[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.]
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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.]