[The move meets the board, and Akira exhales as if his beating heart will come out with it. His eyes raise to Hikaru's face, and the gleam in them says everything: all right, and beautiful, and I love you. I love you. Hikaru smiles at him, and Akira smiles back, and they play a game worthy of setting against the sky. Each of these stones deserves to point out a constellation. Akira can feel his throat grow tight, and he thinks, of all things, back to the first time he woke up in bed beside Hikaru. The determination of the night before, and the uncertainty simmering out into certainty. This game, this match, this passing of glory from himself to his rival, feels more like a consummation. It feels like what they were meant to do, what instinct drove them to do—it feels like a glimpse of all they have ahead of them. All the nights, all the certainty, and all the brilliant stones. When Akira resigns, it is because this game is already perfect. He raises his head from his bow, as if to revel in his own defeat, to see Hikaru searching behind himself. And Akira sighs, and it's an awfully long breath for someone so small, so much smaller than the past.
He lets Hikaru cry a bit, and then he lets Hikaru scream a bit, but he isn't going to let Hikaru die, so he gets up to his feet. The cameras are catching all the frames they can, all these shutters, and Akira turns himself to look at the reporters. He watches them for a long, thin, grey-eyed moment, until they realize he is observing them as one would observe the rotting of vegetation. Then he moves to hold on to Hikaru, and he tells everyone else to leave. They're stunned enough to do it.
Akira is wearing the most expensive suit he owns. He chose a suit over a kimono because this isn't a match for the sake of tradition in Japanese Go. Shindou Hikaru is fresh and outrageous, unaligned with many of Akira's sensibilities. Akira loves him for it. He wants today to be today, and not a thousand years ago. The suit is grey in the way the sea can sometimes be grey, and the shirt underneath it is a staunch black, and now there are damp patches on these clothes, at his shoulder, the curve of his arm, the line of his lap. Hikaru has wept and wept and wept on him. Akira hasn't said a word since banishing the crowd. Better, he thinks, to let sound dwindle, until it can be reborn.
And, of course, it comes to live again. Hikaru's voice is scrubbed pink, layers and layers taken away from it. Akira's hands neither still nor grow in strength. He runs his fingers through Hikaru's hair just as plainly as he has been.] Yes, [he says, and he doesn't bother to be faint, to be minimal. If there are any bystanders outside in the hallway, straining to hear any particular whisper or whimper, Akira doesn't care. He's got no thoughts to spare for anything but the lover in his lap. Hikaru's thoughts might be straying up into the stratosphere, looking for far away places where the cold might dwell, but Akira is what they call grounded. Or, he will be, in this. He continues to stroke Hikaru's hair. There's no particular pace to it, no notable quality in his touch, except that it's there. If he leaves the crown of Hikaru's head, it will only be to settle at his temple. The whole of him is solid. Don't forget that.
His back has been straight ever since he got Hikaru to rest against him. His body is accommodating—he's moved not once, not to shift his thighs, not to acknowledge the way last night lingers in all his muscles. But Hikaru's voice is always magnetic, and Akira leans lower, curving like a lily. Hikaru may not see this drawing of curtains, but in the dark, in the quiet, he can at least know the shifting sounds of Akira's hair as it slides over his shoulders. He is as the boughs of a willow tree, with Hikaru lying beneath him in shelter and shade. But, even now, when the leaves of him are cool and dewy, he means to draw Hikaru's heart right up into himself.]
no subject
He lets Hikaru cry a bit, and then he lets Hikaru scream a bit, but he isn't going to let Hikaru die, so he gets up to his feet. The cameras are catching all the frames they can, all these shutters, and Akira turns himself to look at the reporters. He watches them for a long, thin, grey-eyed moment, until they realize he is observing them as one would observe the rotting of vegetation. Then he moves to hold on to Hikaru, and he tells everyone else to leave. They're stunned enough to do it.
Akira is wearing the most expensive suit he owns. He chose a suit over a kimono because this isn't a match for the sake of tradition in Japanese Go. Shindou Hikaru is fresh and outrageous, unaligned with many of Akira's sensibilities. Akira loves him for it. He wants today to be today, and not a thousand years ago. The suit is grey in the way the sea can sometimes be grey, and the shirt underneath it is a staunch black, and now there are damp patches on these clothes, at his shoulder, the curve of his arm, the line of his lap. Hikaru has wept and wept and wept on him. Akira hasn't said a word since banishing the crowd. Better, he thinks, to let sound dwindle, until it can be reborn.
And, of course, it comes to live again. Hikaru's voice is scrubbed pink, layers and layers taken away from it. Akira's hands neither still nor grow in strength. He runs his fingers through Hikaru's hair just as plainly as he has been.] Yes, [he says, and he doesn't bother to be faint, to be minimal. If there are any bystanders outside in the hallway, straining to hear any particular whisper or whimper, Akira doesn't care. He's got no thoughts to spare for anything but the lover in his lap. Hikaru's thoughts might be straying up into the stratosphere, looking for far away places where the cold might dwell, but Akira is what they call grounded. Or, he will be, in this. He continues to stroke Hikaru's hair. There's no particular pace to it, no notable quality in his touch, except that it's there. If he leaves the crown of Hikaru's head, it will only be to settle at his temple. The whole of him is solid. Don't forget that.
His back has been straight ever since he got Hikaru to rest against him. His body is accommodating—he's moved not once, not to shift his thighs, not to acknowledge the way last night lingers in all his muscles. But Hikaru's voice is always magnetic, and Akira leans lower, curving like a lily. Hikaru may not see this drawing of curtains, but in the dark, in the quiet, he can at least know the shifting sounds of Akira's hair as it slides over his shoulders. He is as the boughs of a willow tree, with Hikaru lying beneath him in shelter and shade. But, even now, when the leaves of him are cool and dewy, he means to draw Hikaru's heart right up into himself.]
Tell me.