this is the experience from which you've felt exiled for so long.

[protential]

[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.]

Comments

[ashlar]

[They've confessed so much to each other, by now, and Akira has long since admitted the early starting point of his fixation with Hikaru. Still, he wonders sometimes if Hikaru really understands. He'll look at Hikaru, and Hikaru will be eating french fries, or squinting at something Akira has written into the planner he forces Hikaru to keep, or flashing his eyes like jade daggers while the both of them wield their stubbornness. And when Akira looks at him while he does any of those things, while he does anything, Akira wonders if he can truly understand how much Akira really is his. And it's precisely because he is utterly Hikaru's that Akira wishes to receive all of him in turn. He wants every ounce of Hikaru that can be offered, and he won't wait for the offer if he feels short-changed. All of Hikaru, the sum of him... Sex is what really shows the sum of him. He is all at once exhausting, enlivening, humbling, and maddening... His hips and his mouth are simply shorthand for the inspiration he incites. Hikaru's body is a vivid reminder of obsession and yearning and dedication. Akira is enraptured with its bounty, every single time he sees or hears or feels Hikaru come.

After everything, they're further apart than visiting the depths of each other, but they aren't disentangled. The weight of Hikaru's leg and the nearness of his warmth are comforts vital to the state of being. Akira could fall asleep, now, he could, but he's affectionate enough to keep himself awake, even though the world, this suite, is filtered through a haze. He's able to run his thumb slowly, slowly, along the inside of Hikaru's wrist. Over and over. Just the reassurance of skin. And Hikaru speaks to him, and it is more real than skin, more corporeal and lifelike than warm skin. Akira turns his face to look at him. He looks at Hikaru, and he wonders all the things he always wonders, and then he shifts in close, then closer. He nudges against Hikaru until he can roll Hikaru onto his back, and he's remarkably gentle about doing that. This is assertion, but done with great care. He guides Hikaru flat onto his back, pressing their chests together, laying one of Hikaru's arms out straight and clasping his hand like any priceless thing. Kissing Hikaru, like he does now, is his way of trying to lap up those words, as if he can get a taste of that move for himself. 9-17. So this is how defeat passes from Hikaru's tongue to his own.

He's not quite sated, when he dwindles out of that kiss, but he supposes he can have the rest tomorrow. For now, he's sweet enough to tuck his head beneath Hikaru's chin, mostly snuggling in, but kissing at his neck a little, too.] I knew you were the one. You always remind me that I was right about that. [He hasn't let go of Hikaru's hand. He hopes he doesn't have to.] 9-17. Amazing. But I'm telling you right now, I'm going to make it last. I'm going to make you work for a little while longer, tomorrow.

[protential]

[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.]

[ashlar]

[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.]

Tell me.