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.]
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Plus, Hikaru's proficiency in wracking Akira's entire body with just his mouth can't be undervalued. Yes, it sounds good, if Akira's own sounds don't make that clear enough: he's groaning into a whine, then whining into a sigh.] Damn it, [he says, at some point, and repeats it at least another time, in the midst of Hikaru bullying him down onto the floor. That, maybe that, is the best feeling. Always, Akira resists Hikaru only in the way a proud and dizzying cliff resists the push of the sea. He wants to be worn down; he wants to be the beach, gone much softer, awash in Hikaru's tide. He fights back because he loves the feel of Hikaru fighting back in turn. By the time they're kissing again, Akira is finer like the inevitable sand, ah, ah, with every breath, unable to sound angry. His vocal exhales are razed down into delight, now that Hikaru has (earnestly endeavored, put forth the effort, genuinely wanted to) overcome him.
So he's more pliant, when Hikaru is kissing against him, all these places by now well-traveled and beloved by the tradition of touch. Hikaru knows every spot Akira best enjoys, and—more thrilling—he knows what he enjoys about Akira's body, too. Akira had never considered the merits of feeling sexy until Hikaru was the one who found him so. Now he relishes the line of his own waist, when Hikaru's hands slide against it. He proudly offers the secret peak of his hip bone, beneath all his overheated skin, made accessible only by Hikaru, only to Hikaru, only when Hikaru wishes to find it with his mouth or his agile fingers. And when Hikaru's mouth sinks down onto him for real, Akira cries out, and it feels good to know that Hikaru will like the way it sounds.
Hikaru is allowed to win. Tomorrow, he has full permission. It's not that he needs permission to do it, and it's not that Akira will ever be kept from losing a match simply because he doesn't want to lose; this is just a part of himself that Akira is giving, again, as ever, one shred of himself left that he wants to pour down Hikaru's throat. Tonight, Touya Honinbou is on his back, twisting his hips away from the floor, undone by the expertise of Hikaru's tongue in all its soft strength. Tonight...] Tomorrow, [he gasps, then whines back down into a groan, and grabs at Hikaru's hair. Pause, pause. He wants Hikaru to swallow these words before he swallows Akira's climax. Akira is still gasping a bit.] When you wake up, I want you to think about who you slept with tonight. I want you to think about what it felt like to fuck the winner of the sixty-second Honinbou title. [This is the drag of thick sap down tree bark, for amber, for filling every space.] You remember it, and what it was like, because you're the only person who can possibly know, and I want you to be thinking about it, tomorrow, [tomorrow, when you take the title from me. Akira is too busy either blessing or cursing God to say the rest of that, but maybe the rapt hum slipping from his throat does it for him. They've been fucking all throughout the year, of course, so Shindou Hikaru sleeping with Touya Honinbou shouldn't be a revelation on any level. But if Hikaru wins tomorrow, (for Akira is full enough of pride and intent to retain his grasp on if,) this is the last time Hikaru will be going down on the sitting Honinbou title holder. For another year, anyway.
Akira thumbs at one of Hikaru's cheeks, his hand less than steady.]
Tell me how to make it memorable for you. I'm not going to let you get out of this with even a second overlooked.
[But that's big talk from someone whose thighs are straining even now.]
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If only to hear more of those sounds, Hikaru applies himself with equals parts passion and tenderness. Akira is just as hot, just as helpless, as Hikaru imagined him to be, and he's already at the cliff's edge by the time Hikaru is teasing him with the swirl of his tongue. He treats Akira like a summertime sweet, something to be savored, eaten slowly, allowed to melt along the way. The flavor is, as per usual, less important than the heat. But the flavor is appetizing for how light it is, how aerial, nearly flavorless aside from a hint of citrus. It didn't used to be anything like this, you know. The first time Hikaru gave him a blowjob, the result was so thick and sour, and it was gritty like oatmeal, awfully, so Hikaru ended up gagging and spitting most of it out. He didn't like how it tasted, at all, and the texture sealed the deal as a bad experience. He tried to explain himself afterward, and he tried to be apologetic about it: "It's not like I'm saying I hate it or anything. It's just not for me." But Akira, being Akira, wasn't about to let things continue like that. It took some complaining, needling, and a few more disappointing mouthfuls, before Hikaru started to notice... the flavor was changing. The consistency was more like water, and the flavor itself more like a pleasant afterthought. It lingered in his mouth for hours afterward, a hint of sweetness. He started craving it. Then he noticed Akira drinking bottles of juice during the day, and that's when he realized what had happened. That's just the kind of person Akira is. Always, always going the extra mile to get what he wants.
Hikaru's eyes roll upward when Akira speaks to him, making declarations of his own, even though he's little more than a viand right now. The forceful, devout rush of heat into Hikaru's mouth is a more pressing concern, more immediate, undeniably more engrossing. He's downright fastidious about swallowing every last drop that he can. Afterward, letting his mouth slide away, he uses his thumb to catch a wet pearl as it's sneaking down his chin. He licks it clean, long since addicted and glad for it. Not a single drop wasted.]
Memorable, huh, [he says, his words damp, and he moves like a predator--sinuous, low to the ground--when he climbs back up Akira's prone body. He's hot, heavy, and hard, very much so, dragging himself against Akira in turn, finding almost none of the friction he's looking for. His eyes, now eagerly coming into view, are the electric green of an algae bloom in a lightning storm. A focused color that's getting closer to the supernatural.] Every moment with you, [he says, then,] is memorable to me. [He's laboring to say it, as short of breath as he is. Each word feels like its own uphill battle.] I'd sooner forget my own name than forget any moment I've spent with you. [His pupils couldn't possibly get any wider than they are right now. It's like an eclipse driven by arousal.] But, Touya Honinbou, I...
[Tomorrow, it will be Shindou Honinbou, at least for the year to come, and 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. That's why, tonight, he wants to make sure every moment counts just as much as Akira himself does.]
Tonight, I want you to get on that bed over there. Get all your clothes off, and get on that bed for me. I know you can do that much for me. [His open-mouthed lust is starting to bend into more of a smile.] Did you notice? The mirrors... [He looks up and over to the side, over to the bed, but also to what's waiting beyond the bed. The closet doors, located not far away, are covered in gleaming floor-to-ceiling mirrors. It's a stylish, elegant decoration for the nice suite they've each been given.] I'm going to fuck you on your hands and knees, and you're going to watch me fuck you, in the mirror. That way, you'll know exactly what you look like when I'm taking you, and you'll remember it, tomorrow, when you're resigning to me. [Not if. When. He says it like he's reading from holy scripture, convinced of its veracity on a deep, deep level.] That way, Touya Honinbou, we'll both find it pretty memorable.
[Far from spontaneous, Hikaru has fantasized about this sort of thing for longer than he's willing to admit. He wants Akira to see himself when he's completely, utterly given himself over to the ruthless monster he claims to love.]
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Incredibly, Hikaru's eyes and their Plutonian splendor are entirely for Akira, in return. The shock of them is fearsome, humbling, but lit lovely like some sort of benevolence: he could choose to crush Akira right now, in too many ways to count. He's choosing otherwise. Akira only finds himself more frantic with arousal when he thinks about that. Looking into this vivid green, blanketed beneath Hikaru's body and Hikaru's plans for their time together tonight, Akira is almost—maybe he is more enraptured than even during orgasm; spilling himself into Hikaru's mouth still left him with enough presence of mind to make his own declarations, at least. But now he lies gutted of his ability to command, encumbered by the validation of lust (and the way he lusts after validation). He breathes out only one real piece of language—Hikaru—he won't let Hikaru forget his own name.
His head tilts back, against the floor, so he can look over toward the mirrors. He sees them from this upside down angle, and he already imagines the sight of himself. His eyes butterfly shut, and he can't quell the involuntary cry that leaves him, little and soft and unquestionably helpless. He has no defenses against any part of Hikaru's mouth, least of all the want that leaves it to settle over Akira's skin like simmering caramel. All Akira can do is clutch at Hikaru's shoulders and murmur,] Fine. [He is eager to indulge what Hikaru wants, but this isn't a deference. The desire feels debilitating, but that doesn't mean he won't put forth a challenge in response even as he fulfills Hikaru's instructions. He leaves Hikaru's grasp only after stoking him further with the most luxurious sort of kiss, the edges of his teeth an oath of fealty against Hikaru's lip.
Ideally, he'd take it slow in undressing the rest of the way, if only for the theatrics of it, making Hikaru wait. He just doesn't have time for that tonight. The best he can do is to pull back the length of his hair, sighing, feeling overheated by its weight; then he drops it, letting it waterfall down his back, overshadowing the dip above his spine. He says,] My suitcase, [off-handed, as if in reverie. Of course he wouldn't have come to the hotel without a bottle of lube (even knowing that Hikaru undoubtedly has one in his own bag as well). His left knee comes to rest against the plush comforter of the bed, followed by the right. He settles, half reclining, resting on one folded leg, the curve of his thigh accommodating his posture, and he looks across the room to fix Hikaru with a low stare, huffing out a breath that stirs his bangs. It's almost reproachful for Hikaru's distance, the offense of Hikaru not already being deeply inside of him. In fact, once Hikaru is finally close enough to drawn in, to take hold of Akira's hips, it becomes clear that Akira had been scowling like an affronted cat, because now his features are smoothing and warming into mollification. He presents his neck and shoulders to Hikaru; then he presents his back and its sturdiness, its arch; he presents the spread of his thighs. He does all this with strong expectancy, wanting these offerings to be praised upon appraisal, wanting to be thanked for his generosity (rather than his desperation).]
Hikaru— [His head is dipped halfway; he's trying in vain to catch his breath, but he's been trying ever since Hikaru came through that connecting doorway. Still, his gaze slips past his own shoulder to find Hikaru, and it's smoldering. He is the hot, deep glow of coals just waiting to be fanned ablaze.] Exactly the way you want, [he says, and it's not another offer: it's a power-hungry mandate.]
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Hikaru almost can't bear the agony of shrugging out of his shirt, or peeling off his dress pants and the underwear beneath them. To cross over into Akira's room, where he absolutely should not be allowed, only serves to turn him on more. Even the air in here feels different somehow--more dangerous, somehow, and more pungent, like a single spark could set it ablaze. He has to bite back a moan when he gingerly crouches down beside Akira's luggage. Neither of them ever go anywhere without lube, of course, to the point that it feels like an extension of himself, no different than his folding fan. He exists in order to play Go with Akira, to be an eternal rival to Akira, and to fuck Akira senseless at every opportunity. Akira isn't any less essential than the air he's trying to breathe. Just one look over at Akira, arranging himself on the bedspread, confirms that much all over again. That pose is both accepting and welcoming, and it's impatient and demanding and full of pleading, and he really could be a naked, song-weaving siren that's lounging on a rocky outcropping at sea. Hikaru has never wanted to crash into him so badly. Man overboard and everything.
He's rougher than he means to be when he first takes Akira's hips in his hands. There is appraisal in how he feels down the length of a long, ever-slender thigh, and his other hand moves up and up to sweep aside the dark curtain of hair. He kisses the back of Akira's neck, which he always likes to do, because it gets so hot and damp right here, all greenhouse effect.] Just when I think... [He laughs quietly, and the only distance between their bodies can be blamed on him uncapping the bottle of lube. He's planning to warm this stuff up between his fingers.] Just when I think I couldn't love you more, you go out of your way to prove me wrong. [As it turns out, Hikaru was the first to say I love you, just like that, and it was in the middle of an otherwise gutting fight caused by a misunderstanding. He was trying to say he cared about Akira too much to go anywhere without him--he wouldn't go off and train in another country, not without him--not a chance. He said the few words he hadn't said before, desperately trying to make his point. "I wouldn't leave you behind because I love you, you fucking moron," he exclaimed, angrier than ever. It's a happy memory, in its own way, for Akira's reaction to that, and Hikaru's reaction to that reaction, and the even more intense fight that followed about why Hikaru hadn't said it sooner if that was the case, and why Akira had never said it in those exact words even though Hikaru couldn't read his mind.
Hikaru's face is now too soft and warm to be reproving, and his liquid tone, also, can't be called an admonishment.] C'mon, Akira, [he says, smooth and heartfelt,] you're not supposed to be looking at me. You're supposed to look in the mirror. Look at yourself. Look at us, together. [And, as soon as Akira complies, he'll be rewarded with the easy, well-practiced glide of Hikaru's fingers up and against the hottest parts of himself. In the mirror, Hikaru has the empyrean focus he does during a title match, getting Akira ready with his usual meticulousness. He's a very thorough lover, not wanting to overlook a single detail in whatever he's doing.]
That's it. [He knows Akira appreciates having something to fill the silence, so he's willing to fill it.] Just like that. Now, if you'll breathe deep for me... [It took him years to catch on to the ways Akira could feel lonely even when they were in the same room. As much as he loves hearing Akira compliment him, he's on as much of a mission to return the favor.] You're doing so well, and you're almost, almost there. But keep looking in the mirror, okay? Just like that...
[Finally, just when he's worried he might come early, he can tell Akira is as relaxed as he's going to get. He takes Akira by the hips again and guides him backward, perfecting them both a little at a time, little by little, until there's no telling where one of them ends and the other begins.] Yes, [he says, all praise, and then he's saying,] just like that, exactly, [and he's all the way in, still trying to push even deeper. He's barely able to squint past his own pleasure at their combined image in the mirror. Sometimes--and now is one of those times--he has to admit that not even Go can make him feel this fucking good. There's no real comparison to having the world's most brilliant and beautiful man giving him everything he wants.] A-ahh, Akira...
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Hikaru is so indulging, kind enough to touch Akira within the very next second. Akira gives his little sound of assent, the dip of his back curving just a bit more in encouraging invitation. The slip of Hikaru's touch is tender, and cautious, but only because he knows exactly what he's doing. There's a deep current of gratification to be found in that, like tapping into a well, like finally striking enough water to keep you alive and thriving. Akira is known to Hikaru; he is familiar; he has been been diligently catalogued. Inspiring Hikaru's fastidious effort always brings Akira to spread his legs. He wants to draw out the enticement.
Maybe that is how, unexpectedly, the sight of himself in the mirror heightens the feel of Hikaru's fingers into something immediately electric. Akira is able to see the shape of his own body below Hikaru's hands; he can see the exact shade of red in his mouth when it falls open. Not bad, right? Akira doesn't make for a bad sight. But better than that is the discovery of what Hikaru sees when he's enthralled. When Hikaru is praising Akira's body, telling him that he feels good to touch or that he's doing so well, this is what he's looking at. This view keeps Hikaru going, deeper in and further along, until there's no future in which Akira will not buckle when he comes. The future is solidified by the press of Hikaru's cock, a history maker in its own way. Akira can only tell him yes, and yes again, that's better, because Hikaru's pleasure sinking into Akira is all that matters about any of this. And Akira watches the winding and unwinding of his own body, the restless squirming beneath Hikaru's advance, and his chin lifts, his face pinches, and his eyelashes flutter like the twinkling of stars. His eyes have rolled back a little, a jerking of his nervous system beyond his control. That happens, sometimes, his eyes rolling back, but not always, and not until later in the game. It only lasts a moment, now, but it's still now, barely at the start of things. The moment peaks with the sort of moan no one ever means to make. Just a pure outpouring, no language to it. As the moment passes, Akira drops his head, hoping to catch his breath. He tries to be obedient, raising at least his eyes back to the face of the mirror. His own flushed face greets him with a glisten.
He reaches behind himself, to find Hikaru's hip. He wants to touch the space of both of them, the line where they press together, the skip from his own flesh to Hikaru's. When he finds it, that groove filled with their joined body heat, he strokes his thumb against where they meet.] Perfect, [he murmurs, as the barest articulation of breath. With that need satisfied, he settles his hand back against the bed, and watches the incremental rock of his body while Hikaru tries to find purchase even deeper.] Now— ohh... [It's a sigh like the roiling of the sea, a man struggling to keep his footing on deck, ship bobbing. He tosses his head and breathes in deep.] Now show me what looks best, when my face is best to you. [His voice is richer than its often brittle strain—husky, still, seeping out from his throat, but richer than stress and higher for it. He doesn't sound dark and heavy and deep with anxiety. His words carry in a brighter way, like a tone emanating from clear glass.] Do what you do to make me look—so I'll make the face you think is... [Abrupt, he sucks in a shuddering breath, lengthy and with an exhilarating, perilous sway. His shoulders lock inward; one of his knees slides outward, widening the space between his thighs; his fingers press hard against the bedding.] Best... [If he can witness what Hikaru favors most, if he can capture it, he will be unstoppable. He can't help but think that.]
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That one, [whispers Hikaru, when he remembers how to use his voice. In the mirror, Akira's mouth is hinged wide, helplessly red, helpless, and there's saliva on his chin. No one else has seen Akira this way: unspooled, and loving it.] That one, right there, that's you at your... ahhh, your best. [But then Hikaru shoves himself forward, or maybe he's pulling Akira back to meet him, as determined as he is to make an impression. His fingernails, though short and blunt, still dig into Akira's vulnerable skin.] Actually-- [And he laughs out loud like he can't do anything but laugh. There's nowhere else for all this tension to go, leaving him strained and breathless.] Actually, I changed--my mind, I'm changing--it--it's that one, that one, right there. [Akira's generosity, the gift-giving of his body, and how it melds into another moan, involuntary, it's all so gorgeous. He's trying to accommodate Hikaru with the angle of his hips, the spread of his thighs, where he's placing his hands. All in all, there's going to be a real ache to his lower back tomorrow, when he's sitting at the goban. Hikaru loves him for it.] Oh, no, maybe it's... that...
[Only Touya Akira could want to be told he's beautiful in such a roundabout manner.]
I can't... I can't decide, not when... [They're all my favorite. If Akira is looking at him, if he can have Akira's gaze fixated on him, then that's exactly the best Akira has ever looked or will ever look. Nearly everything Hikaru does can be distilled down to this one desperate plea: Look at me. The title match has been one long argument about why Akira should never look to anyone else, because Hikaru is here, and he's right now, and he's finally caught up to his eternal rival. He wants to reward Akira's great patience with the most beautiful games he's ever played in his career. Akira should know how hard he's worked for this, too, how many nights he spent in front of a goban with the album of black lacquer and swooping cranes, playing and replaying their games in preparation. He should know. Tomorrow, in the Room of Profound Darkness, Touya Honinbou will probably make a brand-new face when he leans forward and resigns to Hikaru, thereby losing his title. Hikaru hasn't dared to imagine what his face might look like then, if it'll be angry, or sad, or distraught, or even proud that this utter idiot with a ghost story could rise up from irrelevance to challenge him head-on. But Hikaru is pretty sure that face is going to be one of his favorites, too.]
You're mine.
[In seeing his reflection, Hikaru thinks of himself as little more than a sweaty, fumbling mess. There's nothing elegant about the fresh bruises he's leaving on Akira's hips, or the way he makes a fist around Akira's cock, with a hand he wishes he could multiply. His eyes are reckless green fire, consuming everything, and the intent of them is clear: the sooner Akira comes like this, the sooner Hikaru can make him come again, fulfilling his promise. The interplay of dominance and submission is less of a question when they're both just trying to fuck each other senseless.]
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Naturally, by now, Hikaru knows all the best praise to give, all Akira's weakest points, all the best angles. He knows what hands to play to exhilarate Akira past anxiety and into desire. These games, fighting for the Honinbou title, have felt like closure. Nothing is coming to an end—if Hikaru does take the title, tomorrow, if he does it, Akira will simply take it back—but Akira knows Hikaru has been studying. He knows Hikaru has retread all their games together with the greatest determination a man can wield. All this for Akira's efforts, for the effort of catching Akira. All this to prove, thoroughly, that Akira is... It's just like Hikaru says. I know, I am, Akira means to reply, but it comes out like this:] Ahh--aahhh-- [He scrabbles, grasping behind himself, at Hikaru's thigh. Hikaru pushes deep into him, and Akira wants to keep him there, wants to bury Hikaru within himself, where nobody can find him. If he is Hikaru's, let Hikaru find refuge inside of him. You got me, he thinks, and he could almost laugh, too. The huff that stumbles out of his wet mouth is the sort of undiluted joy he's often too strained to display. He really is loving it. Sex with Hikaru makes him smile with a free-form exertion that's rare to see from him otherwise. Even when his mouth is hanging open, the corner of it is peaked into delight. It's exhausting, too, though. Joy takes a lot of energy, and he's trembling, strong as he wants to remain, but...
The front of him dips, heaped upon the bed. His elbow still props against the mattress, leaving one hand standing lax and useless in the air, but his face has dropped to press against the crook of his own arm, near to all the bedding. He's trying to keep one eye uncovered, trained on the mirror, even when his own vision grows careless beneath cataracts of pleasure. Hikaru's hands are strong in his passion; his hips are strong in his passion; his eyes, in their passion, have conquered all surrounding landscape. Just all of it. Akira included. Akira's chin bumps against his bicep every time Hikaru pushes back into him, but there's no drag to it, slick and slicker with saliva as his chin has become. He refuses to completely hide his face against the bedding. Even half collapsed, there's enough of him to see the glaze of his mouth and his eyes, with his eyes fluttering and his mouth attempting speech.] Shindou, [he starts, and his voice is dense, enough steam to make a man drown by gasping.] Hhh... [He does close his eyes. It's a yield he hadn't meant to give. But this, though muffled, asphyxiated, this is how he finishes:] Honinbou. [The finish line lasts for a few moments. Then he's coming over the curve of Hikaru's knuckles, no longer trying to bite back any quality of his voice. He doesn't know if he can make the strength in his knees last any longer.]
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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.]
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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.
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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.]
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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.