial on her website--she had recommendations from actors, singers, athletes, even a few politicians. She was the real deal, or so it seemed. A private appointment with her cost a fuckton of money, too, but he thought it was going to be worth it... up until she couldn't respond to a simple keima. He kept calling out moves at her, and she didn't know what to say, and he realized she was nothing more than a charlatan. Nothing more than a waste of time. All he ever wanted was a chance at closure, to apologize to Sai for failing him, but every lead he's followed--every book on the occult, every Tarot reading, every swinging fucking pendulum--has ended in disappointment. He's done with chasing after ghosts. He's just done.
The blankets scrunch up a little, shivering visibly.]
Tou... [His voice is feeble, disused, all sticky in his throat like a layer of old cobwebs.] Touya. [He's too mortified to show himself anytime soon, but he's still trying to say something. Something good, he hopes.] You're...
[...]
You're going to let all the warm air out.
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...Don't be dramatic, he tells himself, aggravated by his own line of thought, but this does feel like a dramatic situation. His fingertips are paling, from the cold and his grip on the sill. His body's natural reaction to kneeling was to slip into seiza, and he balances there for several awful moments, knees sinking into Shindou's mattress.
The mummified quality of Shindou's voice almost sends Akira over the edge. Akira isn't sure where that edge leads, or what, exactly, he would be falling into. But he knows that it's bad, and if he doesn't move back from Shindou's body right now, one or both of them will choke. He pushes away—nearly shoves himself—from the window, and moves himself off of Shindou's bed. He's got half a mind to yank at Shindou's blanket and take it with him, but what he wants more than that is for Shindou to obey him right now. So Akira doesn't bother saying this, but commands it instead:] Get out of bed. [Despite speaking calmly with Shindou's mother just a few minutes ago, his voice is hoarse. His voice is worse than metal over metal; it's rust over rust. And his words are rough, too clipped to be polite.] It's well past noon.
[Whirling away from the bed is safest for both of them, he's sure, so he does that. He's flinging open the door to Shindou's closet in lieu of flinging Shindou away from his pillows. He's harsh with it; it smacks into the wall.] If you're cold, get some warm clothes. Look! [At random, he snatches out one of the hangers, bearing a thin long-sleeved shirt.] No, the weather's bad for this one, so never mind that.
[He drops it to the hardwood floor, and immediately neglects the sad heap of it. He's already wrenching out another hanger. It's just a t-shirt.]
Obviously not!
[He drops it, too. In fact, he drops a few more shirts, forming a discordant pile, all sorts of colors and fabrics, abandoning them in a heartless flurry. Never mind the tidiness of Shindou's bedroom otherwise. Never mind the coming wrinkles. All that matters is that he finally manages to pull out a sweater. He brandishes it at that miserable bundle of blankets, flushed, maybe from the cold, maybe radiating as much cold as the world outside.]
This might work. You'd need a jacket too though. If you don't like it, you can pick something else!
[If nothing else, he needs to rid this room of its air. The oxygen feels comatose, and the incense is only going to facilitate madness. Akira is certain of that, since that's what it's doing to him.]
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Get out of bed.
It isn't a request. It isn't a suggestion, either. It's a full-on order, a demand, like something he'd hear at boot camp, condescending and goading in equal measure. Hikaru almost doesn't believe it, but he's listening more intently as Touya moves over to--to his closet?--and rips it open without warning. The sound of the door smacking the wall is ridiculously loud, loud enough to incite a spark of panic in Hikaru. The panic subsides easily into the dregs of his heart, though, and he's left to puzzle wearily over what Touya is trying to do. Cautiously, Hikaru shifts the blankets around so he can see what's going on. Touya is... raiding his closet, apparently, pulling out each piece of clothing as he comes across it...]
What in the hell, Touya...
[His voice is shaky, and queasy, like he's ready to laugh in disbelief. He doesn't get out of bed, but he does find the strength to sit up a little, then all the way, rising slowly like a mummy from its accursed tomb. He's just this lopsided pile of blankets with half of his face visible in the middle. His complexion has too much much in common with a bowl of wax fruit, and his eyes are so pale that they're nearly see-through. The sunlight from the open window isn't bright enough to hurt him, but he's still in no hurry to meet it.
I'm trying to do the things I need to do to have you here.
Inside an echo of the past, Hikaru suddenly understands why Touya is here and what he's trying to do by being here. Hikaru feels delirious with understanding: Touya isn't preparing to break up with him. After everything, in spite of everything, Touya still believes he can do something to help him out. Touya wouldn't be doing this, dealing with this bullshit, if he weren't trying to save him. Touya was never the arrogant prick of a prince like Waya used to say; he's a pure-hearted hero who belongs in a storybook, all gallant and beautiful, a happy ending in waiting. Even cascading with anger, he's so fucking generous.
Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on Hikaru's part.]
Where... am I supposed to go?
[After hours of crying, of cycling through the stages of grief like a hamster in a treadmill, this is at least something different for Hikaru to focus on.]
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He spins on his heel, back around to the closet.]
I don't care. [But he isn't uncaring. He's rifling through the shelves in Shindou's closet until he finds a pair of jeans he thinks is appropriate. Still forceful, or more forceful:] Pick somewhere. Anywhere. [Akira grabs the first pair of underwear he finds, and the first pair of socks, too.] It can be anywhere, Shindou, just choose.
[The curtains are billowing, as if trying to soften the edge of the moment. They're gentle, much unlike the cold air or Akira's voice. Akira marches back to the bed, and dumps his armful of Shindou's clothing beside him.]
Are you going to take a shower first, or are we going now?
[These are still the demands of a drill sergeant. Still the commands of someone in charge. Akira can almost tell himself it doesn't matter anymore if this is the right thing to do. It just needs to be done. Whether that's something that makes sense, even if only to him, is something he won't confront. If I can just do this, he's telling himself, if I can just have him one more time...
If Shindou is going to leave him for good, Akira at least wants to make peace with it. If Shindou is going to leave him for good, Akira needs to be looked full in the face. He needs to press shoulder to shoulder with Shindou once more, so that Shindou can confirm it's not worthwhile. He needs Shindou to leave him properly. He needs to leave Shindou unable to escape from this—oiotoshi, helpless no matter the hand, no matter the loss for Akira. If this match ends here, he needs Shindou to look back on its record and regret its cost.
He looms heavy over Shindou's bed, his clothing vivid (he's shoved the clothes given to him by Shindou into the back of his closet), his hair sleek (he bathed not long before coming, using fragrant shampoo and soap and gulping in steam to try and make the best of himself), and his frigidity harsh (he is more the dead of winter than the weather outside).]
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A-Anywhere... [The answer crystallizes in his mind like an audacious plan that could turn the game around. Even if he's going to lose anyway, he still owes Touya a full explanation of what's happening to him. He owes Touya a lot of things, but he shouldn't waste time on stuff that's superfluous. Honestly, Touya would probably chase him to the ends of the earth to get some closure if he had to. Hikaru doesn't want to see him lose his mind over unanswered questions. Hikaru knows how that sort of thing can gnaw you down to nothing.]
If I can go anywhere, [he says, closing his eyes,] then I want to go to the Nihon Ki-in. The kifu room, at the Nihon Ki-in. [It all fits together rather conveniently, he thinks. It might even be poetic as another dividing line in his life. Before, and after. Before and after. That room is where he realized Sai was the genius who deserved to play every single game (all of the games, all of them, all of them). That room is where he realized he wanted to be with Touya in more ways than just inside shapes on the board. A single tear slips through his eyelashes, now that he's thinking back, but he doesn't bother with rubbing it away.]
There's something... I need to tell you, Touya. In the kifu room at the Nihon Ki-in.
[Touya doesn't look any more inviting than a walk-in freezer. Like a room where corpses go at the hospital. The morgue. That's the word for it. Maybe he was wrong about why Touya is here--not as a prince, but as a murderer. A shivering exhale, and then Hikaru shifts around a little, trying to get back onto the pins and needles known as his feet. He had to take a shower a few days ago, on Christmas Day, to avoid causing a scene at dinner, so it should be fine if he skips one now. Regardless, he isn't about to wear any clothes that Touya Akira of all people picked out for him. Crippling, soul-crushing depression doesn't mean he's going to dress like a colorblind invalid. Even the worst people in the world get to look good at their funerals.
He shuffles unsteadily over to the closet, to pick out something less conspicuous than an ugly sweater his distant relatives gave him.]
Just give me a few minutes, and then we can go...
[And he's very careful about not stepping where Sai used to sit.]
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He still feels like he could start crying. When Shindou walks toward his closet, it's like watching him take his first steps really and truly away from Akira. Akira is staring at the navigation of Shindou's awkward feet when he sits down on the edge of Shindou's bed. Then he looks down at his knees, at his hands clenched tight in his lap. Shindou's blankets are bunched up, an empty chrysalis all sunken in, surely warm still from holding his body. The part of Akira that's full of hurt yearning wants to take Shindou's place in the blankets. He wants to suck up Shindou's remaining body heat for himself. He wants to leave Shindou's bed smelling faintly of green tea and tea tree. He wants Shindou to inhale that right before he falls asleep, so he can never fully get it out of his mind.
Throwing open the window seems like such an overdramatic gesture, now. It's very cold in this room, and Akira feels like a small fool, his posture bowing bit by bit while he sits where he sits.] We'll go, [he says, and the sentence ends there, but its inflection makes it feel like it's missing something. The rest of the words are, perhaps, sucked dry, dehydrated by his throat, by his eyes. His eyelashes are damp. He tries to swallow, and only barely manages for the pain.]
Dress warmly.
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He makes sure to grab his wallet, his cell phone, and then his fan (after twenty seconds of staring at it), before moving back to the bed. He looks down at Touya, sitting there, not facing him anymore--it's all right. By the end of this, Touya is going to wish he never met him in the first place. Hikaru actually climbs onto the bed, then, but not to return to his chrysalis of blankets. He's leaning forward, he's reaching into the space between his bed and the wall--]
I thought...
[He retrieves a three-ring binder from its cold, lonely resting place.]
I thought I'd have more time to put this together.
[It's a neutral purple on the outside, and it's pretty thick, containing hundreds if not thousands of pieces of paper. Leaning back again, he offers the binder to Touya with his eyes downcast.]
It doesn't have everything ever, but I really tried to... I mean, you're just going to have to deal with that. --Don't look at it. Just hold on to it for me.
[If Touya does try to sneak a peak, he's going to find out it's filled with... kifu, apparently. Page after page after page of kifu. Hikaru doesn't say anything else about what it is or what it means as he gets off the bed and zips up his jacket. Maybe he should say goodbye to his parents, before he leaves. Maybe he should text Waya, and Isumi-san, and thank them for putting up with him when he was just a snotty, ignorant insei. He's still fucking ignorant, but he won't inflict himself on anyone else. Shaking his head a little, convinced there's not enough time left, he heads for the doorway to his bedroom.
On the subway, he doesn't say anything at all. He's too busy trying to figure out what he's going to say when it counts.
Finally, the Nihon Ki-in--it looks more like a mausoleum from the sidewalk outside. He lets Touya handle getting permission to unlock and enter the kifu room. No building admin would be willing to tell Touya Akira 4-dan, the Go world's one great hope, he can't do whatever the hell he wants to do, after all. And Hikaru is more interested in staring at the line of vending machines out in the lobby. Sai never quite got over how innovative the design of a vending machine was. Human progress...
A random girl--one of the top insei, if he remembers right--comes up to him and starts nattering about some game or another that he won. He can barely hear her praise through the field of cotton balls that's invading his ears: the shock of the moment, now setting in. He simply looks in the direction of the front office, hoping Touya will return soon. This is it, he realizes.]
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The steps he takes in Shindou's wake are steps Akira refuses to walk toward any death sentence. A fork in the road at worst. Shindou can pursue the height of whatever mountain he's been eyeing, or he can fall apart at its base. Akira has mountains, too, you know. He wants to say that. You know that, right, Shindou?
But he's gone very quiet. As he's leaving Shindou's bedroom, he turns his head to look a final time at the unfinished game on the goban. Downstairs, he takes his coat, his scarf (cream colored), and he leaves the house unseen by Shindou's mother. He doesn't seek her out himself to bow or thank her. He just lets Shindou shut the door.
The subway is only a little crowded, but Akira still sits as though the throngs are thick; his shoulder presses against Shindou's. He doesn't acknowledge it to Shindou, and he keeps his face turned so he's looking out of the window. It wasn't supposed to be like this. The intent was to make Shindou miss it, but Akira is the one who feels awful, stomach sinking lower and lower and his heart following after. His grey coat and Shindou's warmly-colored jacket don't look like they belong together. Akira's fingers are worrying along the edges of the three-ring binder—like with the book, on his birthday, sharing his couch with Shindou, except there's no peace in this. There is no peace in him, even as he's telling himself to make peace.
It doesn't take much wheedling to gain access to the kifu room. Really, all he needs to do is speak gently—unexpectedly difficult, for once, but he asks in a soft voice, and his hair is soft, too, in the way it falls, when he inclines his head in gratitude. These are foreign feelings, today. He can hardly bear his own softness, when he otherwise feels like the edge of a knife.
Shindou's eyes are on him as soon as Akira comes out of the office. Akira is determined to hold that stare with his own weight. This young woman is talking at Shindou with real enthusiasm, and Akira strides upon them both before his eyes even slip toward her. She must be thinking Shindou is listening to her. She must be thinking the things she says are grabbing his attention. Akira realizes dimly that she's praising Shindou, that she's delighted to see him, to speak with him. If you knew, he thinks, if you knew even a little about Shindou Hikaru, if you knew about his Go, you wouldn't be smiling. You would be terrified. Akira looks at her for a flat five seconds, thinking he could almost muster pity for her, before he touches Shindou's upper arm with a firm hand. Then he turns away abruptly, not bothering to acknowledge anything else in any other way. If he hears that young woman exclaiming in surprise, it doesn't stay in his head long enough for him to remember. Akira is marching. If clusters of people are parting for him, he doesn't notice.
An office attendant is waiting, keys in hand, at the door of the kifu room. Akira presses Shindou's binder to his chest, crosses his arms over it, and dips into a shallow bow. He might be overdoing the politeness at this point, but he knows he'll fly off the handle if he isn't hyper-focused on projecting calm. It's nearly too difficult an undertaking, until the attendant leaves and he clicks the door shut behind himself and Shindou. He leans with his back against it, and he's holding the binder so tightly that its plastic edges cut uncomfortably into his arms. There's pressure in his head, just behind his eyes. If it bursts, he's going to actually start crying; his chin might be trembling, even through his glare.]
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T-Touya, I... [He takes one step backward, then another, and another, and this time he bumps into the edge of the reading table instead of a random passerby. There's nowhere else for him to run, by design. That's honestly what he wanted. So, out of instinct, he reaches behind himself and tugs the fan out of his back pocket, like he always does prior to an official match. It's his way of reminding himself that he can get through the next two or three hours without losing his shit, even when he feels like that can't be true.] Look, can you just... you don't have to stand all the way over there. Come sit down. Sit here with me. We can go through it together.
[He uses the fan to gesture at the two chairs waiting beside the table. In this moment, he looks frightened, and exhausted, and like he'd rather bury himself under all these random cardboard boxes and let them smother him to death. He's especially frail and anemic under the harshness of florescent lighting, which doesn't do anything to hide any flaws, any blemishes. As he sits down, he suddenly remembers he left his bedroom window open, which is just great, just wonderful; his mom's going to be ecstatic about that; it's all Touya's fault for opening the fucking thing in the first place. Then he remembers that it doesn't matter the least bit anyway. An open window is so far beyond the scope of what actually matters: this room, Touya Akira, and that purple binder.]
It's yours, by the way. I'm giving it to you. [He sighs heavily, tapping the tip of the fan against his cheek.] So now you're allowed to look at it, [he adds with a hint of morbid finality.
The very first page--the very first record, written down by hand like all the rest--is the very first game "he" played against Touya at the Go salon. It's a game of shidougo, which Hikaru didn't understand at the time, but now its inquisitive contours are more than obvious. Sai wanted to find out just what he was dealing with, no handicap necessary...
The second page. Mercilessly, it's the second game they played against each other at the Go salon. Hikaru speaks up, now, and his voice is softer than sunflowers, totally unlike the cutting edge of Sai's play:] I never meant to let things get so out of hand, you know. But, it's like... I'd lie about it, and I'd start lying about the lie, and lying about the lie I just lied about, and then it was a huge mess and I didn't know what to do. I still don't know what to do. [The third page. It isn't a game against Touya, but against... his father. And if this particular kifu could speak for itself, it would have plenty to say about trespassers and protecting what's important. This game, though, didn't last very long for whatever reason.
Every single page in this binder is a game that Sai played, roughly arranged in chronological order. Years of games, in total. Literal years of games. Against Hikaru. Against people on the Internet. Against Touya in a few places. But mostly against Hikaru, the up-and-coming protégé, whose skillfulness took mere months to congeal. It should be impossible for Hikaru to have remembered this many games, stretching back this far, back to when he had no clue what he was doing, but the binder is sitting right there. It exists. Like Hikaru's hand on Touya's elbow, it exists.]
But I'm not lying to you when I say these are all Sai's games.
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