[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.
[It's Akira's move. Shindou says, Sit here with me, which means it's Akira's move. A weak string inside of him pulls tight, vibrating with the desire to stay where he is, to keep from allowing the end to come. But stalling a hand won't make a game last forever. He places his stone by taking his seat beside Shindou, here, with Shindou, and he sets the binder evenly between them. None of this happens gracefully. This is the tightest coil of his spring yet. His movements seem almost forced, as if he's bending iron just to situate his arms, his hands. Opening that binder takes the strength of legends. Its cover has more weight than Akira can abide. He manages to flip it back, and he sees, there, what Shindou did to him when he was eleven years old.
He tries to whip his head up, to look at Shindou, but the hinge of his neck feels rusted, and he can only move in a burst of static. He sees, before him, someone who looks sick and tired. He sees the discolorations in Shindou's face, the eyes and under-eyes of someone ill. The contrast here is almost enough to make Akira break down on the spot. For all the fury in his face, for all the pinching stress, his eyes are wide, so wide, like a doe's—with the actual fright of a doe. He might be scared just as shitless. His mind is writhing like a wounded dragon: what is this? What we did together? Are you giving it back to me? Are you making me take it away from you? The second page makes Akira want to scream. He can feel the chill of sweat at his temple.
The third page is jarring; things make less sense. Shindou confessing his falsehoods disjoints everything further. Shindou proclaiming all of these to be Sai's games... is...
Akira covers his mouth with his hand. His other arm remains still; he doesn't move away from Shindou's touch.]
Sai is... [Behind the cage of his fingers, Akira clears his throat, and then sets his hand back at the binder. He's turning pages one by one, then eventually flips through them at random. A breath. The widening of his eyes has lessened.] Your teacher. [It's a statement, but not as decisive as he'd like it to be. It's what makes sense, though... isn't it...] You were learning from him, and... [He doesn't make it to the last of the kifu, not yet. He's already started backtracking, thumbing through to a few games he'd looked a just moments ago. His mouth opens, then closes again as his brow furrows deep. His eyes are flicking from point to point on every page he chooses. Then he bites his bottom lip, hard, and goes back to that first game.] You— [Another bite, a little harder. He waits a moment.]
You didn't know, at first... you were doing what—what he would have done...
[Is there any other way to rationalize this? But Akira feels obligated to come up with answers himself—telling Shindou when he doesn't understand something has never led to clear explanations before.
He flips back the majority of the stack of pages all at once, coming to a game much more recent than any in the start. This is Shindou's playing. He can see it so clearly; it's what he's been wanting to watch for weeks now. Opposite Shindou is Sai, and Akira's heart recognizes it in its own place. In a different place.
His eyes dart around again. He's turning all the way back to the first page, the second. His confusion is a grimace on his face, like nausea.]
I was right all along. About him, about you. [Inside. He's never sounded so uncertain about being right. These first two games are games Akira knows by heart as well: they're games played between himself and Shindou. There's no way to get around that.] Then, he told you... what moves...
[But, how? How was that managed? And—Akira blanches.]
But you played me... but you didn't... then, Shindou...
[Hikaru, for once, doesn't interrupt Touya's slow, steady contemplation of the facts. He's hanging onto every word, desperate for Touya to figure it out on his own so he doesn't have to explain it himself... Actually, it's kind of incredible how much Touya can glean from the pages of the binder. Actually, it's really incredible. Hikaru's heart seems heavier than a chunk of lead, but somehow it's starting to float up and into his throat, getting lodged in there. He alternates between watching Touya's confused face and Touya's slender fingers caressing the pages. Every so often, he looks at which game Touya is studying, and he wonders why certain games capture his attention more than others. Although this revelation is arguably more about Sai than about him personally, he feels exposed, too, showing Touya an even more intimate version of baby photos. He was fucking horrible when he started. Just appalling and insufferable. No one, not even Sai, could have guessed he'd improve as much as he did, and as rapidly as he did at that. But I did it for you, he thinks, curling his fingers around Touya's elbow. I worked as hard as I did so I could play you and not disappoint you.
He's smiling. No way. But, seriously, he's smiling right now, and he doesn't know how long he's been smiling for. There's something else, too--the tremendous weight on his shoulders, it doesn't feel as tremendous as it did this morning. On the one hand, it's unfair of him to feel better when Touya clearly feels worse the longer he looks at the pages. On the other hand... no one else knows about this stuff, and it's a lot for one person to carry with them, if they have no way of sharing it. Now he's sharing it with Touya. Now Touya can see that, yes, yes--] Sai was my teacher. [A quiet correction, but an important one, but his eyes don't look like dead geodes anymore. They're bright and alert, the color of cut emerald.] Sai taught me how to play because I wanted to be able to play, too. I wanted to play like you did, and like your dad did, because it looked so fucking cool to me. That's what I wanted more than anything...
[So relieved, no matter what happens next, he leans into Touya's shoulder, tilting his head closer, and he inhales like he isn't afraid it could be his last breath. If he'd known it would feel this good to tell someone the truth, he would've done it a lot sooner. A hell of a lot sooner. He would've skipped past promising Touya someday and done it right there in the elevator. "By the way, I'm Sai's student and..."]
You were right, Touya. You were always right. I couldn't tell you before, and I'm sorry about that, but you were always... you did know me the best out of everyone. And I was so... [He rests his head on Touya's shoulder, overwhelmed with sheer happiness. His heart could sprout wings and flutter away.] So happy, Touya. So, so happy you could see Sai in my Go. I'm just sorry I couldn't give you more of him.
[But...
But he doesn't address the question that's already strongly implied: how did he know what moves to make? He doesn't want to address it, not right now, not when it has a chance of ruining everything, confounding the facts with what can't be measured or quantified. The disclosure of all that comes after death has no place in this temporal relief and ecstasy, now that he isn't alone with the biggest mystery of the Go universe. Touya has seen enough to know that Sai existed, and that Hikaru was Sai's student, soaking up his expertise like a sponge. It should be enough, right? It's enough to satisfy Touya's thirst for knowledge, isn't it?]
[This, all this while, Akira has known it: these eyes, their smooth facets, are valuable beyond reason. Akira has been digging for this color, this clarity—he has been mining with his bare hands. These eyes should be coveted, and Akira knows now that Sai has seen them for, what, hundreds more games than Akira ever saw. If... He opens his mouth. If you wanted to play like I did, I would have taught you how...
When Shindou leans against him, Akira's body is too pliant, and he has to consciously remind himself not to let them both topple from their chairs. Shindou's head meets his shoulder, and, like he might melt, Akira exhales. It's nearly a shudder. His own hand begins to curl, slowly, fingertips drawing across the tabletop, and, riskier than his most aggressive uchikomi, he rests his head against Shindou's. His eyes close underneath the deep pull of relief. He has more time than he thought, maybe, before he's left alone.
His brain begins to process Shindou's voice. His hand freezes against the table, and his eyes snap back open.]
You're sorry—you're sorry you couldn't give me— Shindou! I told you, didn't I—I did. I said it was enough. That the Go you play is... [His mouth falls open a little bit more, while he pulls back to try and look at Shindou's face.] Enough...
[He stares, still mining for emeralds, taking in all notes of Shindou's pallor. There is nobody else who can understand this, and so he needs to understand it, right now, right now. He's thinking back to all he knows of Shindou, all he has filed away, trying to pick what to sift through first, until he grabs at the binder again. He separates its stack of kifu to its final pages all at once, and scans one of the last games with frantic eyes, an index finger. Comparing Shindou to Sai... the next page, too... At last, he turns to the final game. He looks at it without touching it, and then he wrenches his arm away from the cradle of Shindou's hand.
It's so he can grasp at Shindou's sleeve, instead, fingers a flurry.] You're mourning, [he breathes, with the alarm of true revelation.]
[God, the euphoria of all this is... beyond relief, beyond redemption... Hikaru feels like he's purging everything bad, everything toxic, just lie after lie after lie that he's had to tell. He's getting rid of it. He's cleaning himself from the inside out. If Touya will allow them to, they can start over with each other. They can meet each other for the first time all over again. They can hit up the Go salon together and they can play each other until they're sick of it, which will never happen, ever, because they both love playing each other too much. And, if he can ask for anything else, anything at all, it would be for Touya to continue looking at him, just like this, like this, for a long time to come. Like he's something valuable. Irreplaceable. Not Fujiwara-no-Sai, but irreplaceable anyway.
It's almost too good to be true. It probably is. He should do something to rein himself back in, to temper his expectations, which is why he says,] I know that's what you said. I remember that. I'll never forget that. But... I thought, you know, you deserved way better than that, after everything, and... if I could just play more like he did, I bet it'd make you happy, and other people happy, too. That's what I thought, and I thought I could make it happen. [But Touya is already searching through the kifu again, in pursuit of something else, so Hikaru falls quiet and waits for whatever it is. Every molecule in his body feels like it's humming, finally in tune, not a single note discordant. He can feel the full extent of his fingers, too, when they squeeze around the handle of his fan. Not just faraway prickling and a chill. Real flesh and bone. He exists.
And then:
Mourning?
Hikaru looks back at Touya skeptically, like that doesn't make much sense to him.] No, that was... before, when I quit before, that was when what happened to Sai, happened, and... yeah, I was pretty fucked up about it, and it wasn't like I could... [All of the sudden, the words are starting to come without his permission, faster and faster. It's like being on a roller coaster and not knowing when it's going to stop.] I had no one I could tell about it, and I didn't understand, why, he, uhm... [Now his smile is starting to blur away. His eyes retain their lively, crystalline quality, at least, wider than ever, but he can't get his mouth to do more than grimace.] I got over it, I should have, I thought I was over it, but then... but I wasn't, improving, as much, and I couldn't figure out why Sai had chosen me, and then Ko Yeong-ha--
[He can tell he isn't making much sense anymore, but he can't stop the words from coming out. This is all about getting the poison out of his body: a finger down his throat, a swallow of ipecac, salt water and mustard, just whatever will expel every secret.]
If I had been Sai, I wouldn't have lost to him, not in a thousand fucking years, but I did lose, and that's when I realized... [He's still so happy that Touya is sharing this with him, but he's starting to cry again, breaking down in real time, reaching up to cover his eyes.] I'm never really going to see him again, because I can't--my Go isn't--! I'm just not good enough, Touya! And I still don't know why he chose me! I just w-wa--wanted to know w-why, it was me, out of everyone...!
[The alarm of revelation is screeching back into the alarm of not knowing what the fuck is going on. This isn't a rollercoaster, for Akira: this is a VIP view of someone falling from a cliff. This is an inability to see the bottom of the canyon. It's the anticipation of the hard smack and wet gush.] Shindou, [he says, and his voice is too thin to be the safety net it needs to be. He shakes his head, uncomprehending, unknowing in what to do next. If the emeralds are lost underwater, Akira isn't sure of how long he can hold his breath. If Shindou's hands are covering them up, Akira isn't sure what to do with his own.
He presses his knuckles to his own lips. Again:] Shindou. [Shindou's hiccuping is like a series of pins directly into Akira's brain. His instinct is to rear back. This is so much, and it feels so fast. Akira is going to start hiccuping, too. If things don't slow down, Akira is going to be unable to breathe. He shakes his head quickly, pinching both hems of Shindou's sleeves with his fingers.] Shindou. [His hands flutter, and he lays his fingers over Shindou's wrists, instead. First he squeezes, then he worries that he's squeezing too tightly, and releases. His thumbs lend pressure and then his hands just go tense on their own, stiff and straight as Shindou's bones. He starts to say something, aborts it, and then curls around Shindou's wrists all over again.
...] Shindou. [It's louder, and horrified, with the desperation of arms flung wide, even as he keeps his needy hands on Shindou.] Sometimes people just lose.
[It hits him as reality in the same moment it leaves his mouth.]
Sometimes... [He licks his bottom lip, almost stuck between an exhale and a gasp. His hands fall away from Shindou's wrists, and come to rest instead at Shindou's knee angled closest to him.] People just... lose. Everyone. Everyone. I know—what I know is that Sai saw that you are good enough. He was an amazing man, not a blind one. [His palms, hot with stress, are side by side against Shindou's jeans. His fingertips press inward, urgent.] I've been half-blind, and even I...
[Akira doesn't know, anymore, whether there's a way to keep Shindou from hitting the ground. He doesn't know whether his voice rings clear in this canyon. But he takes a short breath, holds it, and then lets it out in a tight huff.
His voice is hoarse from straining:] Please look at me. [And this isn't a demand like everything else has been.]
[Oh, Touya. Touya, Touya, Touya... Just hearing Touya say his name like that--urgently, a last-ditch prayer to an uncaring god--shouldn't be as comforting as it is. Hikaru is still hiccuping, still weeping, still pushing back against his eyes, but he can already feel the momentum of his fall changing around him. Maybe he's going to hit the ground eventually, maybe he was always destined to splatter, but Touya isn't a completely helpless observer right now. Touya is doing something to change the trajectory and the air resistance. And that's in spite of the fact he has no idea what he's talking about--not his fault, of course, but he just doesn't know. He has no idea Sai's record in this era was pristine, except for when Hikaru made him play with an imaginary handicap. He has no idea choosing has nothing to do with learning Go, but with why, out of everyone to touch that goban, only Hikaru could see the blood stains. He doesn't know anything. He could know it, in theory, like a daring innovation in joseki, but he doesn't know it for the time being. Maybe Hikaru will feel better if he figures out a way to tell Touya everything there is to know.
In any case, he can't believe Touya is still sitting here, listening to this tragedy in human form. Anybody else would've walked out by now, disgusted and disturbed, ready to call for a psychiatrist, but Touya is listening to him. The only person who would, or could, do this for him. The only person who's going to be there when he hits the ground or else learns how to fly out of harm's way miraculously. It takes a choking sound, a hard swallow, and another half-gasp of air, before Hikaru finally emerges from his shaking hands. He looks down at Touya's hands, positioned on his knee, maybe trying to catch him in midair. He looks up at Touya's face, and then he drops his hands down, covering up Touya's hands with them. His skin is gross, all slick with snot and tears--he's sorry for that, too, but he doesn't want to let go.]
Even you... what?
[He asks that question like he's handling an original Keicho flower bowl: delicately, and deathly afraid of breaking something, just like he has everything else.]
[Bit by exhausting, earnest bit, this feels less like a losing battle. Shindou touches Akira's hands, and it is pretty gross, but that's not what matters. Damp skin doesn't matter; Akira's fingers curling, pressing firmer into this part of Shindou's thigh, is what matters. The draw of Akira's brow and the curve of his mouth... Akira might look angry to anyone else, but he isn't angry, and Shindou isn't anyone else. Shindou is the person who knows how to see that every ounce of Akira's heart and every push of Akira's viscera are working toward capability and grace. This is determination.
A picture forming in his head solidifies. He sighs, slow and heavy, and slides his hands out from beneath Shindou's, away from his leg. It's not for disgust, and there's no intention to actually leave. He's leaning back in his seat, reaching into a pocket...
This time, his handkerchief is a display of pale, mellow sunflowers, big blooms in washed out oranges. They look stately, quiet, some just budding. Once more, Akira takes the task of drying Shindou's face. He rubs over each of his cheeks; he touches gently near Shindou's priceless eyes. With his lips pursed in concentration, he wipes beneath Shindou's nose. It's while he's focused like that, concentrating, that he speaks again, even if his tongue feels almost too soft in his mouth to say it.]
Why do you think I came to you today? [He could rival the touch of real sunflower petals.] I need to know what you think I want from you.
[The final touch of the handkerchief, now folded into thirds, is more of a caress on Shindou's chin. It lingers, and then Akira pulls back, slow. He folds the cloth one more time, and cleans the back of his hands. They drop back down. This time, he is the one to take both of Shindou's hands, and he doesn't feel tight, not ready to bend or split underneath great weight.]
Because I understand now that whatever you think is probably wrong. And it's time for me to tell you the right thing.
[Four years ago, five years ago, Hikaru never would have tolerated someone else tending to his face like this. He would've fought back against anything gentle, anything benevolent--frankly, anything feminine--like Touya's attentiveness. He never needed anyone's attention, anyone's approval, defying both his parents and his teachers, right up until... a strategic board game happened. His shoulders shift upward, his throat tightens, a pearl of grief still stuck in there after all--and then he exha l e s and his whole body goes slack. He doesn't stop Touya from dabbing at him with a responsibly colorful handkerchief. Just like the first time, it feels good.]
Well... [He almost smiles again, but it's too lopsided, too self-aware.] At first, I thought you were mega-pissed at me, and you were going to rip my stupid head off. And then I thought, maybe, you... maybe you missed me, so you wanted to see me again. Maybe you wanted to-- [save me.] I don't know, anymore. And then I thought you were getting ready to break up with me. ["Break up"... That might not be the right word for it, but it's the word that comes to mind as he's speaking. Rivalry can resemble romance in many ways, and it's inevitable that some rivals will drift apart, whether in skill or determination. Irreconcilable differences.] So, I decided I'd go ahead and tell you about Sai, while I was still, uh...
[He's looking down at their linked hands now. There are girls--boys--grown men, most likely--who'd jump at the chance to hold Touya Akira's sainted hands. These hands, in placing stones on the board, can translate divine intention into reality.]
But you're still here with me. So now I don't know what's... going on, exactly. [His eyes flick back up, a tumble of emeralds, in search of a proper explanation.] But it's starting to feel like you just want to assault my senses with that ugly-ass sweater. What were you thinking, Touya. [His sarcasm couldn't be softer, or warmer; it's more like an embrace after too long a separation. Somehow, in spite of his identity crisis, the real Shindou Hikaru still exists underneath all the decay.]
[Things don't get much worse than a thin sigh; Akira doesn't have the strength to rage around right in this moment. Maybe not even the inclination. This is what they call long-suffering: he can only be steadfast, for now. He can only look into Shindou's eyes. All the fire in him is redirected to the cradle of his hands.]
...Well, I was mega-pissed, [he finally says, and there's a disapproving twist to his mouth.] And I did want to rip your stupid head off. [His shoulders dip, a little. Tension lessens just so.] And I did miss you. And I did want to see you again. And I think all of those things are still true, and... [There's disbelief in his face, plus a spreading grimace. He doesn't let go of Shindou's hands, but he's leaning back just enough to be noticed. This is an expression he might wear when Shindou does something during a match that's bad enough to be mystifying. But he makes this face, too, when an opponent bests him, and he realizes where he went wrong and what could have been avoided.
His shoulders hike up. Quick, he ducks his head completely.]
I was thinking more that I wanted to assault you with a big old book to your head. God, shut up, don't be stupid. [He's prickling, but not with a spike of anger... this is the anxiety of knowing what he'll say next.] Don't be stupid, [he murmurs again, and his head is still low, but he's squeezing Shindou's fingers. He'll adopt the terminology:] I thought you were the one breaking up with me. I was sure of it. You know, back then, I came to you and told you I was waiting for you, but you refused me. [Haze Middle School, Akira's first confession, and Shindou, slamming the window shut. That, perhaps, was what showed Akira how angry he could get.] So I decided I would chase after you instead, and I did, and I have been, all along, so then I thought you just didn't want that anymore. I thought you just didn't want... me... [It hangs for a second, Akira's face hidden away by the fall of his hair. Then, awkwardly appended,] To do that.
[It's a little humiliating—all of this—but, in here, it's only history and him and Shindou. If anyone is going to see these parts of him, Shindou is meant to be that person. The kifu surrounding them on every wall feel like a sanction. So, Akira lifts his chin just enough that he can raise his eyes, looking up at Shindou from what seems a long way.] I was serious. I thought about you no matter what other games I was playing. That lasted. It's been that way all this time. And I think... now, I think about how you'd respond to just everything. The way you would laugh or make an idiotic face at something. The stupid things you would say, and the smart things you would say. So when you weren't saying anything at all to me, I... [The line of his brow is drawing tight again, like he's reliving a moment of particularly potent anger.] I finally got you to look at me, and you stopped looking at me, and I was so mad. You made me think about you that much, and then you decided to leave me alone with it. [But his brow smooths back out; his eyebrows raise.] Jerk. I came to you today because I wanted to be with you. That's it. That's why. Shindou, you're such a jerk.
[Hikaru has read enough manga in his life to know he's hearing a confession right now. A confession of what, precisely, he can't be sure, because this sort of thing is really confusing, but Touya is trying to tell him something important. Again, more respectful than usual, Hikaru doesn't interrupt him as he unwinds whatever has been tightly coiled inside his chest. Not just stuff from the past few months, but from years ago, years and years ago, this strange, twisted-up relationship they've had all along. It shouldn't be possible for two people to chase after each other without colliding at some point. Maybe this is the collision, Hikaru thinks. And he still owes it to Touya to tell him the truth.]
Hey, I never said I wasn't a jerk, Touya... [His mouth tastes like battery acid, and he resists the urge to swallow it back down. It has to come up. It has to get out of him.] I can't even... apologize for it, because I'd be apologizing all day, all week, on and on. I'd be apologizing for the rest of my life. [Every time Touya looks away, ducking his head, Hikaru feels something dull and coarse dragging down the length of his spine. It only stops when Touya looks at him again.] If you want to... be with me, then you... you have to understand that I've been lying to you for a long time. I'm not asking you to forgive me, just to... understand what I'm saying. [Touya needs to know that the person he's infatuated with is not a good person. A good person wouldn't have deprived Touya of the chance to play Sai in more games. A good person wouldn't have stopped Sai from playing all of the games, all of them, just all of them, ever.]
The first time we played for real... like, a full game, for real... it was the first prelim to the Meijin tournament. That was our first game ever. [Trying to be as firm as possible, he says,] Do you understand? Everything before that, everything, no matter what you saw, or what you thought you saw... that wasn't me, Touya. That wasn't my Go. Except for... [The middle school tournament. Third boards. He looks like he might throw up after all, that wave of nausea rippling over his face.] Once. For a few hands. Not many. I resigned, of course, and you said I was no match for you. That was the real me, though. That's how much I sucked. I lied to you about it, but I really did suck at Go. And I knew the entire time you were just looking for Sai, so... [So Hikaru wanted to replace Sai, someday, in the future. To erase him, even.
Maybe that's what made Sai so erratic and depressed by the end. Maybe that's why they got into so many fights, with Sai being a total asshole about their games, saying shit like Hikaru had never beaten him and Hikaru couldn't beat him. Maybe. Maybe. If that psychic wench had been worth anything, he could've found out what was going through Sai's head back then. His fan, left abandoned by the binder, might not have been the baton pass he wanted it to be. Now he's left with a bunch of guesswork and steadily emptying lungs.]
I said I wanted to learn Go because I wanted to play like you did. That's how it started. That's what got me interested. But the reason I stayed interested--it was because I wanted to play you. And I thought about you, too, all the time, even when I was telling you to go away. Just--for god's sake, Touya, [he mumbles, with a kind of nervous laugh,] just hearing your name could make me break into a cold sweat. That hasn't changed at all, me thinking about you, unable to stop thinking about you, and I think about you in other ways, too. Different ways. All the time. [His voice shifts lower, then, bleeding through with an emotion he doesn't know how to define. It's a little too rough to be adoration, but it's sitting against the same seam.] I'm not going to break up with you, you idiot.
[Higher, and tighter, and more and more, Akira's shoulders look held up by strings. Like he's drawn toward the ceiling. Almost like the points of his shoulders can protect his ears from whatever might hurt him. But he ends up absorbing it better than his gut fears. Eventually, he begins to straighten himself out, with his shoulders sinking back down, and his spine lifting into propriety. He's able to look Shindou full in the face, instead of peering up through his eyelashes, and then he's able to turn his head. Slowly, as if wondering at his surroundings, Akira looks from wall to wall to wall. He is surrounded by remarkable strength. The records in this room are invaluable. Emeralds belong here with them.
Akira's face is angled to the left when he first says anything in response.] It did look really cool, didn't it? My father's Go. I understand. I was thinking that, too. I was always thinking it. Maybe it was the first thing I ever thought, I don't know... I learned to count that way. With stones, then with points on the board. And I remember being really tiny, just so much smaller than I can even understand, sitting in my father's lap. [His eyes wander over to another expanse of kifu. His brow twitches, a vagueness.] I've always, always been playing Go. I have always loved the way it makes me think.
[He's quiet for a second—just for a second. But before Shindou can start to say anything else, Akira darts his eyes back to Shindou's face. They're the rigor and opulence of smooth granite.]
Are you saying you didn't stop thinking about me? [He's fallen back once more on demands, but this is the desperate sort, not one full of excitement.] Because it looked—it really looked like you did. Like you just stopped. Shindou, I was so angry... the audacity... [This is doing crazy things to his pulse. His heartbeat is the sort that comes with fear, but his stomach feels like an expanse of warmth, not something cold and small. His hands are going tight, again, curling into themselves, tensing up against Shindou's.] You should have let me see you sweat. I would have been fine with that. If you didn't want me looking for Sai, you should have let me see that.
[Somehow, fatefully, Akira goes looking regardless. This time, when his eyes travel elsewhere, it's to the binder full of kifu. The swell and legend of Sai's games, recorded painstakingly, obsessively, with care. With so much thought and care.]
Don't you know... I did see you, before that match. I saw you for real, Shindou. I listened to everybody who got even a glimpse of you, while I was waiting for that game. So when we played, that day, I already knew. You're beyond ridiculous, but I already knew you were the one. You kept trying to act like you weren't, but you were. You are. You. Not Sai. [The binder is still open to that final, unfinished game. Akira could get lost in each of its points, if he's not careful. His mouth keeps moving.] I wanted to learn about Sai. I wanted to know about him. But you are who I wanted to see. [He frowns deeply, then admits,] It doesn't really help that I didn't know anything that was going on. Your best skill is probably being really, really confusing, about everything. But I still knew. That's how true it is: even with all that, I still knew that it's got to be you.
[If Touya hadn't kept going, Hikaru would have said something like: I love the way it makes you think, too. When they're on the same wavelength, or when they couldn't be further apart, it feels like an honor and a privilege to have real insight into Touya's mind. He also would have said: My father couldn't care less about Go. His mother, no different. They never discouraged him per se, not like Yashirou's parents did, but they just couldn't care less about what he's doing with his life. His grandfather, though... His grandfather wanted to share Go with him at an early age, but he always turned it down, citing it as a stuffy game for old people. If he had gotten into it back then, there's no telling what might've happened after that. He might have met Touya as--as an amateur, yes, but also--more of a peer--and it's too complicated to know the rest. There's a lot he'd want to change if he were allowed to go back in time. He'd want to go back and make sure he never did anything that'd force Touya's shoulders to rise like that, like he's a cornered animal, ready to fight for his life. At least they don't stay forced up like that forever...
And the mental image of an itty bitty Touya, earnestly placing stones on the board, is a fairly compelling one. It's fairly cute, too. Hikaru smiles weakly just thinking about it, wondering if there are any pictures of him that tender age. Ichikawa-san might have some, who knows, or another salon regular...
I saw you for real, Shindou.
Hikaru is silent after Touya says what he has to say, and that's because he's legitimately speechless. In the last thirty seconds, Touya has said all the things Hikaru has only dreamed of hearing--that he was the one long before it was possible for him to prove it. His immediate, knee-jerk reaction is to reject what Touya said, to call him stupid, insane, totally delusional-- He sucked, he was awful, he couldn't keep up with Touya at all-- He didn't deserve any amount of time or attention-- By some fucking miracle, he manages to keep his mouth shut, aside from a short, startled exhale. He doesn't know how Touya decided what he did, when he did, even with all that, but Touya seems to be telling the truth. Touya was so angry that day, trying to leave their match early, even, but Touya still wanted him to be the one. Hikaru never would've guessed that. Not ever.
He doesn't like the antsy way Touya is squeezing his hands, or the deep frown on Touya's face, either. Before he can lose his nerve, he lifts Touya's dominant hand up to his face, to his mouth, where he gently kisses the slope that leads to Touya's thumb. This seems like a better thing to do than starting more fires like an arsonist... Touya's skin is really warm, damp from uncertainty, but that just makes the scent of soap so much stronger. A little meditative, Hikaru addresses this hand, now, which has given him so much meaning:] I never stopped thinking about you, okay? I just wanted to stay away from you until I was strong enough to play you in an even match. But I never stopped... [He's kissing another spot and cherishing it. A charming gesture, if he hadn't been such a fuckup.] Never stopped wanting to be with you. I was really scared, but I wanted to be with you. I didn't realize how much you wanted to be with me. Sai was blinding like the sun for everyone else, and you're saying you still noticed me behind him. God, you're so...
[He could start crying again, his inferiority complex on display, or he could turn over Touya's hand, unfurl his fingers, and acquaint himself with the center of his palm. He chooses the latter, lips searching out the heart line right away, one of the things he read about in one of those books on the occult. This crooked line represents exceptional matters of the heart, or something like that. Love and attraction. Emotional health.
There's only one more thing he can think to say, and it's probably the most consequential thing of all. Touya has been waiting for weeks, hasn't he, and Hikaru has wanted it, too, like a craving that's hard to satisfy...]
4-4, star point, [he murmurs against that open palm. (It's only the most sensual opening move in the history of Go.)]
[Nine years old. That's when someone first asked Akira for his autograph. It was a patron of the salon, someone who came all the time, someone who must have been coming for so, so long; Akira remembers thinking that this man was ancient, but politely never said as much. The gentleman treated him kindly and enjoyed watching him play. That was nice. And one afternoon, when Akira was nine years old, this man set his hand atop Akira's head and asked if he could have his autograph. Akira was confused, asking innocently, "You want my father's?" But the man said Akira would be famous some day, and everyone was going to be amazed by him, and it would be nice to have his autograph for the day it would come to pass. Akira said, "Oh. Okay." He wrote down his name as neatly as he could, and the old man seemed very happy about it. Akira saw him at the salon only a few more times, and then heard later that he'd passed away in his old age.
By the time Akira was ten, players at the salon were actually asking for his signature for the sake of it. They'd play a match with him, delighted and fascinated, and ask Ichikawa-san to take a Polaroid picture. He'd sign it for them, and then bow in thanks. "We can play again soon," he'd always say. The men who have visited the salon for a long time—most of them have Polaroids like that, now. Less than a year ago, one gentleman told Akira that his grandson was asking questions about Go, so he pulled out his photo and showed it to the child. Akira listened to this grandfather's pride in his grandson's interest—Akira listened to what the man had to say about Akira being an inspiration. "Why not bring him in for a teaching game," Akira said at last, and the old man beamed and beamed.
Ichikawa-san has two photographs of Akira, herself, at least two that she keeps underneath her work space at the salon. They're both framed—simple frames, but meant to keep them clean and safe. In one, Akira is as young as eight. Ichikawa-san is leaning down to be closer to him, even though she's facing the camera, one of her hands held up in a peace sign. Her other hand is occupied; Akira has it in both of his own, which were very small and soft back then. His grip on her fingers is loose, if one looks closely, but he's angled toward her, having to turn his head to see the photographer. And he looks a little confused, as though he's not sure why the picture is being taken.
In the second photo, Akira is probably twelve. He's wearing a suit, a necktie, and the slip of a smile. His poise is that of someone much older, and he looks like a quiet person. He's standing beside the counter where Ichikawa-san works; Ichikawa-san is standing behind it; in this one, they're both posed. She looks cheerful, and he looks like this is how he's been taught to stand. It's gentle, the whole thing is gentle, and one of Akira's hands rests on her counter top, but it's something you could see in Go Weekly.
Neither of these pictures have been signed; Ichikawa-san has never asked Akira for his autograph. She still calls him "Akira-kun" even when she gets scolded for it, and she keeps a box of his favorite biscuits behind her counter, always. It's been a while, you know, since he's taken the time to share those biscuits with her. It's been long enough that he hasn't had a chance to see the third photograph she keeps, taped to the back of a shelf, this one recent: Akira, and Shindou, sulking together in the salon. They're side by side, rather than seated across from each other during a match. Their backs are to the camera—it must have been taken from Ichikawa-san's counter. Akira's head is turned away from Shindou in anger; enough of his profile is visible to tell that much. Shindou's head is tilted back, one hand to his hair in frustration. They're leaning up against each other, though. Their shoulders meet, not forcefully, but with the ask and give of being touched. An acquisition of presence.
He feels, now, that he's acquired Shindou. He hadn't understood the full extent of his empty hands until he found one full of Shindou's voice. Irreverent and outrageous and volatile as it can be, Akira wants to keep holding on to that voice. Even when it's saying the stupidest things—how could Shindou not have realized... Akira thinks, You're that ridiculous, and he thinks it with marvel, frustration, and fondness. Shindou's star point fills Akira's palm, piling onto the rest of everything else, and Akira settles back into his seat, tilting his chin up. His hair falls back while his eyes close. He sighs, and his sigh is long, and slow, and richly laden with contentment. The weight of him, the density, is like a honey bun; he'd make a good mouthful. Star point is like a glaze. Shindou's voice is the thickest honey, settling onto and into Akira. Akira can't remember the last time he felt his own mouth curve like this, into a smile that, while faint, is totally involuntary. Its spread just can't be help. That's what peace does to lips, like this.
The basking lasts only a couple of moments. Akira bites into his bottom lip once, and then he brings himself back up, leaning forward, leaning into Shindou's aura. They're meeting at eye level, now, and Akira intends to keep it that way. Warm, subtly getting warmer, he slips his hand away from Shindou's mouth, just curling it into a cradle. His heart line curves against the slide of Shindou's jaw. His palm shifts; his life line has the softest part of Shindou's cheek. Akira raises his other hand, too, so he can hold both sides of Shindou's face, and his eyes are more insistent than a steel trap. His blown pupils have the force of any lien.] Don't stay away from me again. [His voice is dipped low, the dark humidity of a summer evening. His thumb brushes beneath Shindou's eye, burned pure and clear and stunning by whatever empyrean touch has hold of both of them now. Akira won't look away from this pristine color. He just refuses to turn his own eyes elsewhere, not through any of the moves he intones. If he has to think, he'll shut his eyes, but they always open back up right onto Shindou's. When he sinks his teeth into a vital point, he does it eye to eye with Shindou, clear cut in his aggression. But even when Shindou plays tenuki where Akira doesn't expect it, Akira's bright stare doesn't falter. He won't duck his head. He won't glance toward any of the kifu that line the shelves here. He's saying, I'm looking at you, I'm looking at you, and I know what I see. At some point, Akira had realized what Shindou was going to be, regardless of what he was, or wasn't, then, or now. And Akira doesn't want anything to keep him from existing alongside that.
By game's end, he doesn't have anything to yell about. He just doesn't. His breaths are too shallow for shouting, and his mouth is much softer than that, and so he gives that softness over to Shindou. He leans in until his hair is brushing Shindou's chin, and then further, until he's kissing Shindou's lips. When he pulls back from that, his eyes are still closed; he looks like he's trying to make it last. He says, approvingly,] That was good. [Whatever moves he did disapprove of are outweighed by the simple homecoming of Shindou responding, hand by hand. Akira understands, now, why reunions can last all night. In the past, he fumbled with it—after two years and four months, after every burst of pent up confusion—but here, they are finally slotted together. Neither of them forced their way in. It's the most natural thing Akira has ever felt.]
[There aren't very many photographs of Hikaru in existence. Most of them feature him as a baby, exhausted, just newly born, not yet the two-hours-of-sleep terror he's heard his grandmother reminisce on. His parents just got tired of him, is what he figured out from his grandmother. Disenchanted with parenthood. Disinclined. He didn't stay cute, quiet, and undemanding for very long. He started crying a lot. He acted out because he wanted more of their attention, from infancy through adolescence, and he acted out more when they ignored him. Dyeing his hair--that was probably the most infamous example he can remember. His mother was always telling him to never do anything like dye his hair, or pierce his ears, or--heaven forbid--get an actual tattoo--just imagine--because what would the neighbors think of her, and her delinquent son. So in a particularly belligerent mood, at nine years old, Hikaru went out and paid a nice hairdresser lady to dye his hair for him, lying through his teeth about his parents being okay with it. The next day, he had his annual class portrait taken, bleach-blond fringe on display, and... his mother went fucking ballistic. She threatened to throw out his manga, his video games; to shave him bald for it, as if that made any sense; to send him to a reform school until he learned some responsibility. He told her to just go to hell. Maybe that's around the time they both realized they were never going to see eye-to-eye on anything. In general, neither of his parents were invested in how he was doing in school, or what his extracurricular activities were, or anything like that. No one cared about that time he won a baseball game after being behind by ten points. No one cared at all.
He wonders, vaguely, staring into Touya's eyes, if it would be okay to tell Touya this kind of stuff someday. It has nothing to do with Go, or Sai, just himself as a person, but he wonders if it'd be okay. If someone like Touya would be willing to listen to Hikaru's older hurts, which still linger within him, like a scar that itches during a rainstorm. Sai listened to all this stuff as much as he could, though not always by choice, having been given a front-row seat to Hikaru's stormy adolescence. There were times when Sai felt more like a cool breeze, and other times, maybe depending on the strength of their bond, when Hikaru could lay his head in Sai's lap and cry over the universal unfairness that plagues every teenager. Sai was always very good about touching his hair and telling him everything would feel better by morning's light. Everyone had bad days, he said, when it felt as though nothing could go right for them. Children, adults, Go players, the Emperor--literally everyone.
Hikaru was convinced that today would be one of those bad days, an endless chain reaction of pain and misery, but Touya's hands on his face tell him otherwise. Touya is looking at him head-on, no regrets, singular in purpose, making demands that send sparks ricocheting through Hikaru's stomach. Hikaru hasn't slept in days, he's barely eaten anything in weeks, and he's still brimming with energy and at the top of his game.] Yeah, I hear you, [he replies, made heavy with hunger. He feels like he could eat right out of Touya's hands.] I'm not going anywhere, Touya. [That isn't to say his problems are solved, that his identity is no longer in question, but he does remember how much he loves playing Go with Touya. He remembers what it means to be Touya's eternal rival. And he wants to reinforce that distinction with every game, with every move, in striving for brilliance from beginning to end. He closes his eyes for a moment, too, evaluating and reevaluating his starting position... but he already knows what he wants to do. His eyes flash back open, as fierce as a lightning strike. The voltage is off the charts. Game on, Touya.
Hikaru wins by resignation.
It's an excellent result for him, but not totally unheard of; their informal games aren't as one-sided as their official record. (One day, in an official match, he'll definitely play as well as he did just now.) Blind Go is always going to be difficult the deeper the game goes, for any level of player, but Hikaru felt like he could see the board perfectly in the glimmers of Touya's eyes. He's going to have to record it as soon as he gets his hands on blank kifu paper--for the other binder, the yellow one, which sits proudly on his bookshelf at home. It's a record of all his own games, with the ones against Touya preserved in sheets of plastic. Precious specimens in a museum.
Touya's praise is never not an injection of morphine, and Hikaru emerges from it feeling more tired than he has in a long time. The kiss simply adds to his mellowed-out, ready-to-fall-sleep contentment. He has no idea what time it is, at this point, because time seems to stop when he's that focused on a game. It could be late afternoon, it could be late at night--it'd be funny if the office attendant forgot they were still holed up in here. Sitting back, he shakes out his wrists and then extends his arms above his head, making a tiny sound like a stretching cat.]
I'd say we should discuss it now, but I'm... I am totally beat after that. I'd probably fall asleep before we could finish. Sorry. [But he isn't really sorry, because it feels good to return to Touya's atmosphere, his hands balanced on slender knees, where he feels like he belongs. He kisses Touya back, languid like that summer evening, an acknowledgment and something more than that. An invitation, maybe.] It was very good, though. Especially that face you made during 12-5, 11-5, 9-7... I couldn't tell if you were upset with me--or turned on. [His tongue pokes out a little from between his teeth, more teasing than not, even if sultry.]
[Between them both, the air in this room has gotten very humid. There's an intrigue to that, Shindou's ability to alter the atmosphere, influence the weather against Akira's skin. Still, he worries, through a hot circuit in his brain, that they'll dampen all the history here. Akira inhales like he's trying to take in all that Shindou exudes, for the sake of the books on the shelves.
Regardless of his tender lungs, when Akira looks at Shindou again, the quality of his gaze is mild. He says thoughtfully,] ...11-5... 9-7... [Then he considers Shindou's tongue. His eyebrows raise, his eyes close softly, and he shakes his head. The back-and-forth sweep of his hair is not unlike admonishment. Shindou, come on, really. When he's gathering himself up out of his seat, he smooths down his sweater, and retrieves his coat to fold over his arm. While he's still stooped halfway, he reaches over to pat the side of Shindou's arm, almost like a word of encouragement.]
Well, I wasn't upset with you.
[It's a chide, a little arid. He works on winding his pale scarf back around himself.
The attendant, by the way, almost surely didn't forget. Akira pauses to look at the watch on his wrist (a birthday gift from an admirer), and then he tells Shindou, offhandedly,] I asked that we be left undisturbed. [And the attendant agreed, because it was Touya Akira asking him. Akira breezes past that.] We shouldn't impose any further, anyway. And you should go home and wash your bed sheets and get some rest.
[He's prim and refined while he says this, as if he hasn't had an indecent shine to his eyes for the past couple of hours.]
Take the binder back home with you. No, I know you gave it to me, but... take it home, and... [Balanced in place, the line of his body quite strong, he tilts his head low, to the side. His fingers comb slowly through the hang of his hair, and he rolls his shoulders. It's a little early in the day to take a bath, but a hot one sounds good, right now...] I can come over, and you can tell me about them. Show me the ones you want to show me. I'll bring my homework or something.
[His fingers are still slipped into his hair, up near his ear. And his eyes are back open; he watches Shindou, as ever.]
Just let me know when. You'll do that, right? Shindou.
[As soon as Touya moves away from the table, Hikaru sighs and tilts his head forward, eyes closed. He was hoping they'd have more time in here--enough time for a short nap, at least. His legs feel suspiciously gelatinous, and they ache in the worst possible way, particularly around his ankles and knees. His body just isn't happy with being pushed to the breaking point and then beyond it for the sake of playing a game. Fortunately, his heart is still faring better than he ever could have hoped, even without adrenaline to drive it forward. It's a steady presence inside his chest. He does exist.]
Yeah, okay, I'll do that... assuming I don't pass out on the subway...
[He pushes himself upright with some effort, and he reaches over to close up the binder on the final, unfinished game. It should be easy, he thinks, to find the courage to ask about that kiss, and the other kisses, like if he went too far just now with what he said or if Touya didn't mind it. It should be easy, but he can't find the words to speak with; he doesn't want to read into a variation that isn't actually there. Friends, even close friends, don't kiss each other four times on the lips, but they aren't your normal friends with all their lifelong declarations, so, like... Hikaru would be more willing agonize over being attracted to another boy if it weren't for the fact he doesn't give a shit about social norms. He never spared a warm thought for girls, anyway, so...
When he tries to hold out the binder, and when Touya rebuffs him, there's a half-second before Touya explains himself where Hikaru thinks he's being rejected and he wants to walk into that oncoming traffic. The existential horror passes, though, thankfully, thank god, but he's still a little wide-eyed as he draws the binder against his chest. Touya has no fucking idea--okay, maybe he has some idea--how much energy Hikaru has poured into this thing to make sure it's as complete and accurate as possible. He's roamed all over the Internet, trawling forums and message boards, seeking out anyone who might remember watching or participating in a game against Sai. Some assholes claimed to have bested Sai (which is bullshit), while other people have been much more helpful in tracking down kifu.
Touya using Sai's binder as an excuse to see him again... well, that's pretty clever. Hikaru looks off to the side, now starting to smile, trying not to be too eager about having Touya alone in his room for better reasons. It feels forbidden, almost, because his mom always made him leave the door open when Akari was visiting, as if he'd make a move on her...]
I'll text you when I wake up, [he says decisively, rocking back on his heels.] It might take me a while, but I'll text you first thing, no problem. Then we can see what's going on with your schedule. [Because Hikaru isn't juggling school and language classes and out-of-town expos and everything else under the sun. His schedule rarely presents a conflict, if ever. He squeezes his arms around the binder like it's a security blanket.] Y'know, uhm...
The stuff I told you today, that was a lot for me, and it meant a lot to me, but it's not... even the half of it, Touya. Like there's all this... Shuusaku, and Shuusaku's games, and... just think of what you heard as a down payment. I'll tell you the rest, I'll tell you everything, just... not today. If you still want to hear the rest of it, I mean. You don't have to. Whatever you want.
[A day later--Hikaru ended up hibernating, more or less--Touya receives these text messages:]
[Not today almost feels safer. Akira doesn't want Shindou to divulge everything at once and then burn himself out on Akira, deciding the catharsis is over and done with and there's no more reason to let Akira shoulder his way in. They just talked their way through a thrilling game that carried the heat of hormones, and they just talked their way through wanting to be together, but what that means, exactly, still isn't entirely clear—whether they even mean the same thing at all... Akira's eyebrows dip back down, and then even a little lower. I wasn't upset, he wants to repeat, and he also wants to shake Shindou out of his uncertain stance. What do you think? But he leads Shindou out of the kifu room with a hand at his elbow, and he bows politely to the office attendant after keeping him for so long, and he pulls at Shindou, when they're at the subway station. He doesn't send Shindou onto that train until he's straightened Shindou's jacket, even if he does it with a frown. It's nurturing, but it's less nurturing than it is a reminder that Akira will hunt him down if necessary.
Thankfully, it isn't necessary. Akira is in his high school's library—books on Hangul and social studies to his left, and a literature textbook to his right—when he gets the buzz of Shindou's texts. Suddenly, detailing the day's teachings on civics doesn't feel important at all. He's been swimming in these things in order to keep his mind occupied, but now it doesn't even matter...
It's against the rules to text on your phone in the library. Akira keeps his back straight and fearless even when he sends:]
[Oh, thank god. It occurred to Hikaru just after he sent the texts--literally a fraction of a second after--that he might have dreamed up the entirety of yesterday's fateful meeting. Just some surreal fever dream in which he told Touya about Sai, including why he's felt so fucked up lately, and Touya accepted it and told him he was always more important. So that conversation did happen like he remembers, and they did get to play Go afterward... He doesn't have to craft some insane, transparent pretense about why he'd be texting about Sai...]
felt more like i was in a coma
[Dead to the world. Absolutely oblivious. After he woke up, he found a note from his mom saying his father went out with old friends from school and she was going to be busy running errands. He could help himself to food in the fridge, though. So, right now, he's standing in front of a too-bright microwave, reheating noodles, one hand rubbing at his eyes. He still kind of feels like a half-spilled sack of wet cement, but it's better than it was yesterday.]
you can be more specific
[He shared a mind with Sai for a few years, and it was like two people confined to a one-room apartment, though their thought processes almost never intersected. Still, he can probably speak for Sai when it comes to any number of things...]
[Specificity is as sand paper; it's rubbing his nerves raw. Akira settles his elbow against the library table, and pushes his forehead into his hand. That sand paper could grind him away if he let it. Bit by bit, he's insisting, anxious. He doesn't want Shindou to give him everything in one gulp, because he wasn't want to be left dry right after.
After a point, Akira foregoes any prim pretenses in this library. It just doesn't matter. School has barely mattered to him at all, since Shindou's disappearance after Akira's birthday; once Akira started getting anxious, he stopped attending school, frantically overextending himself in other endeavors. He ended up skipping a solid week of school right before winter break. Now that he's gotten Shindou back, he's spending the actual winter break as one of a handful of catch-up students in the minimally staffed school library. If he comes here to study every day for the rest of this calendar week, it should be fine...
But he sets his phone right on top of an open textbook, and stabs out an answer with a tense index finger.]
Can you hear the bells from your house? On New Year's
[The 108 bells set ringing from every Buddhist temple after the midnight of the new year. Akira's home is in an older area of Tokyo, so he hears them well into the night, every year...
...]
I always wondered where he was, when I was thinking about him
What he was looking at, or what was around him
But for you, too, I don't even know if you hear the bells on New Year's from your bedroom.
[As Hikaru reads the messages on the too-bright screen of his phone, he wonders just how profoundly he fucked up after all. Yesterday's happiness and relief feel too far away--now he feels shriveled, desiccated, rotting from within. Not unlike his little windowsill plants, the ones he neglected, before he finally threw them all out. He wasn't prepared to answer these questions, even though he just told Touya that he could be more specific. Stupid. Really fucking stupid. At least, now that he's alone, in the darkness of his kitchen, no one else has to see the awful face he's making. Nobody has to see any of his ugly, unwelcome parts.]
not really no
i've heard them before but not at home
[But he doesn't know anything about why they ring the bells or when that practice started or anything like that. He only knows what he wants to know, which is probably his biggest problem in general. With a grating sigh, he decides to just sit down at the table and wait out the spinning bowl in the microwave. He's really aching all over from yesterday's abrupt burst of physical activity. Stupid.]
we played go every night in my room
[What's so good about your bedroom? Hah.]
no handicap
regular games
so you've already seen a lot of the things he used to see
All things considered, it's what makes the most sense, so far. All else Akira knows of Sai, those scant and minimal details, have just made most things more confusing. But Akira thinks about the binder, its neutral purple, and its overwhelming about of games. So many of them—most of them—were played against Shindou. The records of those games start a few years ago, so if they're that numerous... every night makes sense. Akira cannot help but stare at that text, though. Every night, in Shindou's room. It makes sense...
The "why" of it does not.]
He was related to you?
[Maybe an uncle or something. An older cousin. Akira even has the uncomfortable thought that Shindou's older brother taught him Go and then passed away. But, uncomfortable as it is, it's—selfishly—easier than wondering if Sai was just someone who had a position Akira never could. It's easier than wondering what it would have been like, sitting in a bedroom at night, playing and learning his way through games with Shindou. (Or through games with Sai.)
Akira finds himself pursing his lips too hard.]
Anyway, I wasn't paying much attention when I came in. I should have, but
I'll have to take a closer look.
Would your parents let you leave on New Year's Eve?
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bakerstreet2017-10-13 01:48 pm
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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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
He tries to whip his head up, to look at Shindou, but the hinge of his neck feels rusted, and he can only move in a burst of static. He sees, before him, someone who looks sick and tired. He sees the discolorations in Shindou's face, the eyes and under-eyes of someone ill. The contrast here is almost enough to make Akira break down on the spot. For all the fury in his face, for all the pinching stress, his eyes are wide, so wide, like a doe's—with the actual fright of a doe. He might be scared just as shitless. His mind is writhing like a wounded dragon: what is this? What we did together? Are you giving it back to me? Are you making me take it away from you? The second page makes Akira want to scream. He can feel the chill of sweat at his temple.
The third page is jarring; things make less sense. Shindou confessing his falsehoods disjoints everything further. Shindou proclaiming all of these to be Sai's games... is...
Akira covers his mouth with his hand. His other arm remains still; he doesn't move away from Shindou's touch.]
Sai is... [Behind the cage of his fingers, Akira clears his throat, and then sets his hand back at the binder. He's turning pages one by one, then eventually flips through them at random. A breath. The widening of his eyes has lessened.] Your teacher. [It's a statement, but not as decisive as he'd like it to be. It's what makes sense, though... isn't it...] You were learning from him, and... [He doesn't make it to the last of the kifu, not yet. He's already started backtracking, thumbing through to a few games he'd looked a just moments ago. His mouth opens, then closes again as his brow furrows deep. His eyes are flicking from point to point on every page he chooses. Then he bites his bottom lip, hard, and goes back to that first game.] You— [Another bite, a little harder. He waits a moment.]
You didn't know, at first... you were doing what—what he would have done...
[Is there any other way to rationalize this? But Akira feels obligated to come up with answers himself—telling Shindou when he doesn't understand something has never led to clear explanations before.
He flips back the majority of the stack of pages all at once, coming to a game much more recent than any in the start. This is Shindou's playing. He can see it so clearly; it's what he's been wanting to watch for weeks now. Opposite Shindou is Sai, and Akira's heart recognizes it in its own place. In a different place.
His eyes dart around again. He's turning all the way back to the first page, the second. His confusion is a grimace on his face, like nausea.]
I was right all along. About him, about you. [Inside. He's never sounded so uncertain about being right. These first two games are games Akira knows by heart as well: they're games played between himself and Shindou. There's no way to get around that.] Then, he told you... what moves...
[But, how? How was that managed? And—Akira blanches.]
But you played me... but you didn't... then, Shindou...
[Then, Shindou, what the hell is going on?]
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He's smiling. No way. But, seriously, he's smiling right now, and he doesn't know how long he's been smiling for. There's something else, too--the tremendous weight on his shoulders, it doesn't feel as tremendous as it did this morning. On the one hand, it's unfair of him to feel better when Touya clearly feels worse the longer he looks at the pages. On the other hand... no one else knows about this stuff, and it's a lot for one person to carry with them, if they have no way of sharing it. Now he's sharing it with Touya. Now Touya can see that, yes, yes--] Sai was my teacher. [A quiet correction, but an important one, but his eyes don't look like dead geodes anymore. They're bright and alert, the color of cut emerald.] Sai taught me how to play because I wanted to be able to play, too. I wanted to play like you did, and like your dad did, because it looked so fucking cool to me. That's what I wanted more than anything...
[So relieved, no matter what happens next, he leans into Touya's shoulder, tilting his head closer, and he inhales like he isn't afraid it could be his last breath. If he'd known it would feel this good to tell someone the truth, he would've done it a lot sooner. A hell of a lot sooner. He would've skipped past promising Touya someday and done it right there in the elevator. "By the way, I'm Sai's student and..."]
You were right, Touya. You were always right. I couldn't tell you before, and I'm sorry about that, but you were always... you did know me the best out of everyone. And I was so... [He rests his head on Touya's shoulder, overwhelmed with sheer happiness. His heart could sprout wings and flutter away.] So happy, Touya. So, so happy you could see Sai in my Go. I'm just sorry I couldn't give you more of him.
[But...
But he doesn't address the question that's already strongly implied: how did he know what moves to make? He doesn't want to address it, not right now, not when it has a chance of ruining everything, confounding the facts with what can't be measured or quantified. The disclosure of all that comes after death has no place in this temporal relief and ecstasy, now that he isn't alone with the biggest mystery of the Go universe. Touya has seen enough to know that Sai existed, and that Hikaru was Sai's student, soaking up his expertise like a sponge. It should be enough, right? It's enough to satisfy Touya's thirst for knowledge, isn't it?]
no subject
When Shindou leans against him, Akira's body is too pliant, and he has to consciously remind himself not to let them both topple from their chairs. Shindou's head meets his shoulder, and, like he might melt, Akira exhales. It's nearly a shudder. His own hand begins to curl, slowly, fingertips drawing across the tabletop, and, riskier than his most aggressive uchikomi, he rests his head against Shindou's. His eyes close underneath the deep pull of relief. He has more time than he thought, maybe, before he's left alone.
His brain begins to process Shindou's voice. His hand freezes against the table, and his eyes snap back open.]
You're sorry—you're sorry you couldn't give me— Shindou! I told you, didn't I—I did. I said it was enough. That the Go you play is... [His mouth falls open a little bit more, while he pulls back to try and look at Shindou's face.] Enough...
[He stares, still mining for emeralds, taking in all notes of Shindou's pallor. There is nobody else who can understand this, and so he needs to understand it, right now, right now. He's thinking back to all he knows of Shindou, all he has filed away, trying to pick what to sift through first, until he grabs at the binder again. He separates its stack of kifu to its final pages all at once, and scans one of the last games with frantic eyes, an index finger. Comparing Shindou to Sai... the next page, too... At last, he turns to the final game. He looks at it without touching it, and then he wrenches his arm away from the cradle of Shindou's hand.
It's so he can grasp at Shindou's sleeve, instead, fingers a flurry.] You're mourning, [he breathes, with the alarm of true revelation.]
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It's almost too good to be true. It probably is. He should do something to rein himself back in, to temper his expectations, which is why he says,] I know that's what you said. I remember that. I'll never forget that. But... I thought, you know, you deserved way better than that, after everything, and... if I could just play more like he did, I bet it'd make you happy, and other people happy, too. That's what I thought, and I thought I could make it happen. [But Touya is already searching through the kifu again, in pursuit of something else, so Hikaru falls quiet and waits for whatever it is. Every molecule in his body feels like it's humming, finally in tune, not a single note discordant. He can feel the full extent of his fingers, too, when they squeeze around the handle of his fan. Not just faraway prickling and a chill. Real flesh and bone. He exists.
And then:
Mourning?
Hikaru looks back at Touya skeptically, like that doesn't make much sense to him.] No, that was... before, when I quit before, that was when what happened to Sai, happened, and... yeah, I was pretty fucked up about it, and it wasn't like I could... [All of the sudden, the words are starting to come without his permission, faster and faster. It's like being on a roller coaster and not knowing when it's going to stop.] I had no one I could tell about it, and I didn't understand, why, he, uhm... [Now his smile is starting to blur away. His eyes retain their lively, crystalline quality, at least, wider than ever, but he can't get his mouth to do more than grimace.] I got over it, I should have, I thought I was over it, but then... but I wasn't, improving, as much, and I couldn't figure out why Sai had chosen me, and then Ko Yeong-ha--
[He can tell he isn't making much sense anymore, but he can't stop the words from coming out. This is all about getting the poison out of his body: a finger down his throat, a swallow of ipecac, salt water and mustard, just whatever will expel every secret.]
If I had been Sai, I wouldn't have lost to him, not in a thousand fucking years, but I did lose, and that's when I realized... [He's still so happy that Touya is sharing this with him, but he's starting to cry again, breaking down in real time, reaching up to cover his eyes.] I'm never really going to see him again, because I can't--my Go isn't--! I'm just not good enough, Touya! And I still don't know why he chose me! I just w-wa--wanted to know w-why, it was me, out of everyone...!
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He presses his knuckles to his own lips. Again:] Shindou. [Shindou's hiccuping is like a series of pins directly into Akira's brain. His instinct is to rear back. This is so much, and it feels so fast. Akira is going to start hiccuping, too. If things don't slow down, Akira is going to be unable to breathe. He shakes his head quickly, pinching both hems of Shindou's sleeves with his fingers.] Shindou. [His hands flutter, and he lays his fingers over Shindou's wrists, instead. First he squeezes, then he worries that he's squeezing too tightly, and releases. His thumbs lend pressure and then his hands just go tense on their own, stiff and straight as Shindou's bones. He starts to say something, aborts it, and then curls around Shindou's wrists all over again.
...] Shindou. [It's louder, and horrified, with the desperation of arms flung wide, even as he keeps his needy hands on Shindou.] Sometimes people just lose.
[It hits him as reality in the same moment it leaves his mouth.]
Sometimes... [He licks his bottom lip, almost stuck between an exhale and a gasp. His hands fall away from Shindou's wrists, and come to rest instead at Shindou's knee angled closest to him.] People just... lose. Everyone. Everyone. I know—what I know is that Sai saw that you are good enough. He was an amazing man, not a blind one. [His palms, hot with stress, are side by side against Shindou's jeans. His fingertips press inward, urgent.] I've been half-blind, and even I...
[Akira doesn't know, anymore, whether there's a way to keep Shindou from hitting the ground. He doesn't know whether his voice rings clear in this canyon. But he takes a short breath, holds it, and then lets it out in a tight huff.
His voice is hoarse from straining:] Please look at me. [And this isn't a demand like everything else has been.]
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In any case, he can't believe Touya is still sitting here, listening to this tragedy in human form. Anybody else would've walked out by now, disgusted and disturbed, ready to call for a psychiatrist, but Touya is listening to him. The only person who would, or could, do this for him. The only person who's going to be there when he hits the ground or else learns how to fly out of harm's way miraculously. It takes a choking sound, a hard swallow, and another half-gasp of air, before Hikaru finally emerges from his shaking hands. He looks down at Touya's hands, positioned on his knee, maybe trying to catch him in midair. He looks up at Touya's face, and then he drops his hands down, covering up Touya's hands with them. His skin is gross, all slick with snot and tears--he's sorry for that, too, but he doesn't want to let go.]
Even you... what?
[He asks that question like he's handling an original Keicho flower bowl: delicately, and deathly afraid of breaking something, just like he has everything else.]
What do you want to tell me?
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A picture forming in his head solidifies. He sighs, slow and heavy, and slides his hands out from beneath Shindou's, away from his leg. It's not for disgust, and there's no intention to actually leave. He's leaning back in his seat, reaching into a pocket...
This time, his handkerchief is a display of pale, mellow sunflowers, big blooms in washed out oranges. They look stately, quiet, some just budding. Once more, Akira takes the task of drying Shindou's face. He rubs over each of his cheeks; he touches gently near Shindou's priceless eyes. With his lips pursed in concentration, he wipes beneath Shindou's nose. It's while he's focused like that, concentrating, that he speaks again, even if his tongue feels almost too soft in his mouth to say it.]
Why do you think I came to you today? [He could rival the touch of real sunflower petals.] I need to know what you think I want from you.
[The final touch of the handkerchief, now folded into thirds, is more of a caress on Shindou's chin. It lingers, and then Akira pulls back, slow. He folds the cloth one more time, and cleans the back of his hands. They drop back down. This time, he is the one to take both of Shindou's hands, and he doesn't feel tight, not ready to bend or split underneath great weight.]
Because I understand now that whatever you think is probably wrong. And it's time for me to tell you the right thing.
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Well... [He almost smiles again, but it's too lopsided, too self-aware.] At first, I thought you were mega-pissed at me, and you were going to rip my stupid head off. And then I thought, maybe, you... maybe you missed me, so you wanted to see me again. Maybe you wanted to-- [save me.] I don't know, anymore. And then I thought you were getting ready to break up with me. ["Break up"... That might not be the right word for it, but it's the word that comes to mind as he's speaking. Rivalry can resemble romance in many ways, and it's inevitable that some rivals will drift apart, whether in skill or determination. Irreconcilable differences.] So, I decided I'd go ahead and tell you about Sai, while I was still, uh...
[He's looking down at their linked hands now. There are girls--boys--grown men, most likely--who'd jump at the chance to hold Touya Akira's sainted hands. These hands, in placing stones on the board, can translate divine intention into reality.]
But you're still here with me. So now I don't know what's... going on, exactly. [His eyes flick back up, a tumble of emeralds, in search of a proper explanation.] But it's starting to feel like you just want to assault my senses with that ugly-ass sweater. What were you thinking, Touya. [His sarcasm couldn't be softer, or warmer; it's more like an embrace after too long a separation. Somehow, in spite of his identity crisis, the real Shindou Hikaru still exists underneath all the decay.]
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...Well, I was mega-pissed, [he finally says, and there's a disapproving twist to his mouth.] And I did want to rip your stupid head off. [His shoulders dip, a little. Tension lessens just so.] And I did miss you. And I did want to see you again. And I think all of those things are still true, and... [There's disbelief in his face, plus a spreading grimace. He doesn't let go of Shindou's hands, but he's leaning back just enough to be noticed. This is an expression he might wear when Shindou does something during a match that's bad enough to be mystifying. But he makes this face, too, when an opponent bests him, and he realizes where he went wrong and what could have been avoided.
His shoulders hike up. Quick, he ducks his head completely.]
I was thinking more that I wanted to assault you with a big old book to your head. God, shut up, don't be stupid. [He's prickling, but not with a spike of anger... this is the anxiety of knowing what he'll say next.] Don't be stupid, [he murmurs again, and his head is still low, but he's squeezing Shindou's fingers. He'll adopt the terminology:] I thought you were the one breaking up with me. I was sure of it. You know, back then, I came to you and told you I was waiting for you, but you refused me. [Haze Middle School, Akira's first confession, and Shindou, slamming the window shut. That, perhaps, was what showed Akira how angry he could get.] So I decided I would chase after you instead, and I did, and I have been, all along, so then I thought you just didn't want that anymore. I thought you just didn't want... me... [It hangs for a second, Akira's face hidden away by the fall of his hair. Then, awkwardly appended,] To do that.
[It's a little humiliating—all of this—but, in here, it's only history and him and Shindou. If anyone is going to see these parts of him, Shindou is meant to be that person. The kifu surrounding them on every wall feel like a sanction. So, Akira lifts his chin just enough that he can raise his eyes, looking up at Shindou from what seems a long way.] I was serious. I thought about you no matter what other games I was playing. That lasted. It's been that way all this time. And I think... now, I think about how you'd respond to just everything. The way you would laugh or make an idiotic face at something. The stupid things you would say, and the smart things you would say. So when you weren't saying anything at all to me, I... [The line of his brow is drawing tight again, like he's reliving a moment of particularly potent anger.] I finally got you to look at me, and you stopped looking at me, and I was so mad. You made me think about you that much, and then you decided to leave me alone with it. [But his brow smooths back out; his eyebrows raise.] Jerk. I came to you today because I wanted to be with you. That's it. That's why. Shindou, you're such a jerk.
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Hey, I never said I wasn't a jerk, Touya... [His mouth tastes like battery acid, and he resists the urge to swallow it back down. It has to come up. It has to get out of him.] I can't even... apologize for it, because I'd be apologizing all day, all week, on and on. I'd be apologizing for the rest of my life. [Every time Touya looks away, ducking his head, Hikaru feels something dull and coarse dragging down the length of his spine. It only stops when Touya looks at him again.] If you want to... be with me, then you... you have to understand that I've been lying to you for a long time. I'm not asking you to forgive me, just to... understand what I'm saying. [Touya needs to know that the person he's infatuated with is not a good person. A good person wouldn't have deprived Touya of the chance to play Sai in more games. A good person wouldn't have stopped Sai from playing all of the games, all of them, just all of them, ever.]
The first time we played for real... like, a full game, for real... it was the first prelim to the Meijin tournament. That was our first game ever. [Trying to be as firm as possible, he says,] Do you understand? Everything before that, everything, no matter what you saw, or what you thought you saw... that wasn't me, Touya. That wasn't my Go. Except for... [The middle school tournament. Third boards. He looks like he might throw up after all, that wave of nausea rippling over his face.] Once. For a few hands. Not many. I resigned, of course, and you said I was no match for you. That was the real me, though. That's how much I sucked. I lied to you about it, but I really did suck at Go. And I knew the entire time you were just looking for Sai, so... [So Hikaru wanted to replace Sai, someday, in the future. To erase him, even.
Maybe that's what made Sai so erratic and depressed by the end. Maybe that's why they got into so many fights, with Sai being a total asshole about their games, saying shit like Hikaru had never beaten him and Hikaru couldn't beat him. Maybe. Maybe. If that psychic wench had been worth anything, he could've found out what was going through Sai's head back then. His fan, left abandoned by the binder, might not have been the baton pass he wanted it to be. Now he's left with a bunch of guesswork and steadily emptying lungs.]
I said I wanted to learn Go because I wanted to play like you did. That's how it started. That's what got me interested. But the reason I stayed interested--it was because I wanted to play you. And I thought about you, too, all the time, even when I was telling you to go away. Just--for god's sake, Touya, [he mumbles, with a kind of nervous laugh,] just hearing your name could make me break into a cold sweat. That hasn't changed at all, me thinking about you, unable to stop thinking about you, and I think about you in other ways, too. Different ways. All the time. [His voice shifts lower, then, bleeding through with an emotion he doesn't know how to define. It's a little too rough to be adoration, but it's sitting against the same seam.] I'm not going to break up with you, you idiot.
I'd rather die than do something like that.
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Akira's face is angled to the left when he first says anything in response.] It did look really cool, didn't it? My father's Go. I understand. I was thinking that, too. I was always thinking it. Maybe it was the first thing I ever thought, I don't know... I learned to count that way. With stones, then with points on the board. And I remember being really tiny, just so much smaller than I can even understand, sitting in my father's lap. [His eyes wander over to another expanse of kifu. His brow twitches, a vagueness.] I've always, always been playing Go. I have always loved the way it makes me think.
[He's quiet for a second—just for a second. But before Shindou can start to say anything else, Akira darts his eyes back to Shindou's face. They're the rigor and opulence of smooth granite.]
Are you saying you didn't stop thinking about me? [He's fallen back once more on demands, but this is the desperate sort, not one full of excitement.] Because it looked—it really looked like you did. Like you just stopped. Shindou, I was so angry... the audacity... [This is doing crazy things to his pulse. His heartbeat is the sort that comes with fear, but his stomach feels like an expanse of warmth, not something cold and small. His hands are going tight, again, curling into themselves, tensing up against Shindou's.] You should have let me see you sweat. I would have been fine with that. If you didn't want me looking for Sai, you should have let me see that.
[Somehow, fatefully, Akira goes looking regardless. This time, when his eyes travel elsewhere, it's to the binder full of kifu. The swell and legend of Sai's games, recorded painstakingly, obsessively, with care. With so much thought and care.]
Don't you know... I did see you, before that match. I saw you for real, Shindou. I listened to everybody who got even a glimpse of you, while I was waiting for that game. So when we played, that day, I already knew. You're beyond ridiculous, but I already knew you were the one. You kept trying to act like you weren't, but you were. You are. You. Not Sai. [The binder is still open to that final, unfinished game. Akira could get lost in each of its points, if he's not careful. His mouth keeps moving.] I wanted to learn about Sai. I wanted to know about him. But you are who I wanted to see. [He frowns deeply, then admits,] It doesn't really help that I didn't know anything that was going on. Your best skill is probably being really, really confusing, about everything. But I still knew. That's how true it is: even with all that, I still knew that it's got to be you.
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And the mental image of an itty bitty Touya, earnestly placing stones on the board, is a fairly compelling one. It's fairly cute, too. Hikaru smiles weakly just thinking about it, wondering if there are any pictures of him that tender age. Ichikawa-san might have some, who knows, or another salon regular...
I saw you for real, Shindou.
Hikaru is silent after Touya says what he has to say, and that's because he's legitimately speechless. In the last thirty seconds, Touya has said all the things Hikaru has only dreamed of hearing--that he was the one long before it was possible for him to prove it. His immediate, knee-jerk reaction is to reject what Touya said, to call him stupid, insane, totally delusional-- He sucked, he was awful, he couldn't keep up with Touya at all-- He didn't deserve any amount of time or attention-- By some fucking miracle, he manages to keep his mouth shut, aside from a short, startled exhale. He doesn't know how Touya decided what he did, when he did, even with all that, but Touya seems to be telling the truth. Touya was so angry that day, trying to leave their match early, even, but Touya still wanted him to be the one. Hikaru never would've guessed that. Not ever.
He doesn't like the antsy way Touya is squeezing his hands, or the deep frown on Touya's face, either. Before he can lose his nerve, he lifts Touya's dominant hand up to his face, to his mouth, where he gently kisses the slope that leads to Touya's thumb. This seems like a better thing to do than starting more fires like an arsonist... Touya's skin is really warm, damp from uncertainty, but that just makes the scent of soap so much stronger. A little meditative, Hikaru addresses this hand, now, which has given him so much meaning:] I never stopped thinking about you, okay? I just wanted to stay away from you until I was strong enough to play you in an even match. But I never stopped... [He's kissing another spot and cherishing it. A charming gesture, if he hadn't been such a fuckup.] Never stopped wanting to be with you. I was really scared, but I wanted to be with you. I didn't realize how much you wanted to be with me. Sai was blinding like the sun for everyone else, and you're saying you still noticed me behind him. God, you're so...
[He could start crying again, his inferiority complex on display, or he could turn over Touya's hand, unfurl his fingers, and acquaint himself with the center of his palm. He chooses the latter, lips searching out the heart line right away, one of the things he read about in one of those books on the occult. This crooked line represents exceptional matters of the heart, or something like that. Love and attraction. Emotional health.
There's only one more thing he can think to say, and it's probably the most consequential thing of all. Touya has been waiting for weeks, hasn't he, and Hikaru has wanted it, too, like a craving that's hard to satisfy...]
4-4, star point, [he murmurs against that open palm. (It's only the most sensual opening move in the history of Go.)]
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By the time Akira was ten, players at the salon were actually asking for his signature for the sake of it. They'd play a match with him, delighted and fascinated, and ask Ichikawa-san to take a Polaroid picture. He'd sign it for them, and then bow in thanks. "We can play again soon," he'd always say. The men who have visited the salon for a long time—most of them have Polaroids like that, now. Less than a year ago, one gentleman told Akira that his grandson was asking questions about Go, so he pulled out his photo and showed it to the child. Akira listened to this grandfather's pride in his grandson's interest—Akira listened to what the man had to say about Akira being an inspiration. "Why not bring him in for a teaching game," Akira said at last, and the old man beamed and beamed.
Ichikawa-san has two photographs of Akira, herself, at least two that she keeps underneath her work space at the salon. They're both framed—simple frames, but meant to keep them clean and safe. In one, Akira is as young as eight. Ichikawa-san is leaning down to be closer to him, even though she's facing the camera, one of her hands held up in a peace sign. Her other hand is occupied; Akira has it in both of his own, which were very small and soft back then. His grip on her fingers is loose, if one looks closely, but he's angled toward her, having to turn his head to see the photographer. And he looks a little confused, as though he's not sure why the picture is being taken.
In the second photo, Akira is probably twelve. He's wearing a suit, a necktie, and the slip of a smile. His poise is that of someone much older, and he looks like a quiet person. He's standing beside the counter where Ichikawa-san works; Ichikawa-san is standing behind it; in this one, they're both posed. She looks cheerful, and he looks like this is how he's been taught to stand. It's gentle, the whole thing is gentle, and one of Akira's hands rests on her counter top, but it's something you could see in Go Weekly.
Neither of these pictures have been signed; Ichikawa-san has never asked Akira for his autograph. She still calls him "Akira-kun" even when she gets scolded for it, and she keeps a box of his favorite biscuits behind her counter, always. It's been a while, you know, since he's taken the time to share those biscuits with her. It's been long enough that he hasn't had a chance to see the third photograph she keeps, taped to the back of a shelf, this one recent: Akira, and Shindou, sulking together in the salon. They're side by side, rather than seated across from each other during a match. Their backs are to the camera—it must have been taken from Ichikawa-san's counter. Akira's head is turned away from Shindou in anger; enough of his profile is visible to tell that much. Shindou's head is tilted back, one hand to his hair in frustration. They're leaning up against each other, though. Their shoulders meet, not forcefully, but with the ask and give of being touched. An acquisition of presence.
He feels, now, that he's acquired Shindou. He hadn't understood the full extent of his empty hands until he found one full of Shindou's voice. Irreverent and outrageous and volatile as it can be, Akira wants to keep holding on to that voice. Even when it's saying the stupidest things—how could Shindou not have realized... Akira thinks, You're that ridiculous, and he thinks it with marvel, frustration, and fondness. Shindou's star point fills Akira's palm, piling onto the rest of everything else, and Akira settles back into his seat, tilting his chin up. His hair falls back while his eyes close. He sighs, and his sigh is long, and slow, and richly laden with contentment. The weight of him, the density, is like a honey bun; he'd make a good mouthful. Star point is like a glaze. Shindou's voice is the thickest honey, settling onto and into Akira. Akira can't remember the last time he felt his own mouth curve like this, into a smile that, while faint, is totally involuntary. Its spread just can't be help. That's what peace does to lips, like this.
The basking lasts only a couple of moments. Akira bites into his bottom lip once, and then he brings himself back up, leaning forward, leaning into Shindou's aura. They're meeting at eye level, now, and Akira intends to keep it that way. Warm, subtly getting warmer, he slips his hand away from Shindou's mouth, just curling it into a cradle. His heart line curves against the slide of Shindou's jaw. His palm shifts; his life line has the softest part of Shindou's cheek. Akira raises his other hand, too, so he can hold both sides of Shindou's face, and his eyes are more insistent than a steel trap. His blown pupils have the force of any lien.] Don't stay away from me again. [His voice is dipped low, the dark humidity of a summer evening. His thumb brushes beneath Shindou's eye, burned pure and clear and stunning by whatever empyrean touch has hold of both of them now. Akira won't look away from this pristine color. He just refuses to turn his own eyes elsewhere, not through any of the moves he intones. If he has to think, he'll shut his eyes, but they always open back up right onto Shindou's. When he sinks his teeth into a vital point, he does it eye to eye with Shindou, clear cut in his aggression. But even when Shindou plays tenuki where Akira doesn't expect it, Akira's bright stare doesn't falter. He won't duck his head. He won't glance toward any of the kifu that line the shelves here. He's saying, I'm looking at you, I'm looking at you, and I know what I see. At some point, Akira had realized what Shindou was going to be, regardless of what he was, or wasn't, then, or now. And Akira doesn't want anything to keep him from existing alongside that.
By game's end, he doesn't have anything to yell about. He just doesn't. His breaths are too shallow for shouting, and his mouth is much softer than that, and so he gives that softness over to Shindou. He leans in until his hair is brushing Shindou's chin, and then further, until he's kissing Shindou's lips. When he pulls back from that, his eyes are still closed; he looks like he's trying to make it last. He says, approvingly,] That was good. [Whatever moves he did disapprove of are outweighed by the simple homecoming of Shindou responding, hand by hand. Akira understands, now, why reunions can last all night. In the past, he fumbled with it—after two years and four months, after every burst of pent up confusion—but here, they are finally slotted together. Neither of them forced their way in. It's the most natural thing Akira has ever felt.]
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He wonders, vaguely, staring into Touya's eyes, if it would be okay to tell Touya this kind of stuff someday. It has nothing to do with Go, or Sai, just himself as a person, but he wonders if it'd be okay. If someone like Touya would be willing to listen to Hikaru's older hurts, which still linger within him, like a scar that itches during a rainstorm. Sai listened to all this stuff as much as he could, though not always by choice, having been given a front-row seat to Hikaru's stormy adolescence. There were times when Sai felt more like a cool breeze, and other times, maybe depending on the strength of their bond, when Hikaru could lay his head in Sai's lap and cry over the universal unfairness that plagues every teenager. Sai was always very good about touching his hair and telling him everything would feel better by morning's light. Everyone had bad days, he said, when it felt as though nothing could go right for them. Children, adults, Go players, the Emperor--literally everyone.
Hikaru was convinced that today would be one of those bad days, an endless chain reaction of pain and misery, but Touya's hands on his face tell him otherwise. Touya is looking at him head-on, no regrets, singular in purpose, making demands that send sparks ricocheting through Hikaru's stomach. Hikaru hasn't slept in days, he's barely eaten anything in weeks, and he's still brimming with energy and at the top of his game.] Yeah, I hear you, [he replies, made heavy with hunger. He feels like he could eat right out of Touya's hands.] I'm not going anywhere, Touya. [That isn't to say his problems are solved, that his identity is no longer in question, but he does remember how much he loves playing Go with Touya. He remembers what it means to be Touya's eternal rival. And he wants to reinforce that distinction with every game, with every move, in striving for brilliance from beginning to end. He closes his eyes for a moment, too, evaluating and reevaluating his starting position... but he already knows what he wants to do. His eyes flash back open, as fierce as a lightning strike. The voltage is off the charts. Game on, Touya.
Hikaru wins by resignation.
It's an excellent result for him, but not totally unheard of; their informal games aren't as one-sided as their official record. (One day, in an official match, he'll definitely play as well as he did just now.) Blind Go is always going to be difficult the deeper the game goes, for any level of player, but Hikaru felt like he could see the board perfectly in the glimmers of Touya's eyes. He's going to have to record it as soon as he gets his hands on blank kifu paper--for the other binder, the yellow one, which sits proudly on his bookshelf at home. It's a record of all his own games, with the ones against Touya preserved in sheets of plastic. Precious specimens in a museum.
Touya's praise is never not an injection of morphine, and Hikaru emerges from it feeling more tired than he has in a long time. The kiss simply adds to his mellowed-out, ready-to-fall-sleep contentment. He has no idea what time it is, at this point, because time seems to stop when he's that focused on a game. It could be late afternoon, it could be late at night--it'd be funny if the office attendant forgot they were still holed up in here. Sitting back, he shakes out his wrists and then extends his arms above his head, making a tiny sound like a stretching cat.]
I'd say we should discuss it now, but I'm... I am totally beat after that. I'd probably fall asleep before we could finish. Sorry. [But he isn't really sorry, because it feels good to return to Touya's atmosphere, his hands balanced on slender knees, where he feels like he belongs. He kisses Touya back, languid like that summer evening, an acknowledgment and something more than that. An invitation, maybe.] It was very good, though. Especially that face you made during 12-5, 11-5, 9-7... I couldn't tell if you were upset with me--or turned on. [His tongue pokes out a little from between his teeth, more teasing than not, even if sultry.]
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Regardless of his tender lungs, when Akira looks at Shindou again, the quality of his gaze is mild. He says thoughtfully,] ...11-5... 9-7... [Then he considers Shindou's tongue. His eyebrows raise, his eyes close softly, and he shakes his head. The back-and-forth sweep of his hair is not unlike admonishment. Shindou, come on, really. When he's gathering himself up out of his seat, he smooths down his sweater, and retrieves his coat to fold over his arm. While he's still stooped halfway, he reaches over to pat the side of Shindou's arm, almost like a word of encouragement.]
Well, I wasn't upset with you.
[It's a chide, a little arid. He works on winding his pale scarf back around himself.
The attendant, by the way, almost surely didn't forget. Akira pauses to look at the watch on his wrist (a birthday gift from an admirer), and then he tells Shindou, offhandedly,] I asked that we be left undisturbed. [And the attendant agreed, because it was Touya Akira asking him. Akira breezes past that.] We shouldn't impose any further, anyway. And you should go home and wash your bed sheets and get some rest.
[He's prim and refined while he says this, as if he hasn't had an indecent shine to his eyes for the past couple of hours.]
Take the binder back home with you. No, I know you gave it to me, but... take it home, and... [Balanced in place, the line of his body quite strong, he tilts his head low, to the side. His fingers comb slowly through the hang of his hair, and he rolls his shoulders. It's a little early in the day to take a bath, but a hot one sounds good, right now...] I can come over, and you can tell me about them. Show me the ones you want to show me. I'll bring my homework or something.
[His fingers are still slipped into his hair, up near his ear. And his eyes are back open; he watches Shindou, as ever.]
Just let me know when. You'll do that, right? Shindou.
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Yeah, okay, I'll do that... assuming I don't pass out on the subway...
[He pushes himself upright with some effort, and he reaches over to close up the binder on the final, unfinished game. It should be easy, he thinks, to find the courage to ask about that kiss, and the other kisses, like if he went too far just now with what he said or if Touya didn't mind it. It should be easy, but he can't find the words to speak with; he doesn't want to read into a variation that isn't actually there. Friends, even close friends, don't kiss each other four times on the lips, but they aren't your normal friends with all their lifelong declarations, so, like... Hikaru would be more willing agonize over being attracted to another boy if it weren't for the fact he doesn't give a shit about social norms. He never spared a warm thought for girls, anyway, so...
When he tries to hold out the binder, and when Touya rebuffs him, there's a half-second before Touya explains himself where Hikaru thinks he's being rejected and he wants to walk into that oncoming traffic. The existential horror passes, though, thankfully, thank god, but he's still a little wide-eyed as he draws the binder against his chest. Touya has no fucking idea--okay, maybe he has some idea--how much energy Hikaru has poured into this thing to make sure it's as complete and accurate as possible. He's roamed all over the Internet, trawling forums and message boards, seeking out anyone who might remember watching or participating in a game against Sai. Some assholes claimed to have bested Sai (which is bullshit), while other people have been much more helpful in tracking down kifu.
Touya using Sai's binder as an excuse to see him again... well, that's pretty clever. Hikaru looks off to the side, now starting to smile, trying not to be too eager about having Touya alone in his room for better reasons. It feels forbidden, almost, because his mom always made him leave the door open when Akari was visiting, as if he'd make a move on her...]
I'll text you when I wake up, [he says decisively, rocking back on his heels.] It might take me a while, but I'll text you first thing, no problem. Then we can see what's going on with your schedule. [Because Hikaru isn't juggling school and language classes and out-of-town expos and everything else under the sun. His schedule rarely presents a conflict, if ever. He squeezes his arms around the binder like it's a security blanket.] Y'know, uhm...
The stuff I told you today, that was a lot for me, and it meant a lot to me, but it's not... even the half of it, Touya. Like there's all this... Shuusaku, and Shuusaku's games, and... just think of what you heard as a down payment. I'll tell you the rest, I'll tell you everything, just... not today. If you still want to hear the rest of it, I mean. You don't have to. Whatever you want.
[A day later--Hikaru ended up hibernating, more or less--Touya receives these text messages:]
when you said you wanted to know about sai
what did you want to know?
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Thankfully, it isn't necessary. Akira is in his high school's library—books on Hangul and social studies to his left, and a literature textbook to his right—when he gets the buzz of Shindou's texts. Suddenly, detailing the day's teachings on civics doesn't feel important at all. He's been swimming in these things in order to keep his mind occupied, but now it doesn't even matter...
It's against the rules to text on your phone in the library. Akira keeps his back straight and fearless even when he sends:]
What he was thinking
Get any sleep?
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felt more like i was in a coma
[Dead to the world. Absolutely oblivious. After he woke up, he found a note from his mom saying his father went out with old friends from school and she was going to be busy running errands. He could help himself to food in the fridge, though. So, right now, he's standing in front of a too-bright microwave, reheating noodles, one hand rubbing at his eyes. He still kind of feels like a half-spilled sack of wet cement, but it's better than it was yesterday.]
you can be more specific
[He shared a mind with Sai for a few years, and it was like two people confined to a one-room apartment, though their thought processes almost never intersected. Still, he can probably speak for Sai when it comes to any number of things...]
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After a point, Akira foregoes any prim pretenses in this library. It just doesn't matter. School has barely mattered to him at all, since Shindou's disappearance after Akira's birthday; once Akira started getting anxious, he stopped attending school, frantically overextending himself in other endeavors. He ended up skipping a solid week of school right before winter break. Now that he's gotten Shindou back, he's spending the actual winter break as one of a handful of catch-up students in the minimally staffed school library. If he comes here to study every day for the rest of this calendar week, it should be fine...
But he sets his phone right on top of an open textbook, and stabs out an answer with a tense index finger.]
Can you hear the bells from your house? On New Year's
[The 108 bells set ringing from every Buddhist temple after the midnight of the new year. Akira's home is in an older area of Tokyo, so he hears them well into the night, every year...
...]
I always wondered where he was, when I was thinking about him
What he was looking at, or what was around him
But for you, too, I don't even know if you hear the bells on New Year's from your bedroom.
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not really no
i've heard them before but not at home
[But he doesn't know anything about why they ring the bells or when that practice started or anything like that. He only knows what he wants to know, which is probably his biggest problem in general. With a grating sigh, he decides to just sit down at the table and wait out the spinning bowl in the microwave. He's really aching all over from yesterday's abrupt burst of physical activity. Stupid.]
we played go every night in my room
[What's so good about your bedroom? Hah.]
no handicap
regular games
so you've already seen a lot of the things he used to see
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All things considered, it's what makes the most sense, so far. All else Akira knows of Sai, those scant and minimal details, have just made most things more confusing. But Akira thinks about the binder, its neutral purple, and its overwhelming about of games. So many of them—most of them—were played against Shindou. The records of those games start a few years ago, so if they're that numerous... every night makes sense. Akira cannot help but stare at that text, though. Every night, in Shindou's room. It makes sense...
The "why" of it does not.]
He was related to you?
[Maybe an uncle or something. An older cousin. Akira even has the uncomfortable thought that Shindou's older brother taught him Go and then passed away. But, uncomfortable as it is, it's—selfishly—easier than wondering if Sai was just someone who had a position Akira never could. It's easier than wondering what it would have been like, sitting in a bedroom at night, playing and learning his way through games with Shindou. (Or through games with Sai.)
Akira finds himself pursing his lips too hard.]
Anyway, I wasn't paying much attention when I came in. I should have, but
I'll have to take a closer look.
Would your parents let you leave on New Year's Eve?
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