[Hikaru can't say the urgency of earlier--the intense compulsion to be closer--has faded all that much, but it doesn't feel so stressful anymore. He's willing to cede control to Akira, to being rolled over and onto his back, a little bit at a time, at their own pace. The kiss, too, is more like a closing argument than something to get them all riled up. It's like Akira always knows when he needs to be looked after, and taken care of, a warm hearth to be stirred instead of given more firewood. Hikaru drapes one of his arms around Akira's smooth, naked back, encouraging him to be and to stay right where he belongs. His other hand squeezes the offering that is Akira's hand, not going anywhere, not anytime soon. They have several hours left to them before they have to go anywhere. Strangely, (maybe not so strangely,) Hikaru finds himself wishing they didn't have to go anywhere. If they could just stay holed up in this hotel room, the record of their match at a standstill, no consequences, no before and after, no nothing...
With Akira's mouth at his neck, Hikaru says this to him:] You always have to be right about everything, don't you. [It's one of those things he can say in anger, a thing he has said in anger, but right now he's quietly accepting of the meaning behind it. Hikaru's damp eyes wander across the ceiling above him, as he thinks of what to say next.] And it's not like I'm expecting you to... do anything less, than that. There's still a chance, however small... [He exhales, then, really getting all the air out of his lungs. He inhales. The stretch of his muscles feels good, if a little sore.] Still a chance you could find a way to live. But I won't be making that any easier for you.
[The next morning, Akira does not find a way to live.
Hikaru did have one of those inexplicable flashes of fear just before he unsealed the envelope, right before he looked at what he had written there--maybe he had recorded the wrong move after all, after everything. But there it was: 9-17, in his chicken scratch scrabble of a hand, and he blew out a sigh of relief. Akira was staring at him the entire time, his posture as straight and proud as ever, with his hair the soft, shiny result of a good thirty minutes under the brush. Hikaru grinned at him, unable to help himself, before he handed the envelope back to the officials. 9-17, then. Time to rock and roll.
And Akira doesn't find a way to live. As promised, though, he fights through it valiantly, looking for any opening, every opening, to get more territory on the side and try to close the gap between them. He actually does pick up a few moku here and there, but Hikaru's seen all the way to the end of yose and he knows that won't matter except for how much Akira wants to lose by. Akira also knows the difference between stubbornness and futility; he knows the exact move where anything else he plays will only come across as unsporting and desperate and selfish. That's precisely when he leans forward, bowing his head, his hair sliding over his shoulders in lovely applause. He resigns. He says so out loud, and there's an audible reaction from the room--not a gasp, not quite a murmur, but a shifting of bodies as everyone, all at once, acknowledges the resignation. The tension in the air had gotten to be unbearable toward the end, with Hikaru and Akira staring each other down in between moves.
Hikaru thanks Akira for the game, and while he's doing that, he slowly closes his folding fan, one well-loved leaf at a time. He has no idea what he's feeling right now, or even what he's supposed to feel... There's a brief disturbance out in the hall, a jangling and jostling of equipment, as all the reporters and photographers crowd their way into the room. Hikaru looks down at the board one more time, the final moves, his final stones, and then he tells himself it'll be all right, it has to be all right, if it doesn't happen the way he wanted it to. Still, he turns his head slightly, and then he turns his head a little more, and then he's looking over his shoulder to see what Sai thought of this hard-fought game.
Sai isn't sitting behind him.
Of course not.
Not even the best game of his career, not even the game that won back the title of Honinbou, could draw Sai out of wherever he's been hiding all this time. (Wouldn't it be easier if I just went to where you are, instead?)
None of the onlookers think it's too weird for Hikaru--for Shindou Honinbou--to start crying. The Room of Profound Darkness has seen many title matches over the years, and everybody reacts in their own way to winning and losing. The joy of it, the frustration, the relief, the despair... Shindou Honinbou is crying. But it gets to be a problem when Shindou Honinbou doesn't stop crying. With his palms mashed into his eyes, his mouth wet and agape--he's starting to drool on himself--he's starting to wail, this profound, hopeless wail, like someone's taking a machete to each of his limbs. He can't believe how stupid he's been, how fucking stupid he's been all this time-- He can't seem to catch his breath at all, but that doesn't stop him from pushing a primal scream out of his throat. The officials' patient understanding turns to annoyance, and then to concern, while the reporters look at each other like they're in need of an exorcism, and...
Hikaru doesn't register anything beyond his own grief until Akira's got his arms around him, and Akira's telling everybody else to please shut up and go away for a while. That's hilarious, honestly--that Akira could be so rude to them--that he's the one doing the consoling and not being consoled after losing his title. Hikaru thinks he should laugh about it, even though his lungs exist only to be wracked with sobs and more sobs. His entire body struggles with immense heartbreak, like he's been poisoned by a viper, like he's getting ready to curl up and die. It hurts. Hurts so goddamn fucking much. It really hurts a lot and he isn't strong enough to withstand it.
A thousand years later, after Hikaru has been ground down and laid to rest as a fine powder, he speaks up again:] Akira? [It's dark in here. Mostly because he doesn't want to open his eyes, but it's very dark, in his head, his heart, and it's quiet. His own breathing is coming slowly and quietly in spite of his destroyed lungs.]
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With Akira's mouth at his neck, Hikaru says this to him:] You always have to be right about everything, don't you. [It's one of those things he can say in anger, a thing he has said in anger, but right now he's quietly accepting of the meaning behind it. Hikaru's damp eyes wander across the ceiling above him, as he thinks of what to say next.] And it's not like I'm expecting you to... do anything less, than that. There's still a chance, however small... [He exhales, then, really getting all the air out of his lungs. He inhales. The stretch of his muscles feels good, if a little sore.] Still a chance you could find a way to live. But I won't be making that any easier for you.
[The next morning, Akira does not find a way to live.
Hikaru did have one of those inexplicable flashes of fear just before he unsealed the envelope, right before he looked at what he had written there--maybe he had recorded the wrong move after all, after everything. But there it was: 9-17, in his chicken scratch scrabble of a hand, and he blew out a sigh of relief. Akira was staring at him the entire time, his posture as straight and proud as ever, with his hair the soft, shiny result of a good thirty minutes under the brush. Hikaru grinned at him, unable to help himself, before he handed the envelope back to the officials. 9-17, then. Time to rock and roll.
And Akira doesn't find a way to live. As promised, though, he fights through it valiantly, looking for any opening, every opening, to get more territory on the side and try to close the gap between them. He actually does pick up a few moku here and there, but Hikaru's seen all the way to the end of yose and he knows that won't matter except for how much Akira wants to lose by. Akira also knows the difference between stubbornness and futility; he knows the exact move where anything else he plays will only come across as unsporting and desperate and selfish. That's precisely when he leans forward, bowing his head, his hair sliding over his shoulders in lovely applause. He resigns. He says so out loud, and there's an audible reaction from the room--not a gasp, not quite a murmur, but a shifting of bodies as everyone, all at once, acknowledges the resignation. The tension in the air had gotten to be unbearable toward the end, with Hikaru and Akira staring each other down in between moves.
Hikaru thanks Akira for the game, and while he's doing that, he slowly closes his folding fan, one well-loved leaf at a time. He has no idea what he's feeling right now, or even what he's supposed to feel... There's a brief disturbance out in the hall, a jangling and jostling of equipment, as all the reporters and photographers crowd their way into the room. Hikaru looks down at the board one more time, the final moves, his final stones, and then he tells himself it'll be all right, it has to be all right, if it doesn't happen the way he wanted it to. Still, he turns his head slightly, and then he turns his head a little more, and then he's looking over his shoulder to see what Sai thought of this hard-fought game.
Sai isn't sitting behind him.
Of course not.
Not even the best game of his career, not even the game that won back the title of Honinbou, could draw Sai out of wherever he's been hiding all this time. (Wouldn't it be easier if I just went to where you are, instead?)
None of the onlookers think it's too weird for Hikaru--for Shindou Honinbou--to start crying. The Room of Profound Darkness has seen many title matches over the years, and everybody reacts in their own way to winning and losing. The joy of it, the frustration, the relief, the despair... Shindou Honinbou is crying. But it gets to be a problem when Shindou Honinbou doesn't stop crying. With his palms mashed into his eyes, his mouth wet and agape--he's starting to drool on himself--he's starting to wail, this profound, hopeless wail, like someone's taking a machete to each of his limbs. He can't believe how stupid he's been, how fucking stupid he's been all this time-- He can't seem to catch his breath at all, but that doesn't stop him from pushing a primal scream out of his throat. The officials' patient understanding turns to annoyance, and then to concern, while the reporters look at each other like they're in need of an exorcism, and...
Hikaru doesn't register anything beyond his own grief until Akira's got his arms around him, and Akira's telling everybody else to please shut up and go away for a while. That's hilarious, honestly--that Akira could be so rude to them--that he's the one doing the consoling and not being consoled after losing his title. Hikaru thinks he should laugh about it, even though his lungs exist only to be wracked with sobs and more sobs. His entire body struggles with immense heartbreak, like he's been poisoned by a viper, like he's getting ready to curl up and die. It hurts. Hurts so goddamn fucking much. It really hurts a lot and he isn't strong enough to withstand it.
A thousand years later, after Hikaru has been ground down and laid to rest as a fine powder, he speaks up again:] Akira? [It's dark in here. Mostly because he doesn't want to open his eyes, but it's very dark, in his head, his heart, and it's quiet. His own breathing is coming slowly and quietly in spite of his destroyed lungs.]