and i hate it, and i love it, and i want it to go away, and i want it to stay forever.

[protential]

[It looks like Akira didn't even try to get under the covers, this time. He went straight into Hikaru's bedroom, where he paused only to shed his formal suit, search through Hikaru's closet for comfier, more casual replacements, and then collapse onto Hikaru's bed in a heap. Not even a breath later, he's completely dead to the world: all fifteen years of him, slightly curled inward, nose to pillow, unwieldy and stubborn. Hikaru sighs. Following after Akira, he also pauses to grab the light blue afghan he has sitting at the end of the bed. He unfolds it, and he tugs it up and over Akira's prone form until he's got him covered from the neck down. Like this, Akira's dark hair looks more like a splotch of ink on a watercolor of a bright, cloudless sky. A disruption. A bad omen, maybe. Like thunderheads or something.

Hikaru takes out his phone and sends an apologetic text to Waya. The fun evening in they were both planning, with pizza and movies and other trappings of adulthood, is going to have to wait. something important came up, he writes, wisely not mentioning the high schooler who's taken up refuge in his bed. sorry for the short notice. Then he goes around and picks up Akira's jacket, and his turtleneck, and his dress pants, and the one sock he managed to pull off en route to the bed. If Akira would just get more sleep at night, like before the start of his day, then he wouldn't have to do this kind of thing so often. He wouldn't have to look like he does now: the ink splotch, the disruption, the bad omen, the Go prodigy who's painfully sleep-deprived. Just looking at him is on this side of exhausting. Hikaru is twenty-four years old, a three-time title holder, in the prime of his competitive career--and he's having to babysit this one particular student of his yet again.

Well.

Maybe it's his fault for not setting any boundaries in the first place.]

You are so...

[He drags his fingers down his face, and he sighs, heavier this time, before he eases himself into bed beside Akira. It really is his fault for not setting any boundaries at all, given how he's getting under the afghan with Akira, too, like he would during a sleepover, when they were both much younger. It doesn't feel right to leave Akira alone when he looks so worn-out and vulnerable, which has to be ridiculous, just ridiculous, but that's just how it feels. Hikaru curses himself even as he tucks the blanket more securely around Akira's chin, and he curses himself further when Akira, as if on instinct, shifts in closer to him.]

You're a real nuisance, you know that, [he murmurs quietly, wearily, closing his eyes. He doesn't expect to fall asleep arranged like this, and then that's what happens, because he's just as guilty of working too hard and too long into the night in front of the goban.]

Comments

[ashlar]

[Akira wakes as though it's June. He could be thick in a forest, one dense and damp and trapping heat. It smells amazing. Better than fresh foliage, this swelter bears down on Akira in a way that makes it hard to breathe, but the scent is one Akira wants to take in slowly. The side of his face is pressed into Hikaru's pillow—the side of his mouth—and he breathes in deeply through his mouth as if he can swallow all this comfort. Eating it up, mouthfuls of affection, safety bite by bite. In the humidity, so like summer, Akira feels like he could start spewing fireflies. Like Hikaru's scent could bring all that sparkling out of him. If he sighs, it might start to glow.

But the room stays dim, when he does sigh. The blinds spell twilight, a bare blue light between the slats, more like a murmur than Akira's heart. There's the red-lit face of Hikaru's clock, too, which lets Akira know he slept longer than he meant to. It's almost properly night, by now, and he'd meant to spend a while pinning Hikaru to the couch by curling up against his side. He didn't want to miss out on that by sleeping as much as he did.

Oh, well. Maybe he should just stay the night, in that case.

Once he's decided that, he sinks a little bit, softer and gentler into Hikaru's bed. It's relaxing. Picturing himself here with Hikaru for hours and hours more is such a relief that Akira could nearly go back to sleep. He watches Hikaru for a while, instead. He's quiet and studious in the way he is when he watches Hikaru play a game. His eyes are full of that same lustrous appraisal. Unseen, he glints in the low light of Hikaru's bedroom, taking stock of all that Hikaru is: warm, and tired, and his. Akira watches him a little more, and then he shifts their knees together. He tucks his head up beneath Hikaru's chin, which requires him to make himself smaller than he is—it feels like the right thing. Like the necessary thing. And he clutches at the side of Hikaru's shirt with one hand.] Hikaru, [he says, at a normal volume, like he's beginning the sort of conversation they'd have any other time.] Hikaru. Hikaru, I'm hungry. [This isn't the whine of a child, breathless and hopeful, the sort of thing he'd say with a chime to his voice when he was little. It's a command. It's the way he talks to a three-time title holder who's played a hand he disapproves of. Akira isn't rude—this is Hikaru. Akira can say anything to him. He can say Hikaru laid down a stupid sequence, and he can say Hikaru is the most brilliant adult in the room, and he can say,] Come on. It's time for dinner. Hikaru.

[protential]

[Unlike Akira, the heaviest sleeper in the world, it doesn't take all that much to lure Hikaru out of his dreams. He's awake as soon as Akira says his name, with the flinch of his brow, the slight parting of his lips, but he isn't in any rush to do anything about it. The bed is warm, and it's comfortable, even when he has Akira squirming against to him. It does feel like summer, like a summer from a long time ago, when they'd both go chasing after fireflies in the backyard. Akira always made sure the glass jars they used to catch the fireflies had enough holes in the lid. So they'd be able to breathe, of course. Akira was just a gentle boy, just conscientious in that way, back then, a long time ago...] Mmm, [Hikaru says, acknowledging the command, because Akira isn't so gentle when he feels like he's being ignored.] Hmm... [He opens one eye and then lifts his head up, blearily checking the red-lit face of his clock. Yeah, so much for his original plans. Didn't mean to fall asleep, and now he's slept in way later than he would've wanted to... It's too late to do anything about it. His chin tilts back down, nestling into Akira's hair, and then one of his arms shifts in, crossing over, bracing the small of Akira's back. That's another acknowledgment, and the slow, easygoing pressure of his embrace is closer to a calm down, and to comfort.

Somehow... He stifles a yawn, swallowing it up. At some point, too... And he opens both of his eyes, still not especially alert. His bedroom is covered in that texture of twilight where things don't seem as real anymore, where they're a little too fuzzy at the edges, too indistinct. Somehow, he thinks, watching the blinds, and at some point, something as simple as a hug started to change shape. The two of them started fitting together in ways they didn't used to before. It's his fault for not setting any boundaries at all. It's his own fault for prioritizing Akira as much as he did and he still does. Instead of facing all of this, he's tempted to just go back asleep already.

But Akira isn't going to allow that to happen, huh. Hikaru mumbles,] I was just gonna order a pizza, actually... [It's getting too late for much else, and he's never been all that great in the kitchen, unsurprisingly. Akira has learned a thing or two about cooking for himself, and for Hikaru's benefit, but Hikaru never expects anything like that from him. Hikaru doesn't want to expect domestic bliss from Akira, because they shouldn't be doing this sort of thing in the first place.]

[ashlar]

[Hikaru mumbles. Hikaru's throat gives physicality to the sound of him. Akira can feel his voice spreading over his scalp, into his head, sinking into the basest parts of him. It vibrates in a way that asks to be felt, like tight strings and their promise of music. Like that, Akira wants to touch the side of Hikaru's neck, and have him speak some more. More than that, he wants to press his face there, nose to dip, mouth to Adam's apple, while Hikaru talks to him. When he thinks about this, his one hand holds more tightly to Hikaru's shirt, in a preemptive fear of being pried away. He lies against Hikaru, and he's quiet for a moment, the thoughtful sort of quiet, his eyes open through the twilight and watching nothing in particular. Hikaru's chest rises and falls, and it helps create the cradle of him, along with the curl of his arm. If Akira chose to stay right here, he could do that. He could get away with it for a while...

But Akira slowly loosens his grasp on Hikaru's clothes, and then, with weighted effort, drags his hand across Hikaru's abdomen and back instead to himself.] Ugh, [he says, and then he pushes himself up out of his comfortable curl. He climbs across and over Hikaru's body with the ease of a lover: familiar, at home, and aggressively comfortable with all the shape and breadth of him. He has no qualms about crossing Hikaru to get to the edge of the bed, and he isn't clumsy when he does it. He's not clumsy when he stands, either, not even through the head rush, a quick wash of white. Something about prolonged exertion, but it isn't important.] You eat too much pizza. It's not good for you. [When he looks down upon Hikaru, Hikaru in bed, Akira thinks he could have been kind enough to let Hikaru keep sleeping. But then they would have had even less time to spend together, so it's worth it now for them both to get up. Even while Akira's face and voice hold disapproval, he's saturated with an immeasurable fondness. He's fond enough to pull back his hair so it can't fall around his face, and then to hold it with one hand while he opens one of Hikaru's bedside drawers, looking for an elastic hair tie he could have left here some other night.

He finds one after not too long. It just takes a little fishing. Then he ties it into his hair, takes in a deep, deep breath, and scrubs at his face. Wakefulness is a total joke.] I need you to come make tea. And start your rice cooker. [The room is quiet in such a thick way, and the night promises all the best qualities of cotton, and it would be easy for Akira to climb right back into where he was. Hikaru's warmth is the best sort of bait. And that's exactly why Akira, squinting through his grogginess, spins on his heel and out of Hikaru's bedroom. The reality of having had breakfast at 6 in the morning is hitting him too hard.

The apron in Hikaru's kitchen doesn't get much attention. Akira used it about two weeks ago, and he won't be surprised if it hasn't been touched since then. He ties it at his own waist now with less docility than he's ever seen his mother tighten hers. She seems to have had it very easy. She never waited long to be a bride...

Once Hikaru reaches the kitchen, Akira is already making domineering work out of the mushrooms he pulled out of Hikaru's fridge. He chops them with quick hands, harsh hands, hands that must hurt for all their tension. Off to the side, the counter top holds a mishmash of things: bonito flakes, rice crackers, pickled plums and ginger both... he just rifled around in Hikaru's cupboards until moderately satisfied. Between this and the tea and the rice he's demanding, he must be making ochazuke. It's a simple thing, but he's determined to make Hikaru warm now that he's drawn him out of bed. The sight of Akira belongs to the morning, with his mussed hair, pajamas, and his sleep-narrowed eyes, but here he is on what should be a school night. Well, that's obviously not going to happen. He can sacrifice another day to absence if it means being allowed to stay over at Hikaru's.

In his bleariness, he sniffs a little, maybe to try to jump start his brain...] And could you heat up a pan, please. And get two eggs for me. [He pauses his chopping, then starts it again, and without looking up, asks,] Do you have any wine on hand?

[protential]

[With Akira right on top of him, Hikaru has to hold his breath. He has to close his eyes, first, and then he has to hold his breath, and he focuses on something other than the bold, unmistakable motion of a body against his. It's the sort of thing he wants to accuse Akira of doing on purpose, even though he knows the accusation wouldn't get him anywhere good. He exhales again as soon as Akira has moved to the edge of the bed, where Akira lingers over him, passing judgment. Such is the way of things.] Yeah, maybe, [Hikaru replies, now looking up at Akira. He doesn't want to bask in the harsh yet fond attention, but that might be what he's doing when he stretches both of his arms above his head. (Of course, he regrets it moments later, when his shoulders and his lower back crackle-crack in protest.)] But it's convenient, you know? If it's convenient, then I don't have to worry about it... [Honestly, in all honesty, Akira is right about his shitty eating habits, and Hikaru is feeling more and more self-conscious about that. He's a lot softer all over than he was when he still played soccer back in middle school--that's why he's looking at Akira, the metabolic powerhouse, with naked envy. He's starting to get old, actually old, the luster of teenage immortality having finally worn off. It won't be long before he's getting grey hairs and carpal tunnel and god knows what else. It won't be long before Akira realizes he's hitching his rising star to a fossil...

He waves Akira off lazily, and then spends another few minutes just lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, wondering how he got himself into this mess. Then he groans his way out of bed, stumbling off to one side, to go splash water on his face in the bathroom. By the time he turns up in the kitchen, he's wearing his glasses again--which he hates--he absolutely hates these things--they do so much to make him look even older than he is. Even stylish frames can't change the reality of the aging process, so he's partial to contacts when he's out and about in public. Not too many people have seen him in his glasses, and Akira is one of the lucky few. Hikaru shuffles over to the pantry to get the tea, and the rice, and...

There's a low grumble at Akira's additional orders (this kid is so like his father sometimes, it's kind of ridiculous), but he's digging out the pan, and the carton of eggs, too. His gaze wanders to all the stuff Akira's pulled out in preparation, before he looks at Akira himself, with his tense hands, his unyielding posture. He can't help but think the apron looks good on Akira. It looks really good. It accentuates just how thin he is, clinging to his thighs, clinging everywhere.]

--Uh.

[It's taken him this long to realize Akira asked him a question. He hastily fumbles with the tea kettle, then sets it in the sink and turns on the faucet.]

Wine? Yeah, I have some wine, but... [Most professional Go players have plenty of booze on hand to console them after a long, stressful day in front of the board. Hikaru's got white wine, and red wine, and it's just another unhealthy habit he's been unwilling to quit. Thinking on this, he peers at Akira out of the corner of his eye.] You're going to cook with it? [he asks, then, because he isn't so sure he'd let Akira have it for any other reason. The last time he let Akira drink from a bottle of full-bodied red wine, they ended up sprawled on the couch together, with Akira straddling his thighs and murmuring the craziest fucking moves in his ear. They bickered some over the sequences, and they laughed a lot at nothing in particular. And he doesn't know that Akira ever stopped touching him, not even for a single second. It was good.

It was too good.

He pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand, while moving the filled kettle to the stove with the other.]

The cabinet to your left. In there.

[ashlar]

[Idiot. Such an idiot. If Hikaru weren't breathtakingly brilliant otherwise, it would shame Akira to be in love with someone who's such an idiot. How can it be more convenient to call a pizza place, explain your order because they don't already know you perfectly well, and then wait and rely on a stranger to bring your food, dump it off, and take your money for it? —This is not a very charitable view to hold on pizza parlors, but Akira isn't feeling charitable. He feels convenient, better at dinner than a delivery boy, but if Hikaru can spare a couple thousand yen for that, Akira isn't here to give charity. Hikaru shall be sure to thank him properly.

And he doesn't have it in him to soften, either, not just yet, not even when Hikaru arrives with secret glasses and general obedience. The kitchen knife comes down hard against the cutting board, over and over and quickly, and Akira can feel Hikaru watching him, but he's too irritable to appreciate it in the moment. He's thick in a cloud of the desire for sleep, made worse by his hunger having roused him in the first place. Once the mushrooms are chopped, Akira pauses to rub his eyes with one of his wrists, and then he leans over to look at Hikaru's rice cooker. He looks at its timer, inhales, then exhales. First, he grabs the wine out of Hikaru's cupboard (red and white both, a bottle each). Then he officially starts dinner.

It's a matter of buttering the pan—letting that sizzle—and then cracking the two eggs into it. He scrambles them quickly, with severity, but doesn't dry them out. They're set off onto the edge of the cutting board, once they're cooked, and Akira pours a little of the white wine into the pan before the rest of its butter has a chance to fry away. It steams loudly, and louder still when he adds the mushrooms, until it all calms down and just simmers instead. It's been simmering for just a moment when the kettle whistles, and Akira is quick about turning off its flame and pouring its water into a teapot. He sets the tea to steeping right away. He stirs the mushrooms; the rice cooker whines; he serves the rice into two bowls. Egg is tucked against the side of each bowl, along with pickled ginger; each bowl also gets two pickled plums. The rice crackers, the sesame seeds—ah, the mushrooms must be done—all the wine has cooked away, and Akira spoons the mushrooms on top of all the rice.

He is his own kitchen knife in all of this, efficient and well-edged, and steely in the same way. His eyes haven't gotten less tired, and his wrists haven't gotten less sharp. This is a dinner cooked from the depths of fiercest instinct, both to eat food and to secure it for Hikaru. He sets a bowl of food down in front of Hikaru, too harshly just out of habit, and then pours steaming tea over it until it glistens. Finally, he drops bonito flakes on top, for savory promise, and... last of all, he sets down a glass before Hikaru, too, and brings the bottle of red wine with which to fill it.] Please enjoy, [he says, the sort of manners he was always taught, and though it's quiet, he's also hoarse. Then he repeats the process for himself—tea over rice, sizzling bonito, and a second glass of wine. To his credit, he doesn't guzzle that immediately in a fit of teenage rebellion. He's far more interested in his pickled plum.

He's about halfway through his bowl of rice when he starts to relax a little. His eyelids drop halfway, and after he swallows another warm bite, he sighs, really deeply, as if something is leaving his bones. He becomes a little more of himself, then. His hair is still blown straight out of sleep, a couple sprigs sticking out from what can't quite count as a bun, and Hikaru's t-shirt has a softening effect on his otherwise stern shoulders. The rest of him can start to soften bit by bit. He sets his elbow onto the table, and then rests his cheek in his hand, and finally, he's looking over at Hikaru. He can do that without glaring, now that he's warm and mostly sated.

He also can't resist being right. Not when it comes to Hikaru, at least.] You would have waited about that long for your pizza. [It would be much more convenient for Hikaru to have Akira making sure he eats real food every day. Hikaru wouldn't have to worry about it. Akira expects he makes that clear through the angling of his eyebrows, as he takes his glass to drink from for the first time. He's not daring Hikaru to say anything about the red wine, which is its own sort of challenge. It occurs to him that he neglected to take off the apron when he sat down to eat, just for sheer impatience, but he just purses his lips amidst his wine and then eats another mushroom.] I'll make you breakfast, too, but I have to go after that. Then you can fend for yourself with tomorrow's dinner. [As if Hikaru is asking otherwise! Go Weekly speaks of Touya Akira's confidence with hardly half an idea of him.]

[protential]

[Other than setting up the rice cooker, Hikaru decides it's best if he stays out of Akira's way for what's left of the cooking. He wanders over to the kitchen table and sits down, dropping his head onto an open palm, still watching Akira from here. He's been watching Akira for a long time already--maybe he's an idiot, such an idiot, but he's not so much of an idiot that he'd miss out on Akira's ascension. Still, Hikaru has to acknowledge he wasn't watching for the things he should have been watching for all along. He was too late to stop the bright gleam in Akira's eyes, or the steel wool texture of his voice, or how he holds himself like he's getting ready to bring down a battle axe on some hapless fool's head. Akira is the tip of a spear right now, just looking for an excuse to strike, both determined and agitated. When this first started happening, Hikaru thought Akira's tetchy moods were a byproduct of his teenage years: a flood of hormones, a changing body, old priorities being thrown out of whack. He thought it was inevitable that Akira would be upset with him, would want to put some distance between them... but it's more like Akira wants to be closer to him than anything else. He knows he made Akira upset, and it's got to be over the pizza, or whatever the pizza represents. He remembers what it felt like when every little thing would just get blown out of proportion in his head. It was pretty tiresome, wasn't it?

If not for the clatter of the bowl, Hikaru would've dozed off again, his thoughts going around and around in an aimless loop. He sits up straighter, then, blinking hard, all too aware of the saliva in his mouth. Leaning back, he watches as Akira douses the rice in fresh tea and then pours a glass of wine, which he's probably doing because he's still upset. Hikaru could apologize for the pizza, or whatever the hell, but he sighs instead and quietly thanks Akira for the meal. Then he reaches for a pair of chopsticks he has in the long wooden box at the center of the table.

It isn't too surprising--it's annoying, but not surprising--to hear Akira talk about breakfast like he's planning to spend the night. As a small child, Akira had next to no say about where he'd spend the night, especially on a school night, so giving him that freedom has made him so greedy. Hikaru can't really escape the mental image of a tiny Akira clinging to his leg and telling him not to leave, as obstinate as a barnacle, eyes big and shiny and pleading. He shakes his head a little and pokes at the scrambled eggs, these perfectly cooked scrambled eggs, not at all like Hikaru's burnt attempts at them. Having meals like this might be why it wouldn't be so bad if Akira did stay over more often, if he's going to be alone otherwise, with his parents jaunting off to India or wherever it is right now. Akira is a very spoiled kid to begin with, but that doesn't mean Hikaru wants him to be alone and lonely when he doesn't have to be. Hikaru chews through a mouthful of rice and eggs, turning over how he can say that and not sound like he's desperate himself in saying it...

Hikaru finally opens his mouth--only to get cut off by Akira, who has to be right about everything, all the time, forever. Frowning vaguely, he just watches as Akira makes his well-placed jab and then retreats to the wine; he doesn't say anything about the wine, not when he's learned how to avoid speaking his mind at every opportunity. His Go is still violent, still highly aggressive, but it has these eerie moments of calm, of introspection, like water receding before a tsunami. He's good at keeping himself calm when his heart is squeezing itself into a tight, painful ball of anxiety. Akira is drinking red wine, that red wine, on purpose, which is its own sort of challenge, yeah.

Before too long:]

I need to go to the grocery store to pick up some things. If not tomorrow, then... sometime this weekend, I guess. [He's been sipping from his own glass of wine, an intermittent concession, but now he takes a real swallow of the stuff. It spreads across his tastebuds in luxury.] If you're going to cook for me, you should come along and pick out whatever you want. Like, enough for a week's worth of meals, or... however long you feel like staying over. [It's easier if he phrases this like he isn't making the decision for the two of them, like he isn't going ahead and asking Akira to stay here with him. It's easier if he phrases this like it's a temporary arrangement, too. A trial run at best. So, keeping his hand steady, he shoves one of the pickled plums into his mouth.] This is a lot better than another pizza, [he admits, as a capstone.]

[ashlar]

[Whether Hikaru is frowning or making better faces, he's easy to read. Even if he doesn't say every single thing anymore, Akira has been watching him long enough to see what he keeps close, to see every inch of change. Gradual or not, Akira can still remember the exact angles of Hikaru's mouth from two years ago—from five years ago—Akira still knows the light and temperature of him from the first of his own blushes. It all adds up. There's no point in Hikaru hiding his equations from Akira. Hikaru does not have a single part Akira isn't watching closely.

And if Hikaru as a whole is bright and open-faced like sunflowers—and he is, whether his eyes match up to their leaves or their seed heads, whether or not other people can find him in a field—Akira holds fast as the dark, tight blooms of wolfsbane. He grows persistently. He grows stubborn and with roots that linger. Freedom isn't all that's made him greedy. He is greedy for more things to admire in Hikaru, and he's greedy for things to make himself more admired. He follows Hikaru and drinks his wine, blooming tightly, and the taste on his tongue demands that Hikaru recall the taste just as well.

But it's really easy for Hikaru to make Akira light up.

Akira nearly bites the rim of his glass in his excitement, moving it from his mouth, and he's taking a short, deep breath right away. He does bite his bottom lip, as if to tuck away a smile, but that doesn't last long. His smile shows up, determined to be seen. A week's worth, or however long he feels like staying. Akira bites his lip again, but it's not to hide his smile. It's a joyful nip while he casts his eyes down at an angle. Bashful. Not embarrassed, but in awe of his own happiness.

That doesn't last long, either. He keeps his eyes on Hikaru as much as he can. When he is watching Hikaru again, there's gratitude in the shine of him. But, instead of saying thank you, he says,] Of course it's better. We'll need to do the shopping tomorrow. I have study hall on Saturday, and makeup work on Sunday. [Hikaru has bought himself a moment of docility, and Akira quietly eats a little of his ginger, as if to temper his own sweetness. Beneath the table, he crosses his legs, uncrosses them, and then crosses them in the other direction. Then he swallows his food.]

You'll pick me up on Saturday? Did you have something else planned? [The questions are a courtesy, and he doesn't mean them as inquiries. He's letting Hikaru know it's what he wants. But he's just a bit less like the steel wool when he does it, and maybe the wine helps with the creak of his throat. Maybe the warmth of sharing dinner can sand down the edges of his voice even a little. But he's still tired, and that always makes him tense. (He's usually tired.)]

[protential]

[Hikaru, watching the daybreak on Akira's face, decides to have another generous swallow of the wine. It's the sort of stuff he hated the first time he tasted it--too stark, too strange, overwhelming the senses. It's the sort of stuff he never expected himself to get used to, especially because it was so strong a symbol of adulthood, just this whole drinking thing, and Hikaru was never in any hurry to grow up. Adulthood seemed like a totally abstract concept for the longest time. And god forbid he ever imagined Akira growing up and becoming an adult, too. He wasn't prepared for the first time Akira came over and poured himself a glass of wine. Even now, he doesn't know how to react to the sight of Akira drinking more of it, swallowing it down, his throat flexing with the subtle effort. Of course Hikaru can still recall the taste of wine when it was something to be shared. Of course he can do that. It was heartier, sweeter, like a promise distilled into liquid form. Honestly, he should have dumped it all down the sink while he still had the chance. They're on the boundary between what they are and what they could be, what they obviously shouldn't be--it won't take many more swallows to push them over it.

But now he's setting down his glass, and he's picking up his bowl of rice and warm tea, bringing it closer to his mouth. He's indelicate as he shovels more food into his mouth; he's agitated; he's anxious, just wanting to get through this meal already. The smile on Akira's face, the slow fall of his eyes, his softening voice, shouldn't be as much of a provocation as it is.] Tomorrow, then. I'll take care of the bill, so... yeah, get whatever you want. [That sounds provocative enough on its own, like he's Akira's papakatsu or some shit. He sighs through his chopsticks at himself, at this whole situation in general.

Akira isn't the only one who's tired, you know. Akira isn't the only one who's exhausted both inside and out. Maybe that's why it's getting harder and harder to deny either of them whatever they want in a given moment. When Akira looks to him for solace, for a tight hug or a nap in a warm bed, Hikaru can't tell him to look elsewhere. Practically from day one, Akira wanted to touch and be touched, to have this tactile comfort, like when he was a fussy little baby who only calmed down in Hikaru's arms, much to the amusement of his parents. Hikaru had been so afraid of dropping Akira by accident, and he's still afraid of doing anything to hurt Akira, physically, emotionally...]

I have some studying of my own to do, [he says, then, placing his bowl on the table. His eyes drift away, down and off to the side, as they do when he's thinking heavier thoughts.] But I'll be there to pick you up, sure. Just expect the weekend to be more of a quiet one. [In a few months' time, he'll be sitting down for the Jyudan title against Ogata Seiji, and he has no intention of coming away empty-handed. There's also another title defense to prepare for, and a few commercial tournaments, and at least one continental team tournament, and so on, and so forth, never-ending.

Ultimately, it's easier to smile than it is to frown, now that Akira is smiling at him. Now that he's eaten his fill of the dinner Akira cooked for him.]

Does that sound good to you?

[ashlar]

[Adulthood has been right in front of Akira for—it feels like so long. Just before him, but just out of reach, too. Still too far away, when Hikaru has touched the top of his head like a boy instead of someone beautiful. When he has watched Hikaru be pulled toward the bar concessions at formal events, and when he couldn't follow after. When Waya 6-dan asked Hikaru if he'd ever make time for, you know, dating, you know? And Akira was standing right next to him. He was thirteen then, and he still hasn't forgiven Waya for that. He still hasn't forgiven himself for waiting so long to be born. That absolution needs to come from Hikaru himself.

Anyway, Akira feels like he could imagine satisfaction, when he drinks something he shouldn't be drinking. And he could imagine satisfaction when Hikaru talks about whatever Akira wants. Akira thinks if he could just carry that a little further... He's always looking for further. For furthermost. It doesn't feel vulgar like that, you know. Not to Akira, and it shouldn't feel vulgar to Hikaru. Akira isn't being bought. He's trying harder than anything to prove his worth, to be sought in the first place. Hikaru is stupid if he doesn't know that anything he could buy from Akira, Akira would give him for free. To be coveted is the only down payment he requires.] I can be quiet. [He says this with prim enunciation, and is mindful of his volume in demonstration. The result is a throaty fog, and he's mature enough to keep from sounding sullen.] I know you're working very hard...

[And for that, Akira could sigh such lovesick sighs. In a few months' time, Hikaru will be wresting the Jyudan title away from Ogata Seiji. Akira cannot wait to see the expression on Ogata's face, and he can't wait to see Hikaru putting it there. Just the thought has him nibbling absently on the end of a chopstick.]

So it sounds good to me. [And he's very brazen in saying this—fifteen years old, no titles to his own name, chipping his way through his generation—but—] If you have the time for it, we could do some studying together. For a little while. [Hikaru is his teacher, but it means Akira has spent most of his life observing and absorbing the way Hikaru plays. All the ways he's played over the years. If Akira is invested in analyzing anyone's adaptability, it's Hikaru's...

Prior to Akira's pro exam, he had demanded that Hikaru play him without a handicap. It was an outrageous request, and it left him utterly humbled. Quite a few times, it did that. But Akira has a belligerent capacity for learning, and he brute forced his skill forward, and the months during which they played those games left Akira strained and sweating, but the result was an exceptionally young boy tearing through all the other hopefuls. All throughout it, Akira never felt more malleable than he did when he passed the exam, took the flowers Hikaru gave him, and hugged Hikaru's waist. He must have been as bright and watery as mercury, then. And just as conducive to electrical currents. The smell of Hikaru, the smell of the congratulatory flowers... You know, the way Hikaru focused on the goban between them granted Akira all of that. If Akira can excel and exceed further, (to the furthest,) he can get more of all those currents, too. He can reach more of the nerves.

While Hikaru studies, this weekend, Akira wants to give him a game he can appreciate. Dinner, and quiet, and a game to make his heart race.] Do your best, [Akira says, a courteous murmur, against the rim of his glass. He's too casual about this wineglass, tonight.]

[protential]

[Just because Hikaru doesn't touch him in a certain way doesn't mean Akira isn't beautiful. That's the hell of it--Akira is beautiful, unfortunately beautiful, stupidly so, throwing a wrench in everything and changing everything because of it. Hikaru can't pinpoint exactly when Akira went from boyishly cute to drop-dead gorgeous, but it might've been after having too many glasses of wine at one of those formal events. His colleagues were plying him with drinks, all for social camaraderie or whatever, when Hikaru lifted his heavy head and noticed Akira staring at him from across the room. Akira, newly thirteen, had this look of unvarnished yearning on his face, like he would have done anything to join Hikaru at the concessions... Hikaru was seeing double a little bit there, but he couldn't deny Akira's finer features and what an attractive sight they made. Much like he can't hope to deny them right now, as he's finishing off this glass of wine, and he's already pouring himself another. All caution thrown to the wind, it seems. He'd swear on his mother's life he isn't that much of a lightweight, but the fact remains he's feeling all warm and hazy at the edges, just at the edges, just enough to know Akira's a beautiful person.]

For a little while, huh...

[It feels good to know Akira knows he's been working very hard. It shouldn't feel this good when Akira is the student, and he's the teacher, and he shouldn't need his student's approval, but he's always interested in Akira's approval anyway. Akira looks like he could put any high-class fashion model to shame with his sharp cheekbones and glossy black hair, but he's actually the Go world's next big fucking deal. Undoubtedly the biggest thing of his generation. Like his father before him, a force of nature made real. Hikaru knows it's only a matter of time before Akira surpasses him in every which way. Hikaru knows he should value the time he has with Akira before Akira moves on to bigger and better things. Quietly, he says,] Yeah, we could do that. [He says,] I think I'd like to do that. [He smiles at nothing, ducking his head to a degree. His lips slide against the rim of his glass, nerveless for a moment, before they press together and allow him to take another long drink.] Seeing as you've joined the Honinbou League, I should be doing more to prepare for you.

[Playing Akira, in the beginning... He exhales, adding a glaze of condensation to the glass. His shoulders loosen and relax, and so does his lower back, which is more so an impossible knot of stress at any other time. In the beginning, when he played Akira, it was fun and all that, but it was also a really good way to settle his nerves. Akira may not have been his equal in skill, but he was serious, and he was earnest; most importantly, he was familiar. He was innocent, too, driven by purest love for the game, and for his teacher, who taught him about the game that he loved. But then somewhere along the way Akira stopped being satisfied with that. Their games could still be a refuge, sure, an intimate place to return to, intensely familiar even when fraught... but nowadays they act as a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. It's natural, he told himself then, and he's telling himself now. Akira wants to be seen as a threat, not a novelty. It still kind of sucks that every game has to be a struggle for dominance like that. He's already tired. He's already just...

The Honinbou League, though. Hikaru will never forget the day Akira successfully fought his way into the Honinbou League, humiliating an older pro who'd been trying for years to do the very same thing. Just recalling the kifu is making Hikaru feel warmer, closer to hot, even sweaty, and he uses the inside of his wrist to wipe at his forehead. Every single one of Akira's moves from that game felt like a call-out. No one else has ever forced Shindou Honinbou to confront his own mortality.

And Akira shouldn't have to wait for the Room of Profound Darkness to get the games he wants, right?]

No handicap, [Hikaru says, then, before he even fully decides on what he's saying.] If it's okay with you, we don't have to play with a handicap this weekend. You can show me what you're, uhm... capable of.

[ashlar]

[Did he see it? Akira thinks, and the thought is like a meteorite striking fast into his head. He spins his face away so quickly that his hair (glossy, black) fans out while he inhales. The curtain of it hides him, then, or at least he hopes it does, because he's a rich, excited red. He's so excited. Does he know what I meant? It takes real work not to bite into his bottom lip, but he's not so much a novice that he'll succumb like that. Hikaru has been alluring enough, for long enough, that even if Akira turns his face away, he doesn't make a sound, and... Ah, Hikaru really must have seen it. A pro twelve years Akira's senior was so desperate to enter the League, so desperate to do it, cutthroat in his playing style, just dead set on it. He buckled. It was bad. Akira looked down upon his head, which was inclined in deference and in shame, and then he dipped his own head forward in the requisite show of respect. And it really was a show, all posturing. This man had let go of his own goals to cow before Akira, and that was without being able to understand what Akira was trying to say. I'm coming for you, said the heat of that game. I'm on my way. The aggression didn't undermine the elegance of it. A slaughter shouldn't be so pretty.

Hikaru saw it. He was able to see what Akira was telling him. It means more than just advancing toward Hikaru's title—Hikaru must know that as well. He has to. Akira imagines Hikaru sitting before his goban, with the hours running by, thinking of Akira in preparation. But Akira won't make a sound, and he's not going to shift in his seat with soft-lipped excitement...

If he wants Hikaru to prepare for him, he can't sit here getting a hard-on at Hikaru's kitchen table. He can be hardier than that. He's going to keep his face turned, profile sharp, just one red cheek to try to hide. He's going to drink some of the wine and twist his tongue at the twinge it gives to his mouth. When he takes the glass away from his mouth, it's with a little puff of a gasp, like maybe he was holding his breath while drinking.] ...Yes, [he says at last, and it gives him the strength to do what he loves: he looks Hikaru full in the face. That always feels better than turning away from him.] You should be. You don't want to take your eyes away and miss something you shouldn't have missed. [And he'd like to think Hikaru knows that. It didn't used to be this way, all the sharpness. Akira didn't have fangs when he was smaller. He was pliant, and it makes him angry that Hikaru doesn't appreciate his capacity for being pliant now, and that anger makes him sharper. Hikaru can't hide behind his wrist from Akira's stare, not when Akira's been staring for longer than he can remember.

Anyway, no fifteen-year-old is quite as hardy as they say. Akira meant to sit here proudly, the apron snug along his waist, the wine giving glistens to his mouth and eyes. But he falls fast and easy into softness, just now. His cheeks look soft in the way of nectarines, those sunset colors, the good fruit... easy to put your mouth to. Akira's own mouth falls open a little, but his reply doesn't follow suit, not right away. There's enough gratitude in his eyes to fill a vineyard. Just laden with it, just celebrated for the fertility. He didn't mean to show that—he meant to be proud—but he's overcome with thankfulness, and he'd be humiliated if he could see the extent of it on his own face.]

It's okay with me, [he breathes, a wisp of wonder, and of desire, too. He hears it, and it's almost as bad as seeing it in the windswept way he looks. So he shuts his mouth fast, and swallows, and straightens in his seat. He wants to be so much stronger than he is, and he's certain that means being like steel.] Bring me home on Saturday, and I'll show you. [His instructions here are more solid, stronger from his throat than just a delighted sigh. He sets down his glass, a couple mouthfuls left, not too harsh about it.] I won't make you wait to see what it's like, so don't make me wait, either. [He pushes his glass across the table, toward Hikaru, and then he sets his elbow on the tabletop and puts his chin in his hand while he watches Hikaru like he always does, with that yearning he always has.] Please, [he adds, and it's not very soft, but it is quiet. He's tired of waiting for this. He has begged Hikaru for it, begged him; he pleaded and then demanded and then skipped his lessons with Hikaru for days. Out of anger, but also, it just hurt too much. Once he reached 2-dan, he told Hikaru he was ready to play him without a handicap. Hikaru denied him. Akira could hardly believe it, but Hikaru denied him, citing his impatience, citing lofty thoughts. Akira had a thing or two left to learn, Hikaru said, and not about Go itself—about arrogance and humility and what they both mean. "You're ready when you're surprised to hear you're ready," Hikaru said, which didn't make sense at all. But Akira surely is surprised right now. Maybe he's giving over his own wine in thanks, or...

Akira ends up drinking a little more, but only a little. Less than Hikaru. When Hikaru is leaning heavy on the table, Akira takes his hand, and they find refuge together on Hikaru's couch. Akira isn't interested in letting go of Hikaru's hand, and Hikaru seems okay with that. That's better, Akira thinks. It takes them back a few years, to when Akira could hold Hikaru's hand and talk to him about anything. He's talking now about his dreams, not the aspirations he has, but the dreams he has at night. Keeping hold of Hikaru still, Akira seems fascinated with Hikaru's fingers, stroking them, thumbing at them, even touching the texture of his fingernails. He makes it seem idle, though. His head is resting on Hikaru's shoulder, and his voice is low when he talks.] I've dreamed the same game so many times, [he's saying.] I could recite it from memory, now. And I'm always just a little ahead of you. But I've never made it to the end. It doesn't always stop on the same move, but every time, you're looking hard at the last hand I played. It's the only thing you'll look at. [The apron, by now, is draped over the back of the chair, back in the kitchen, and Akira remains curled in Hikaru's pajamas.]

[protential]

[The room is still spinning. It's still spinning, even after Hikaru sits down on the couch, even with Akira anchored to his side, head to shoulder, hands joined--it feels like it's never going to stop spinning. Fortunately for him, it isn't the most unpleasant feeling in the world. It's more like he got on a kinetic ride at the amusement park, one that tilts and whirls, and then goes all around... but it's enough to know he's pretty sloshed right now. Probably shouldn't have accepted Akira's half-full wineglass when it was offered to him. He drank from it greedily, like he couldn't stop himself from doing it, thinking of how Akira's lips played on the same surface mere seconds before. Somehow, the wine was sweeter than it had any damn right to be, and Akira stared at him the entire time, taking him all in. The draining of Akira's glass was just one more thing he couldn't stop himself from doing tonight. Right up there with suggesting Akira can come and stay here with him, and Akira can play against him without a solid handicap, and Akira can hold his hand like they're more than they are--all the things he shouldn't be doing, but he's doing them anyway. He's really at fault for letting things get to this point. He should have drawn a line in the sand a long time ago, like when Akira was four or five years old, and he'd cry if Hikaru went to hang up the phone without saying "I love you" to him first. Akira was always a very sensitive child. Sensitive, and intractable, and definitely incorrigible. Audacious as hell, too. Akira had the audacity to say that thing about coming home, and the way he smiled and blushed was ridiculous, and, god, just...

It's Hikaru's fault for being so fucking lonely all the time.

The room is still spinning. Akira's steady exploration of his fingers is the only thing holding him back from motion sickness. With some effort, Hikaru focuses his attention on his hand and how Akira gently is touching it. His fingernails are short and blunted, like any long-term Go player's should be, with the skin itself a little ragged where he's been biting at it. There's a hangnail on his index finger, a sore-looking one, but he doesn't flinch as Akira passes over it. He simply leans back and allows Akira's words to flow over him, melting around him, spreading like honey into his every crack and crevice.] ...Are you expecting me to resign? [he asks in a low voice, when Akira seems to have said all that he wants to say. He doesn't stumble over his thickened tongue in asking--it's more like the words are blurring together, too relaxed to be distinct.] Or do you want me... to... for me to, you know... keep playing to the end? Right up to the end? If you could choose how it goes... [He's too drunk to worry too much about the implications of Akira's dream. Again, it's natural, it's only natural, for Akira to dream of defeating his teacher on even terrain, but thinking about what'll happen after that can get Hikaru feeling anxious. It can be disillusioning to finally reach an overarching, all-important goal such as that. It could mean Akira losing respect for him, for his Go, and who knows what else.] A game so close we'll have to check, and recheck, each moku, after...

[He sighs weakly, wistfully, and then he turns his head inward, as if he can hide himself from the bleakest of outcomes. He's got his mouth against Akira's hair, which is soft, and fragrant, like a stroll through a peaceful herb garden. The closer Hikaru gets to Akira, the easier it is for him to think he should be even closer than they are. It's no different than momentum, than the tempo of a head-to-head game. Nuzzling into Akira's hair, he can't even try to resist the closeness anymore. He can't dig in his heels when he isn't even sure of where his feet are anymore. They've gone halfway numb, or maybe they're floating away, up and into the sky, while the rest of him is left behind, heavy and earthbound. Heavy and heavier.]

M'never gonna go easy on you, Akira. I hope you know that by now.