[Now that he's here, now that they're both here, with each other, doing this with each other, Hikaru doesn't know why he ever denied himself the opportunity to do this before. The night before a game--before the match of their lives--might be the most exciting time to have sex with each other. It's like the stakes couldn't get any higher, like they're already trying to determine the outcome, their flesh and friction in place of the stones on the board. Hikaru's vision weakens, darkening at the edges, a vignette of delight, the longer and harder he bears down on Akira. His boyfriend only gets more beautiful from here on out. His boyfriend has the shimmer of a mirage in the mirror, even, but he's very real, very much in motion underneath him. His boyfriend, and his best friend. His one and only eternal rival. Teeth clenched, Hikaru reminds himself to hold back, to delay that surge of pleasure, because he refuses to come before Akira has had his second chance to. He's gotten good at holding himself back, mostly because he knows Akira likes having him hard and solid and secure inside of him. If he could, he'd let Akira ride him for hours, just hours on end, until they're both so sore and exhausted they couldn't hope to pick up the stones. He can tell that Akira's so close to breaking down all over again, to something finer and softer than sand, no part of him spared. He can tell that's what is happening and it's so fucking good.
He gives up looking in the mirror around the same time Akira does, his head tilting down, his hips jerking forward. At a time like this-- You know, they've played enough rengo matches by now to have success in reading each other's minds in certain hot climes. Literally reading each other's minds. Right now, he knows that Akira wholeheartedly agrees with him; he knows that Akira knows he belongs to Hikaru; he knows that Akira wants him to take refuge in just what belongs to him. Hikaru is trying his best to do that. It really feels like he's trying to, and he whines all the way to the depths of his throat when he can't figure out how to get himself any closer. His limbs have the tremble of a high-tension wire being pulled even tighter. I want to, he thinks, shot through with delirium. His eyes are squeezing shut. Nowhere else I'd rather be.
And he knows what else Akira is thinking, what else Akira is going to say, even before Akira has started to say the first syllable of his family name. It's a rolling shock to the system, bright and then hot and then bright again--this must be what it feels like to swallow lightning. Neither of them gets to see what happens to Hikaru's face when he hears--Shindou Honinbou--when he's graced with--Shindou Honinbou--when he's cursed with it--when he can't believe it even as he's thinking of how hard he's worked for it. The acknowledgment before the confirmation is probably the most poignant thing he's felt in recent memory. In a long fucking time. He's only ever wanted Akira's approval, Akira's faith in him, his belief system aligned with him, and this is the clearest indication that it honestly is. The soon-to-be Shindou Honinbou's face is the spectrum of pain and pleasure, of every moment that's come before this. The pride, the fear, the love, the pain, the fear, and finally the exhilaration that has him dissolving into tears. This isn't even the first time he's cried while they're having sex, but it's still so goddamn much... He empties out his lungs like he's getting ready to drown, then he shoves himself forward, once, twice, a full three times, on frantic instinct alone. Finally getting to come is so hot and fierce and mercifully sweet a sensation that he can't compare it to anything else in the known universe.
The next time he opens his eyes, he's already lying beside Akira on the bed, on his stomach, in the daze of a swelter. There's some damp, helpless portion of him overlapping Akira's shoulder, their skin sticking together. He has one of his legs crossed over and pressing into one of Akira's. He's really out of breath, too, and the room still feels like it's spinning around and around, like he's been running for hours and he only now has the chance to slow down. Nearby, all he can see is a hint of Akira's profile and that wealth of black hair, which never fails to draw him in and seduce him, if it's handled the right way. He nudges his tear-stained face in closer with all the intent to take refuge.
He says this to Akira, and he's never been more pleased to say anything like this:] 9-17. [The move he sealed earlier. The move that will definitely force Akira to resign tomorrow, whether or not he's willing to fight back against it.] Akira, it's going to be 9-17. [His voice cracks a little--into joy, or maybe that's fear. After tomorrow, he doesn't know if he's going to laugh or cry or throw himself off the first bridge he comes across. He doesn't know. But he doesn't want to think about any of that anymore, not when he has Akira within his arm's reach.]
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He gives up looking in the mirror around the same time Akira does, his head tilting down, his hips jerking forward. At a time like this-- You know, they've played enough rengo matches by now to have success in reading each other's minds in certain hot climes. Literally reading each other's minds. Right now, he knows that Akira wholeheartedly agrees with him; he knows that Akira knows he belongs to Hikaru; he knows that Akira wants him to take refuge in just what belongs to him. Hikaru is trying his best to do that. It really feels like he's trying to, and he whines all the way to the depths of his throat when he can't figure out how to get himself any closer. His limbs have the tremble of a high-tension wire being pulled even tighter. I want to, he thinks, shot through with delirium. His eyes are squeezing shut. Nowhere else I'd rather be.
And he knows what else Akira is thinking, what else Akira is going to say, even before Akira has started to say the first syllable of his family name. It's a rolling shock to the system, bright and then hot and then bright again--this must be what it feels like to swallow lightning. Neither of them gets to see what happens to Hikaru's face when he hears--Shindou Honinbou--when he's graced with--Shindou Honinbou--when he's cursed with it--when he can't believe it even as he's thinking of how hard he's worked for it. The acknowledgment before the confirmation is probably the most poignant thing he's felt in recent memory. In a long fucking time. He's only ever wanted Akira's approval, Akira's faith in him, his belief system aligned with him, and this is the clearest indication that it honestly is. The soon-to-be Shindou Honinbou's face is the spectrum of pain and pleasure, of every moment that's come before this. The pride, the fear, the love, the pain, the fear, and finally the exhilaration that has him dissolving into tears. This isn't even the first time he's cried while they're having sex, but it's still so goddamn much... He empties out his lungs like he's getting ready to drown, then he shoves himself forward, once, twice, a full three times, on frantic instinct alone. Finally getting to come is so hot and fierce and mercifully sweet a sensation that he can't compare it to anything else in the known universe.
The next time he opens his eyes, he's already lying beside Akira on the bed, on his stomach, in the daze of a swelter. There's some damp, helpless portion of him overlapping Akira's shoulder, their skin sticking together. He has one of his legs crossed over and pressing into one of Akira's. He's really out of breath, too, and the room still feels like it's spinning around and around, like he's been running for hours and he only now has the chance to slow down. Nearby, all he can see is a hint of Akira's profile and that wealth of black hair, which never fails to draw him in and seduce him, if it's handled the right way. He nudges his tear-stained face in closer with all the intent to take refuge.
He says this to Akira, and he's never been more pleased to say anything like this:] 9-17. [The move he sealed earlier. The move that will definitely force Akira to resign tomorrow, whether or not he's willing to fight back against it.] Akira, it's going to be 9-17. [His voice cracks a little--into joy, or maybe that's fear. After tomorrow, he doesn't know if he's going to laugh or cry or throw himself off the first bridge he comes across. He doesn't know. But he doesn't want to think about any of that anymore, not when he has Akira within his arm's reach.]