hikaru shindou ⑤ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
protential) wrote2013-09-23 12:37 pm
protential) wrote2013-09-23 12:37 pm
this is the experience from which you've felt exiled for so long.
[Hikaru is going to win tomorrow.
That isn't a bout of overconfidence on his part. That isn't anything so mundane as an ego trip. He just knows he's going to win as surely as he knows the cool air he's breathing, or the plush carpeting spread under his hands. The move he sealed at the end of today--for the seventh game--in the sixty-third Honinbou title match--is going to win him the game tomorrow. He wonders if Akira has already figured it out. Other people, they probably have no idea, no fucking clue, and they don't matter a single whit; Akira has known him for long enough to know why he was smiling when he sealed that move. He wants to ask about it, though. They have rules about not talking to each other about Go the night before they play each other, but he's dying to tell Akira which move he sealed up. To confirm that he will, in fact, take away the title tomorrow. Akira should be able to read far enough ahead to see it, anyway, but Hikaru wants the confirmation.
Instead, he says,] You should come have breakfast with me.
[The tension is getting to be downright unbearable, stretching across his skin as heat and frustration and dehydration, even. They have rules about not seeing each other before a game, and it's driving him a little insane from deprivation, he thinks. At the moment, they're both sitting against the thin door that connects their hotel rooms, knowing they aren't supposed to touch the damn thing, much less open it up. They laid down all these rules years ago for their own benefit, to limit their distractions, because they really could distract each other all night if they wanted to. Hikaru, at least, could have his fingers buried in Akira's hair and his mouth on Akira's neck for hours and hours, definitely, definitely. The temptation would be far too great to make bruises out of their current position. He's done that before while playing casually.]
In my room. Room service. That way, we can avoid the cameras, and...
[He presses his head and shoulders against the door, trying to get comfortable, and his fingers curl against the carpet. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see so clearly the winning move he sealed not that long ago. By tomorrow, their record will stand at 4-3, and Shindou Hikaru, the dark horse of a challenger, merely twenty-one years old, will have won his first title from the perennially brilliant Touya Akira.]
I can make sure you're eating something.
[He wonders if Akira remembered to lock the connecting door.]
That isn't a bout of overconfidence on his part. That isn't anything so mundane as an ego trip. He just knows he's going to win as surely as he knows the cool air he's breathing, or the plush carpeting spread under his hands. The move he sealed at the end of today--for the seventh game--in the sixty-third Honinbou title match--is going to win him the game tomorrow. He wonders if Akira has already figured it out. Other people, they probably have no idea, no fucking clue, and they don't matter a single whit; Akira has known him for long enough to know why he was smiling when he sealed that move. He wants to ask about it, though. They have rules about not talking to each other about Go the night before they play each other, but he's dying to tell Akira which move he sealed up. To confirm that he will, in fact, take away the title tomorrow. Akira should be able to read far enough ahead to see it, anyway, but Hikaru wants the confirmation.
Instead, he says,] You should come have breakfast with me.
[The tension is getting to be downright unbearable, stretching across his skin as heat and frustration and dehydration, even. They have rules about not seeing each other before a game, and it's driving him a little insane from deprivation, he thinks. At the moment, they're both sitting against the thin door that connects their hotel rooms, knowing they aren't supposed to touch the damn thing, much less open it up. They laid down all these rules years ago for their own benefit, to limit their distractions, because they really could distract each other all night if they wanted to. Hikaru, at least, could have his fingers buried in Akira's hair and his mouth on Akira's neck for hours and hours, definitely, definitely. The temptation would be far too great to make bruises out of their current position. He's done that before while playing casually.]
In my room. Room service. That way, we can avoid the cameras, and...
[He presses his head and shoulders against the door, trying to get comfortable, and his fingers curl against the carpet. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see so clearly the winning move he sealed not that long ago. By tomorrow, their record will stand at 4-3, and Shindou Hikaru, the dark horse of a challenger, merely twenty-one years old, will have won his first title from the perennially brilliant Touya Akira.]
I can make sure you're eating something.
[He wonders if Akira remembered to lock the connecting door.]