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]

[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.