but it's hard not to notice his presence when his presence becomes everything.

[protential]

[Somewhere between the fourth and fifth floors, Hikaru has to stop and catch her breath. She doesn't want to stop--she's possessed with the idea that she can't stop until she reaches the very top, and gets out onto the roof proper--but having a very sedentary profession is kind of a problem. More of a problem than she might've thought. Her entire body feels drenched with sweat, and the coursing adrenaline from earlier can't carry her any farther than this. It's actually disgusting, the way her clothing clings to her hips, and her breasts, and it's all smeared down her back, rapidly cooling off. She shivers, groaning into the palm of her hand. If someone else were here in this stairwell, they'd probably think there's a noisy ghost or something haunting the place. A ghost with...

Hikaru's hands are empty, she realizes. That isn't good. Really, if she dropped the fan on the way up here, she'll have to go back down and get it... She'll have to do that. But something stronger, deeper, darker, more like a riptide than a suggestion, is telling her to keep going. She grits her teeth against a fresh wave of despair, then pulls herself up another step, another two steps, three. Anything to get away from where she came from. Standing there at the awards ceremony was one of the most humiliating things she's ever had to do. It was like that nightmare where she shows up for school buck naked, with everyone staring at her, laughing at her, revolted by her, except this was very real and the stakes couldn't have been higher. Her decision to leave the ballroom early felt liberating for all of five seconds before it just felt like she was running away like a coward.

She reaches the landing of the fifth floor before it's too much, too much on her calves, her ankles, and she has to sit down. The wheeze of her breathing becomes its own laughter, quiet and helpless, rising and falling in pitch. If she doesn't hurry up, Touya's going to come find her; Touya's gonna beat the shit out of her. Maybe not physically, but... There is no end. Fine words, very fine words, but Touya's got to be as disappointed as anybody else--even more disappointed, after she allowed Hikaru to take her place as first board. Hikaru didn't play a game anywhere near worthy of Sai, much less the first board position, much less Touya Akira herself. Touya's got to be out for blood right now.

Then: an approach of footsteps, somewhere down below. The granite echo makes them harder to pinpoint, which also makes them more terrifying.] Please, [Hikaru whispers, and she doesn't know what she's praying for, much less who she's praying to when she does it. All of her prayers over the board amounted to nothing, right?

She buries her face in her hands, then. It's the only thing she can think to do.]

Comments

[protential]

[Hikaru tightly squeezes her eyes shut for a few seconds, forcing more tears to swim down her cheeks. This conversation doesn't make any sense, and it's frustrating as all get out for her. It's actually making her paranoid that Touya hasn't yet launched into a tirade about all of her obvious, unforgivable mistakes. It's one thing to be condescended to by their colleagues, treated with that insincerely sweet sympathy, coddled like a baby, only to be slandered once she turns her back... and another for Touya to treat her like she's going to shatter. Maybe she is on the verge of falling apart, but she never expected Touya to handle her with care. Touya's always been particularly harsh with her, and Hikaru knows why that is, even though they haven't really talked about it, just between the two of them. They spent more than four months working together to make their best showing at the Hokuto Cup. In four months of close quarters, you can learn a lot about another person, whether or not you want to learn the first thing. By now, Touya must have learned she's no good at anything.]

You won both of your matches, [Hikaru says, brittle and helpless.] You won every game of the prelims, even, every single one, and you'd still be on your never-before-seen winning streak if not for that Ogata bastard. Kurata-san, he'd give you... he'd have to give you a break, if you went back down there right now. He would do that for you. Not for Touya Meijin's daughter, but for you, yourself, as you are. [Eyes squinting open, Hikaru has the look of faraway helplessness, too, of somebody drowning at sea. She looks like she's getting swept away by the undertow she was stupid enough to swim into.] But if you knew they'd give you shit anyway, then why did you come after me? You didn't have to do that. Nobody asked you to do that. There's no point in making things harder on yourself! Touya, there's no point... [Her voice rises in volume toward the end, before sinking back down to a tightly compressed nothing.

Now she's looking at the fan, and the handkerchief, and Touyas outstretched hand holding both of them. There's a petty little part of her that wants to reject everything on offer, but it's too weak to stop her from reaching out. She takes the fan gingerly by the handle, mindful of her mascara stains, and cradles it against her chest from then on, as protective as a bird with a clutch of eggs. With both hands, she rubs the handkerchief against her face, wiping away a layer of makeup and tears and runny snot. There's no doubt she looks like a fresh hell when she's finished. Messy eyes, clumped up lashes, and there's even a stubborn smear of pink lipstick around her mouth, out of alignment, that she couldn't remove entirely.]

You are ridiculous. You should be yelling at me, not just... not telling me I'm... whatever it is you're telling me. [That she's special, it sounds like. That she's irreplaceable. But she can be special and irreplaceable and still lose catastrophically, which she did, even after working as hard as she did to prepare for this. Touya deserves more from the rival she's chosen. Touya deserves to have the whole world handed to her on a silver platter.]

[ashlar]

[If not for Ogata. Akira's mouth twists ungraciously. The fact is, there is Ogata, and her winning streak did end, and that's what matters to people. Her end is what matters to people. And so, there cannot be one. These ends that people see, Akira has to keep turning them into starts. She has to make everyone work a little bit harder, every time, for the gratification of her losses. She thinks that if there was no point in making things harder for herself, she wouldn't be playing Go at all. Her father did try to warn her, and everything, keeping her sheltered away from amateurs, teaching her first at home and then in the safety of his own salon. But, she thinks wryly, hardheaded bitch wasn't so wrong an epithet, even coming from her classmates.] You're always, always talking about things you don't know. You've always been doing that. [Shindou showed up and said she was going to win titles, like she had no idea what that meant, because she didn't. At the time, Akira felt like she could kill her. Now she's desperate to see it happen.] I came after you because I knew you'd run away. And I knew that, but I didn't know where you'd go. How far, and everything. How far or where, so I had to catch you before you did get too far. [Akira frowns, only because she doesn't know how to make her lips as soft as Shindou's always look. Even like this, you know. Even like this, Shindou looks soft in the way of blooming violets.

Her hand feels empty when Shindou accepts her offering, but it's not like a loss. Emptiness, but a gain. Akira has the insane, embarrassing idea to thank Shindou for not rejecting that, but she settles for resting her chin on top of her knees.] Ridiculous, and an idiot, to boot. That's you. I'm telling you you're Shindou Hikaru. You always have been. You were from the start. [Her face tilts down, and she rests her cheek upon her knees instead. She's looking down the stairwell.] I tried finding out more about you, and everything, because there was no way people wouldn't have noticed someone like you... but it looked like nobody did. I had no idea where you were from. All I had was your name, Shindou, Shindou, [and she says that like she used to in ignorant anxiety when she was by herself, a frantic prayer... it's tremulous out of a tight throat. But she's a little less hoarse after another breath.] I'm telling you, you're... [Her eyes shift back over, and she looks at Shindou's April shower of a face.] Do you want to be Shindou Meijin? Shindou Honinbou? Oza? Which one, first?

[protential]

Touya...

[Hikaru doesn't know what to do or say or think in response to any of this. Last night, Touya looked at her the way a fumigator looks at an infested household, and she said she wouldn't allow for any embarrassing results from the new first board. Well, she couldn't stop Hikaru from embarrassing herself, her team, her profession, her nation, or her entire fucking gender. It makes sense why women have their own leagues, why they're segregated, because every failure isn't individual, not like it is with men. It's systemic. It's everywhere, and it's all wound up in everything. It's the whole kit and fucking caboodle, and that's why it's such bullshit. Touya must be so disappointed, and it's just her fault, you know, all her fault, for compelling Hikaru to try to do this in the first place. It's her fault for being the best player of their generation and believing Hikaru can even come close to her level.

The more Touya says to her, the more this feels like some sort of confession. It isn't a good feeling. Hikaru is starting to taste a bit of that jackrabbit fear, that perverse need to run away, to climb higher, to keep going and going. She can't live up to Touya's expectations, much less the legacy of a dead genius, much less Sai's final wish to play the Divine Move. Being asked which title she wants hooks a laugh out of her lungs, her throat, all steel edge that hurts so much. Women have their own leagues, right, of course they do, which Hikaru didn't know about when she mouthed off in front of Touya as a half-wit of an eleven-year-old. But Touya isn't talking about the women-only leagues right at this moment.

Hikaru laughs again, a bitter buckling of her throat, before she says,] I was still an insei when I decided I would be taking Honinbou first. [And she knows that's only going to invite more questions about Shuusaku, and what Shuusaku means to her, and what she's hiding in her opaque past. Wearily, she pats Touya's handkerchief against her mouth one more time, then brings it back down.] Not that I'd be upset to land any of the others, but if I got to choose, it'd have to be... yeah, it's going to be Honinbou. Shindou Honinbou. I've already picked out what name I'll have as Honorary Honinbou, too.

[Why are they even talking about this? It's like two little girls discussing the people they want to marry someday--the stuff of dreams that's meant for childish whispers behind hands and the giggling to match. Maybe Touya's doing this to try to say something about why they're even doing this at all. There is no end, there's no end to it, but there are destinations along the way, important ones, life-changing and everything. There's an overgrown landscape they're both looking to bulldoze and rebuild in their own image.

Like a receding wave, Hikaru's desire to run disappears into exhaustion, then whatever's lower and sadder than exhaustion itself. She's too fucking tired to do anything. Mostly, she wants to crawl back to her room and sleep for the rest of the day, forgoing all niceties. She wouldn't really mind if Touya wanted to join her, either.] --Meijin? For you, I mean... [She looks over at Touya, then looks away.] I'm guessing that's the one you want. [It's the most prestigious title, after all, in the modern consciousness and context.] That's probably my second or third choice, so I'd let you have it for a while before I come and take it from you. [This is the hot shit she's known for, the haughtiness, the audacity--but there's no heat to back her up now. Her smirk is grim and ashen, and it's a little too self-aware.]

[ashlar]

[Early on, Akira realized she'd need to perfect a specific sort of smile, no teeth, but rising into her cheek, a softening of her chin: grateful. Like she is honored to stand wherever she is standing. She was honored, for a long time, but now she's just impatient. Now, at podiums, she tilts her chin and inclines her head to highlight the curve of her cheek, but she thinks about telling them that she deserves to be here. She dreams about it. She fantasizes about it. In her fantasies, they can see her teeth and they fear them. All of a sudden, Akira smiles. She lets Shindou see her teeth, and not bared in anger. It's like telling a secret so secret that nobody even knew it's been hidden: she can smile like any teenage girl. Maybe she could even whisper behind her hands, while she's here sharing her dreams and all.

Then, just as sudden, she turns her face away. From this angle, the nape of her neck makes her look a little sad. Maybe that's like any teenage girl, too. Her hair is pinned up, and her collar is stiff and stark, but the back of her neck can sweat and have a melancholy curve. She really is fifteen. She speaks in the other direction:] So that's what you've been thinking about all along. [She's reassured, in a way, because Shindou is Shindou, and that hasn't changed. But that doesn't mean she isn't also jealous, and it doesn't mean she isn't frustrated. If she'd had a name a hundred years ago, would Shindou think about it?

She does turn back in time to see Shindou look away from her. It makes something in her guts go a little spastic.] Second or third? I see. [It's like this helps her reach a decision. Akira's eyes fall from Shindou's face to the fan held close to her chest, and she is envious of its position, its nestle near to Shindou's heart. Once that gets to be too much, she just presses her whole face against her knees. Her shoulders heave as she takes one great breath, before she sighs it out. Then she stands up, an abrupt and tactless rise, a grim skyscraper of a girl.] I'll make you come, [she announces, and it's a brutal promise. It's a promise.] You're going to come for me. I came after you, today, and you're not going to embarrass me by denying me the same in return. If you don't, I'll come instead, and I'll take Honinbou. [She isn't clenching her fists. Sometimes, Touya Akira coils so tightly that she seems liable to spring into destruction, the ridge her knuckles primed for vengeance. But, right now, her fingers are barely even curled. On the second step of the fifth floor landing, she stands in her shiny loafers, taller and more bleakly alluring than all the trees in Aokigahara. All her chasing has left her tight bun askew, with strands of too-straight hair come loose in places. She says,] Are you finished crying? [But her voice is the sheathing of a knife—protective.] Or do you need more time?

[protential]

[The sight of Touya's smile--unreserved, unrefined--is something else Hikaru doesn't know what to do with. They're having a moment, she's pretty sure, like something out of a manga, where two characters have been at odds forever but that doesn't mean they can't find common cause. Hikaru might be cradling the fan against her chest, letting it nestle near to her heart, but she's using Touya's handkerchief to wipe at her mouth and her eyes again. She presses the dark fabric to her cheek like it's the curve of Touya's own palm, and it's an undeniable kindness, in the end. Touya is being kind to her even when they both know her capacity for cruelty is boundless. Yeah, Touya has to keep her claws curled under for safety's sake, around other people, but Hikaru has felt the deep slice of her more than once before. It'd be easier, she thinks, if Touya came out and said she was worthless: not worth the time of day, not worth the energy to chase after, not worth any ultimatums or challenges or toothy, beautiful smiles. It'd be easier if Touya allowed Shindou Hikaru to fade into obscurity, into the boring footnotes of history, instead of demanding that she pick herself back up. But Touya isn't giving her the chance to get away from all of this just yet.

Hikaru shudders into a low sigh, keeping her head turned away. She's wondering where she can possibly find the strength to stand. When Touya stands up, she makes it look like it's her birthright, like she was born specifically to tower over everyone else and remind them of their place in the dirt. Hikaru actually has trouble looking up at her, even from an angle, maybe because of the fluorescent lighting above them or maybe because of Touya's own intense stare. Touya could be shining right now. Touya could be the sun in the sky. The impulse is there for Hikaru to shield her eyes, but she keeps both hands knotted up in Touya's soft handkerchief.]

You... [Get your own damn dream, she wants to snap, feeling a little bruised by the promise and what it threatens. She doesn't doubt Touya's brutality where this kind of thing is concerned. If Hikaru lags too far behind, Touya isn't going to stop and wait for her to catch up. She'll claim the title Hikaru has coveted for years and years, and she'll hold onto it, out of purest spite. Hikaru doesn't know how it's possible for one person to be that spiteful. It must be hard to live like that. She mutters,] If this is your idea of encouragement, it could really use some work, Touya. You moron. You complete idiot. [And she takes a second or two to scrub at her eyes with the handkerchief one final time. It's her way of fighting off the possibility of more tears, trying to bully them into submission. Her shoulders do hitch upward, and there's a soft sound from her throat, too, softer than a hiccup, but for the most part she's getting closer to steadiness inside herself. Touya's challenge is something tangible to focus on, to orient herself around, like a landmark in the distance...

She doesn't realize she's smiling (of all things, she's smiling) until she already is. Even so:]

I don't want to go back to the awards ceremony. I don't think I'm up for a post-game discussion, either, so...

[ashlar]

[That might not be precisely what Akira was demanding to hear, but the line of her chin is approving regardless. She'll accept it. That doesn't keep her from glaring, though, the familiar narrowing of her eyes. She remembers feeling blown back the first time Shindou ever called her an idiot. Hearing it still eats at her and maybe it always will, but she's glad, regardless, that she never did strangle Shindou on any of those appalled or outraged occasions she thought about doing it. More of them will arise, she's sure, but she thinks she can keep from doing it then, too. Once she gets her handkerchief back, she'll use it to remind herself not to strangle Shindou.] I encourage you to keep an eye out for me. [She says it like a dry retort, even when her next words are half an oath of fealty.] I'm going to be right there with you. [They're also half a threat.] If you lose sight of me, it's going to be a mistake. [It would hurt Akira so wildly. She has to make sure Shindou would feel the loss, too.

But Akira is an idiot, you know, because one curve of Shindou's lips, and Akira wishes only to keep her from harm, even at her own expense. That smile, filtered past the tide of tears, makes Shindou look like she's stumbling toward Akira, out of a storm. Akira wants to be stumbled toward. She wants to catch Shindou in her arms and pull her inside, into shelter. The result of this want is an indelicate stare, and Akira realizes it. She tries to be quick about turning her head away, and she tries not to think about her own sharp intake of breath. There's something stubborn about the seconds she spends not watching Shindou. It takes away from her height; she casts a smaller shadow. She's even less of a monolith when she bends down to hook her fingers into the heels of both of Shindou's stylish shoes, picking them up. And when she straightens, and finally holds out her hand, it's with the relief of eating aspirin, like a kindness done unto herself. She isn't stooping down to reach for Shindou, but her hand is open, far from clawing.] Of course we're not going back. Come on. I can take you to your room. [Down. Wind down. Akira feels like she can't allow Shindou to climb up another floor. If she's allowed it, she'll lead Shindou down step by step. She'll deliver Shindou to her hotel room with real safety. She can't trust anyone else to do that, after all.]

[protential]

[Finally, Hikaru knows what she wants to say in response. It's important. It's there in the tremble of her lips, the curling of her tongue--it tastes sour, and sharp, like she's biting directly into a lemon. Looking up at Touya, she's never wanted to say it more than she does right now: You wouldn't have noticed me if not for Sai. Touya doesn't know that she's swearing fealty to stolen valor and a pathological liar. She doesn't know the first thing about it. All of her fine feelings would evaporate as soon as she found out...] You make it sound like we're about to swear a blood oath or something, [Hikaru says quietly.] Like you're gonna prick our fingers and get us all mixed up in each other. [She tilts her head to a rueful degree, but somehow she's still smiling--even with that horrible flavor in her mouth. She's too much of a coward to tell Touya the truth.] You're pretty lucky I'm not all that squeamish, you know.

[Regardless, she isn't expecting Touya to bend down and scoop up her shoes like that, but that's what she's doing, and then there's a splash of warmth across Hikaru's cheeks. It's princely, that's what it is, for Touya to do something like that. It's chivalrous and stuff. Now she's staring right at Touya, and Touya isn't even looking back at her, not anymore. Then Touya does look at her, and she offers her hand, too, which couldn't be more inviting, in spite of everything. Hikaru folds her fingers around Touya's before she can think twice about it. She finds the strength to stand up again--with a little bit of Touya's help, admittedly. In her other hand, she clutches the fan and the handkerchief, protective of them both.]

My room. Yeah. All right, then... [Without high heels, Hikaru really notices how much taller Touya is when they're standing together. It's annoying before it's humbling, but it's likewise a touch alluring, to think of where her head would fit if Touya wanted to hold her. They take the steps down one at a time, all the way down to the landing of the third floor--and they're still holding hands. Hikaru doesn't have time to wonder about that when Touya fearlessly opens the door to the third floor hallway, and Hikaru almost digs her heels in--almost--in a moment of intense dread. But when she enters the hallway, too, she looks back and forth, on high alert, and she finds... nothing. No reporters, no cameras, no Kurata-san with steam coming out of his ears, no officials from the Nihon Ki-in with a lecture on unsporting behavior--just an ugly red carpet and the scent of cleaning fluid. Nobody's here. Hikaru allows herself to be led down the hall, all the way to her room, to Touya's room, since they're located side by side.

She looks over at Touya. They're still holding hands.

Again, that sour taste in her mouth...]

Do you want to come in?

[Hikaru seems closer to defiance when she asks that, like she's daring Touya to reject her, even though she wouldn't blame Touya for being sick of her by now. (Last night, Hikaru kept straining her ears, hoping to catch any and every sound from Touya's room. Footsteps, maybe, or a cough, or just some evidence that Touya still existed.) (Hikaru can't stand it when things get too quiet and still, and she's reminded of how alone she is.) (She can't fucking stand it.)]

[ashlar]

[At an angle of regret, the curve of Shindou's cheek reminds Akira of a peach: easily bruised, with a softness not to be wasted. Akira wishes it were curving against her hand. She wishes she could find out how tangible Shindou's smile might be. She thinks she might be wishing, now, that she could prick their fingers, that they could get all mixed up in each other. How's that for tangibility. But it's been some time since Touya Akira has been more than a concept, a collection of aspirations. So instead, she tells Shindou,] I don't need blood to swear by. [She talks like a suffocating velvet.] As long as you can look at me without being squeamish, I can swear by standing right here. [It's got the potential to smother someone, and the potential to draw out some sweat. She'll swear by her own body, all the blood inside, so she can show Shindou how sturdy she is. She'll pull Shindou upright, the weight of her a satisfying thing, and the presence of her body also allows for the meeting of their eyes. This much is worthy of composing an oath.

They walk down to the third floor, down to Shindou's room. The walk isn't so frantic, this time, no slippery chafe from running in her loafers, no bloated heart sabotaging her gait. Instead, unrelenting, she takes her time in chaperoning Shindou down through every stairwell. Her strides are even, consistent, and hopefully comforting in that, even though there's a secret strain to her thighs that makes her legs feel shaky. That's the downside to tangibility, she supposes, but hopefully she can hide that much. She leads Shindou into the third floor hallway. There aren't any reporters here, but Akira still wants to carry herself in a way that shows Shindou she would have run off anyone who might have come. She wants Shindou to look at the tilt of her chin and know that she would have eaten any of them with hard teeth.

But she loses the bulk of her enamel, once they reach Shindou's door. She passes her own room easily, ready to cling to Shindou's door frame, neglecting her own; but at least there's refuge to be taken in the curl of Shindou's hand. She knows it's shameful in the instant she feels it, because Shindou is the one requiring refuge, and Akira is the one who gives it. But she finds it here regardless: in Shindou's hand, damp and strong and soft, its nearness allowing for the matching of their strides, its willingness to let Akira hold it. Akira doesn't want to be rid of it. She doesn't want Shindou's door frame to be all that's left to cling to.

Shindou's dare would be the sort to make Akira blush, if Akira allowed herself to do that kind of thing. Anxiously, she wonders if she's blushing anyway; it's already too late to keep herself from sucking in half a breath through parted lips. She does want to come in, and it's got to be showing on her face. But it's hard to admit this. It's hard to confess to it. It's too hard to confess. So she says it like this:] May I? [And she is quiet, and she is worried, and she is hopeful. All that is clear in her own hand and its refusal to yield: as pliant as her fingers have been in cradling Shindou's, they're just as much as amber, holding fast and forever. She doesn't feel willing to release Shindou into her room and away into an abstract fate. If she did that, she might not catch Shindou again. It would simply be bad strategy, to let her go.]

[protential]

[Velvet can be suffocating, and it has the potential to draw out some sweat, but it's also very soft, just the softest thing around for miles and miles. The quality of Touya's voice, the heat and the texture of it, is something Hikaru so wants to wrap herself up in. It's like being swaddled in layers--and Hikaru has always preferred being hot to being cold--to have Touya making all these declarations and demands in her direction. It's like she wants to start crying all over again as she absorbs every word. If she did cry, maybe Touya would take it upon herself to wipe her tears away, instead of leaving it to the handkerchief. Maybe Touya would scold her for being so distraught over a single game, but it'd feel really good to know Touya doesn't want her to cry. Standing outside the door to her hotel room, Hikaru has to use the inside of her wrist to rub at her eyes, just in case, just in case. She has to stiffen her throat and pay very close attention to how she's speaking, so there's not so much a sad, saddening quaver to her voice.] Yeah, [she says.] You might as well. [And she says it like it's no big deal, like her heart isn't clenching inside her chest, like her mouth isn't the vague and unfulfilled shape of wanting something she doesn't deserve. She's too stupid to be Touya's rival, much less her friend, much less anything more than that. She's the moron here. The complete idiot. Always, always talking about things she doesn't know...

After some one-handed juggling with the fan and handkerchief, Hikaru retrieves a key card from the inner breast pocket of her blazer. Then she's unlocking the door, leading them both inside, and her room doesn't look any different from anybody else's, really. The bed is neatly made--it's neat to the point of being sterile, as if Hikaru didn't sleep in it last night. (She couldn't sleep. She was afraid to fall asleep.) Her backpack is sitting up near the headboard, braced by the pillows. There's a yellow binder positioned beside it, too, already open, revealing a wealth of kifu--Hikaru wants to throw it out the window. She intended to win her game against Korea and come up here to record it, religious in her fervor, but now... The door clicks shut and she exhales shakily, now that they're alone for real. It's gloomy in here. The curtains are mostly drawn, but the sun is bright enough to stain the room and then its occupants a sort of ruddy color. It reminds Hikaru of an old photograph, all washed out and sepia. She feels washed out herself. Like ever since Sai left her behind, all the color in the world has been steadily draining away.]

What if... [She should go and wash the makeup off of her face, but the prospect of letting go of Touya's hand, or stepping out of her line of sight, is an unbearable one, now. How frustrating. Less than ten minutes ago, all she wanted was to run away, as far and as fast as she could...] What if we just lay down for a little bit, and no one would come and bother us, and we could stay like that for a bit. Just a little bit. Just long enough to... [Long enough for today to stop being the fifth of May.] Tomorrow, I'm going to have to deal with it, but right now... I don't want to think about it, Touya. Today was--ahh, a really bad day, to begin with, and then... [Belatedly, Hikaru realizes she's saying a bunch of stuff that probably doesn't matter and Touya always hates it when she says useless stuff like this. Her jaw clenches, then relaxes, and the same thing happens to the muscles of her neck, flexing painfully. Then her head's all weak and falling forward, falling into Touya's shoulder, forehead to well-ironed fabric. It's the only thing keeping her from falling all the way down to the ground.] I don't think I've ever been this tired, [she confesses, then.]

[ashlar]

[Vagueness isn't good enough. It feels at least as unfulfilling as it looks. Akira bites her bottom lip, and then she tells herself not to do that, not to let it play across her face in such a pinch of flesh. She inhales through her nose, slow and deep enough to make her kind of dizzy, vision edging into white just so. It's so common a side effect of stress that she doesn't really register it; she just flutters her eyelashes through the head rush, and squeezes Shindou's hand before she means to. The vague shape of Shindou's mouth isn't good enough for Akira to admit all she has behind her teeth, lying in wait behind the way her teeth press into her lip. If Shindou's mouth held a curve Akira could identify, maybe...

Their hands have fit together in such a way as to be perfect. Akira realized that a while ago. She has felt the ridges of Shindou's knuckles and the sturdiness of her palm. This is what it should be like, to hold somebody's hand. When she shifts out of their shared grasp, it's only so she can rearrange herself and actually clasp their fingers together. Well, she thinks, what do you know. There's quiet but such heavy marvel to the way she squeezes into that interlocking of their fingers. Shindou said, You might as well, but that's not good enough. Surely she can tell, now, just as well as Akira can tell, that the two of them are meant for utter alignment. This is what it should be like, to hold somebody's hand: the shapes of their fingers mingling, overlapping one another, angles all changing but none of them vague. Akira takes another breath. If the room is spinning, a tilt-a-whirl through thick syrup, she'll blame it on all the failings of oxygen.

She bends her knees, then, to lean down, to set down Shindou's pretty heels onto the floor, and then she straightens up again. When she hesitates, she makes sure not to stay still: she's continuously grasping Shindou's hand as if winding deep like tree roots, like weeds. They're only hand to hand, just inches' worth of skin for each of them, but Akira isn't seeking minimalism. Little bits aren't something Akira typically approves of—not little bits of good, not little bits of bad. It's all or nothing and more than that: if she cannot excessively succeed, she will collect her quota of excess in failures. If they were to lie down together—Akira's breast is clenched tight with panic and some other things—what would it mean, a little bit?

She toes off her own shoes.

The most frightening part of Shindou's face, of seeing it like this, is its familiarity. It could have looked just the same under fluorescent lights, awful in their strength and clarity. It could have carried with it a tranquilizing chill, a smell just like the snapping sound of latex gloves. Akira remembers her father lying in his hospital bed, looking thin, looking unnaturally thin, looking thin in the way one looks through the exhaustion of nearly dying. His head was against his pillow and he rolled it so his face turned away from his daughter. The curve of it was poor and sallow. Akira hadn't given her father a kiss or gotten a kiss from him since she was very, very small, but that day in the hospital, she made him let her touch his forehead, his temple...

Shindou's head feels really heavy against her. Unexpectedly heavy. Holding her is another exercise in refusing to buckle. But Akira does refuse, and she does hold Shindou, and in doing so, she realizes Shindou isn't truly all that heavy. It's the affection and the worry together inside Akira that cling like greedy weights. It's an act of measurement, when she sets her lips to Shindou's hair. She isn't—she isn't kissing Shindou, you know, it isn't that. Her mouth is just there; Shindou's soft, sweet hair is just there. She wants to see how much weight Shindou is carrying. Her hand guides up, and she touches the side of Shindou's neck, its tension, a migraine in the making. She smooths her thumb along a line of muscle.] Don't do that. [She's stern and she's soft. Her hand moves around to the back of Shindou's neck, beneath her hair, against her hairline. There's a lot of heat back there.] Look. You're going to make yourself start crying again. You have to stop doing that, or... [And she's so inappropriately right, isn't she, always having to tell a person what's what... Her tongue stalls, and she has respect enough to blush in her own shame, even unseen.] It'll hurt you, [she tries to explain, her voice just a bit of a creak. She doesn't want that. She wants Shindou to know she doesn't want that.

Tomorrow, they're going to have to deal with it. Tonight, Akira wants desperately to keep the headache at bay. She touches carefully behind Shindou's ear.] We could stay like that for a bit, [she says, just as carefully. The enunciation of her tongue is delicate and self-conscious.] Until you're not so tired. I could do that for you, [lying down, lying in bed, just a little bit—she bites the inside of her cheek, and tries:] with you.

[It shouldn't feel like she's baring herself, to lead Shindou, by the hand, to the edge of the sterile bed.]

[protential]

[This is the closest they have ever been, ever, and Hikaru doesn't know why she isn't satisfied with it. She doesn't know why she can't be satisfied with everything Touya has already given her. Having Touya's fingers interwoven with her own--that should be more than enough to satiate her, this chance to hold hands with the smartest, most talented person in the whole world. She shouldn't ask for more than this after how badly she fucked up in the tournament. And Touya has these beautiful hands, you know, that look like they were carved out of marble, like they're going to be cold and hard and unyielding, but it turns out they're anything but. Just the brush of fingers at Hikaru's neck draws the softest half-gasp out of her throat in response. She sounds like she's being tickled in slow motion, and her body seems to shift fully with the possibility, flinching away and then back in. She squirms. (She wants more of it.) It's already starting to hurt her head to think of Touya being willing to touch her like this. Touya's fingers, so carefully crafted, would be made better with fine silks and irreplaceable jewelry. There's nothing to be gained from stroking a bottom-feeder like Shindou Hikaru.]

You don't have to, [Hikaru mumbles.

But this really is the closest they've ever been to each other. They've sat on the same side of the board, studying kifu, and they've grazed fingertips while exchanging captured stones, and one time Hikaru picked a stray leaf out of Touya's hair when it got caught on a windy autumn day... but this is something completely different. There's little else to focus on beyond what Touya is doing to her, and why Touya shouldn't have to do it, and how much Hikaru doesn't deserve to have it done in the first place.]

You've done so much already, so it's not like you have to... You don't have to do anything for me, or with me... [She might be cringing against Touya's shoulder, ashamed of herself, of her wants and her needs. Even so, she doesn't stop Touya from leading her over to the edge of the bed, and she doesn't stop herself from dropping the fan and Touya's handkerchief onto the bedspread. Strangely, she feels as though she's stuck on autopilot, like she can't choose what's she's going to do next. She starting to feel disconnected from her own fucking body, except for the places Touya is touching and keeping anchored to reality.

She looks up at Touya, bleary-eyed, and now she has no idea what might be showing on her face, in the shape of her mouth, whatever. She's tired, yeah. She's exhausted. She wants to sleep for a little bit. But even though she's telling Touya she doesn't have to, at all, the tenacity of her fingers and the dark quality of her eyes suggest otherwise. Her heart likely wouldn't forgive Touya for leaving her alone right now. Even though Touya should be screaming at her, and telling her to find a new rival, she wouldn't be able to forgive it... The comforter is only the first blanket on a typical hotel bed, but she doesn't need to peel back any more than that. She's the first to climb under it, too, with Touya following after her, and it's neither too warm nor too cold an arrangement. They're still holding hands, which would be kind of awkward if Hikaru didn't insist on having it just as much. This is like what a couple of chaste lovers would do, just lying in bed side by side, just holding hands. Just resisting every temptation to explore. But Hikaru still isn't satisfied with any of it: Touya barely has a chance to get settled in before Hikaru's turning onto her side, facing Touya, ruddy and withdrawn in the room's dim light. Then she's tilting over that much more, nestling in and against Touya properly, a fledgling in hiding from harsh, bitter winds.

Then she says,] I'm sorry I lost that game, [and her voice is rough, and it's raw, like she could start crying again if she gave in. She isn't saying she's sorry because she feels bad about it--which she does--or because she let down her team--which she did--but because she took away an important game from Touya herself. She owes Touya a personal apology for every last moku that went wrong, and that's what this is, that's what she's saying, one painful syllable at a time.]