Work Text:
He was drowning. Drowning on air, yet he still couldn't bring himself to stop taking in a deep breath.
***
Mournful, dull eyes, green like watery poison, stared at the solitary flower before him. The flower stood proudly in the field, it's brilliant red the only splash of colour amongst the withered and brown field. Delicate stamens curled protectively around frostbitten petals, and shining ice crystals immortalised the flower’s desperate struggle against the cold.
It was both an enchanting and heartbreaking sight for Hikaru.
The air was crisp and biting, autumn having arrived like an invasion. The trees had quickly become a flurry of yellow and orange, and the first frost had already assaulted the peaceful landscape. Winter was fast approaching, and it was only a matter of time before the world would die. The cycle was almost complete.
Goosebumps trailed down his skin. His clothing was ill-suited for this weather, the thin fabric offering no protection against the chill. Even though the sun was out it’s rays dared not to touch him, the shining light merely illuminating his haggard pallor; it offered no warmth from the frigid cold.
His body ached right down to the bone, and it felt numb with cold and stiffness. He had been sitting in the same spot for six hours now - since 6:27 AM, to be exact - his eyes captivated by the otherworldly flower. He wondered if he could stand up anymore from how long he had been sitting in seiza . He could do a little more three hours if it was necessary for a match, but anything longer than that and he would have to readjust.
His surroundings had a hazy quality to it, and he had trouble keeping his eyes open. He felt as if he was in a dream, the edges of reality blurring together. He was floating; floating on a small, fluffy cloud in an infinitesimal space, and the only thing in the entire world - no, the entire universe - that he could see was that red flower.
What enchantment did this flower posses, to ensnare him so thoroughly? What was it about the blood stained petals and pitiful fragility that compelled him to stare at it for hours on end?
A frown marred his face, eyes pensive.
The light sound of wind chimes reached his ears, disrupting the peaceful quiet. He wrinkled his brows in distress. What should have been soothing and melodic sounded like inane screeching to him. Not at all pleasing to the ears. Glancing behind him at the shrine, he burned a hole into the red and black wind chimes hanging off the roof with a glare.
Strange , he thought.
The shrine was old, the once vibrant paint and detailed wood faded and slowly rotting. It could hardly be called a shrine anymore, really. He didn’t know who or what the shrine was for, but it was secluded and usually offered him a peaceful tranquility he couldn't find anywhere else.
Today, however, was an entirely different matter. It seemed to be the cause of his unrest.
A memory came to him suddenly, grasping his heart cruelly like that of a malevolent monster. He remembered it now. It had been many years ago since a charming and lovely ghost had spoken distractedly to him, his eyes haunted, hands grasping at the very same kind of flower as if he could actually touch it. A Red Spider Lily… he remembered, his insides frozen. A blank expression suddenly overtook his face, hiding the great sorrow that erupted from within him.
How long has it been, he wondered, since I last saw you, Sai?
He usually avoided thinking about the ghost. It was more often than not too painful to even think of his name, nevermind all the memories he had with him. His disappearance left a wound in his heart, and time only allowed an infection to set in and fester.
It felt like centuries had gone by, the passage of time flowing at an agonising crawl, but in reality it had only been eleven years. Eleven years since that fateful match between Tōya Kōyō and Sai. Eleven years of misery. Eleven years of mourning. He couldn't imagine how it had been for Sai, trapped in a goban for a thousand years, if a measly eleven years was so torturous to him.
After Sai disappeared, he had withdrawn from Go for a while. Even seeing a Go stone pained him, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear playing another game. But then, one day, nearly two years since he had touched a Go stone, he came across these two old men playing Go in a park.
They could have been described as certifiably ancient, their hair a greyish-white and their faces full of happy wrinkles. And while they were no amateurs in Go, they were no professionals either. But for some reason the way they played drew him in. He couldn’t keep his eyes off their game. Where they lacked skill they replaced with passion and genuine joy, something he realised he hadn’t seen in a long time.
Ever since then, he had studied and played Go religiously. The old men, as different from the innocent youthfulness of Sai, shared that passion and happiness from Go, and that rekindled his own passion for it. A new drive had been born from him wanting to properly honour his teacher’s memory.
He had to get better, to get stronger, to surpass everyone else, even Sai himself. His very life was Go; his only reason for existing was Go.
For Sai. All for Sai.
He had wanted to reach the Hand of God for Sai. Sai, who suffered a thousand years just for that dream, and who ultimately never achieved it. What laughable irony, how the ghost who had loved Go could no longer play it, and the boy who had never wanted to play Go could only play it. And it was all because of the foolish selfishness of a naïve, little boy. But even now, after winning the titles of Honinbo and a couple others, he has yet to achieve the divine move.
He doesn't know if he ever could achieve the Hand of God, considering Sai, who wished for it for over a thousand years, never achieved it. What were the chances of a man of only 25 years achieving a goal such as that? It seemed nigh impossible, when he actually thought about it.
And lately, he doesn't even know if he wants to anymore. So much pain and strife for something he doesn't even know exists. For all he knew, his efforts could be all for naught. He would be a fool to chase after the wind and hope to beat it.
And honestly, he was just so tired . He just wanted to rest. The waves of time had corroded him and left nothing of his former self. He no longer held that determined spark he had in his teenage years; no longer had that will to go after his goal. Whatever those two old men had rekindled in him was already gone. Not even Akira, who he had ended up surpassing one year ago, could reignite his spark.
To be without a rival was a truly terrible fate, he now understood. He now knew what Sai and Tōya Meijin had had to go through, playing Go aimlessly and without contest. It was a rather sorry existence, and he honestly didn't know what to do to stop the feeling of discontent and disappointment from tearing him apart.
Hikaru sighed and pulled out a white Go stone from within his pocket. It was an inexpensive stone, it being made from glass, and parts of the paint was worn down. It was also on the verge of crumbling apart. It seemed like only a matter of time, really. But it was something he truly treasured, nevertheless. A Go stone from his first set of stones, before he was gifted with his shell and slate ones. He liked to keep it on him at all times as a reminder of his goal.
A light breeze blew by, blowing long, black hair in the wind. He had grown it out in Sai’s memory, though it wasn’t as long as his, and he still had his blond bangs. He was quite the strange sight to see to those who didn’t know him.
He did a lot of things in Sai’s memory, actually. He had found it quite hilarious when, one day, he walked in for a Go match in a haori , his ears freshly pierced and holding a purple fan. His opponent, and everyone else who was watching his match, had the silliest expressions on their faces, and they couldn't quite keep their jaws closed.
That memory used to always cheer him up.
The red flower shuddered slightly, another breeze challenging its delicate resolve to stay rooted in its place. It looked so frail, shivering in the wind with no place to hide; like it was calling for help. Hikaru reached out a pale hand, intending to steady it. But as soon as his hand made contact, the flower snapped and fell down, as if he had beheaded it.
With a frown, he stared blankly at the fallen flower, a heavy atmosphere weighing down on him.
***
Cast away on a boat, he drifted westward along a golden river. The sky was like one great flame, warm and brilliant in it’s brightness. And yet he couldn’t wait for the sun to fully set, and for the silvery moon to finally rise.
***
Hikaru’s flat was freezing when he got back, the cold seeping through his skin and chilling his very soul. The quiet emptiness never bothered him much, but for some reason, today, he couldn't have hated anything else more than he did that quiet emptiness.
‘I’m home,’ he called to the emptiness for no reason other than to break the silence.
Heading straight for the kitchen, he briefly warmed a bowl of rice. While he felt quite famished, the thought of stomaching anything larger repulsed him. Sitting down at the kitchen table and with a quick ‘ Itadakimasu, ’ he hastily finished his supper.
Absentmindedly washing the bowl and chopsticks, he wondered how his mother was faring. He hadn't seen her in a while. At least, not in person. His father had finally pulled through, and his mother was enjoying an unburdened life in America. New York, to be exact. His father had secured himself a high position over there, and since his mother didn't have to take care of him anymore, she finally had the freedom to move and spend time with him.
He was happy for her, but he also missed having a home that he could go back to; a kind, loving mother that he could go back to. Now, all he had left was empty rooms and an oppressive air to weigh him down constantly.
Giving a heavy sigh, he put away the bowl and chopsticks and softly padded to his room. It was very simple, only containing a bed, closet and nightstand, but in the centre of the room was a magnificent Goban. It was Sai’s Goban. There was a game already on it. It was a unique game, and if a Go professional were to look at it, they would find it rather strange.
Everyday, ever since his disappearance, he would play a game against Sai. It was his daily ritual. It had started out as a way to soothe himself; a way to make the loneliness less lonely by pretending Sai had never left.
Carefully, he removed all the stones from the board, placing them back in their respective wooden bowls. Closing his eyes for a moment, he made a deep sigh. Reaching into the white stone bowl, he did nigiri , and he determined that Sai would go first. After that, the game commenced, with Hikaru playing both the part of the mentor and the student.
17-4, 4-3, 16-17, 15-3, 3-16…
The game was without a doubt a striking battle, black playing the ruthless and unyielding general and white playing the shrewd and charismatic ambassador, but it was just . . . lacking something. There was a hollowness to the game that dulled its magnificence to the point of banality.
‘I guess you win again,’ he muttered a bit dejectedly to Sai. It was a close game without komi , but Sai had ultimately won by one moku . That one stone that cut his diagonal in the centre of the board had given Sai the upper hand, weakening his control of the centre. He was lucky he had managed to salvage part of his cluster, otherwise the loss would have been much more severe.
‘You know, Sai, you've been on a bit of a winning streak lately,’ he laughed bitterly, a rueful smile creeping its way onto his face. He sat staring at the board, his eyes downcast and shadowed by his bangs.
Yes, Sai had been on a winning streak for the past two years now. It used to be easier, playing by himself as both Sai and himself. But as the years went by each game hurt more and more, and yet he couldn’t stop; didn’t want to stop. He would stubbornly keep up the ritual until the day he died.
‘I . . . I honestly don't know what to do anymore, Sai,’ he whispered, his voice coming out slightly hoarse. ‘Sometimes . . . sometimes I think it would have been better if we never met.’ And a part of him, so shrivelled and abused in it's pitiful existence, meant what he said. But a bigger part of him was disgusted that he could even have such a thought. Sai was the best thing that ever happened in his life; that will ever happen.
Still staring at the board, his face all of a sudden twisted into something ugly. Sweeping his arm across the board, the stones went flying. Breath coming in and out in sharp pants, he clenched his hands, nails digging into the flesh of his palms like knives. His hands shook from the amount of force he was exerting.
Eyes glassy with unshed tears, he released his hands and went down to his knees. With shaking hands, he picked up every single fallen stone and remade the game on the Goban.
Yet another ritual he did every night.
Standing up, he crawled into bed, not even bothering to change into his pyjamas.
Sleep eluded him that night, like always
***
Sometimes, in the chaotic fury of his dreams, he would remember himself as a bird. A great, white crane soaring in the sky, soft feathers fluttering in the air. In those moments he would feel more free than he ever had.
Then, sharp as a knife, he would dive down towards the sea, and as he pierced the surface of the water, his beautiful feathers would turn a black so dark it would swallow the night whole, and the water would turn to twilight.
***
Hikaru came into awareness at a sluggish crawl, his eyes opening slowly. They were dull and lifeless, the pupils in an unfocused daze. He was lying down on his side, the comforting weight of a blanket draped over him, the faint scent of miso soup, fish, and steamed white rice wafting through the room.
He blinked rapidly, his vision becoming clearer, and the scent vanished.
Sitting up with a groan, he finally registered what had woken him up. Or rather who . There was an insistent knocking on the flat’s entrance door, the loud pounding reverberating all throughout the living space.
Leaving his bedroom, still wearing yesterday's clothing, he made his way to the bathroom. He really needed a shower.
‘Come out, Hikaru!’ shouted Akira, his voice furious. ‘I know you're in there!’
Stripping himself of his clothes, Hikaru stepped into the shower, groaning at the feeling of hot water on his skin. He cleaned himself rather quickly, not even bothering to wash his hair. As much as he wanted to stay in the shower until his fingers turned wrinkled, he knew he would only fuel Akira’s anger.
Turning off the water with a sigh, he towelled himself off and slipped on some clothes. The knocking was still going on, to his surprise. He would have thought that Akira would stop knocking and just wait at the door. Both of them knew that Hikaru had heard him.
As soon as the sound of Hikaru unlocking the door was heard, Akira swung open the door with a forceful push, making Hikaru take a step back.
‘You!’ shouted Akira. He was fully dressed up, wearing a purple suit and black shoes, as if he had just come from a match.
‘Me,’ Hikaru said in a subdued manner, nodding once.
‘I thought you were done with this . . . this bull . . . this bullshit after you skipped your matches for two years when you were twelve,’ he exclaimed, stumbling over the swear word.
Despite the situation, Hikaru couldn't help but feel the slightest tug of his lips at that. Even after so many years Akira is always so proper.
Unfortunately, Akira mistook his smile as mocking. ‘Don't laugh at me!’ Frustration was evident in his voice. ‘How am I supposed to feel after coming back from Korea, only to find that you’ve been skipping matches again?
‘What about your titles? Both you and I know how hard you worked for them; how much you sacrificed for them. And yet, you're tossing them away like they're worth nothing! What's wrong with you? Huh, Hikaru? What could possibly be going through your mind that you would act so stupidly ?’ During his rant he had slipped into informal speech, his breathing coming out in heavy pants.
Hikaru pursed his lips. He honestly didn't know how to answer him, for he himself didn't really know the answer either. No, that wasn't right. He knows why he was skipping matches, but he would not - could not - admit why. Not without bringing his heart to a stuttering halt, and seeing disappointment in Akira’s eyes.
It seems that the only thing he’s been doing lately is disappointing people.
So the only thing he said was, ‘. . . You deserve those titles more.’ Better his anger than his disappointment. Anger cuts deep, but the wounds would heal. Disappointment, on the other hand, ripped holes out of him; holes he’d never be able to fill. He already felt like he would float from the amount of holes he already had. He wasn’t sure he could take any more.
Fury like he never saw before rose up in Akira, his eyes glinting in malice. His hands struck out, pushing Hikaru backwards. And when he did nothing in retaliation, he pushed again and again and again.
‘I . . . deserve them more? Is that your excuse? That I deserve them more ?’ he shouted. ‘Do you think that makes me happy ? To have those titles practically handed to me? Are you that stupid? That inconsiderate?’
‘. . .’ He looked away.
‘Answer me, Hikaru! Because that's the only way I'm going to understand what the fucking hell is going on in your mind.’
Oh, he didn't stutter over the swear this time. He must be really pissed , Hikaru mused.
At his silence, Akira gripped his forearm and dragged him towards his room.
‘Let's play a game,’ he suddenly demanded, knowing that Hikaru had a Goban in his room.
When he burst into his room, however, he stopped, eyes fixed on the game already on the board. He stood there for a while, staring at the board and analysing it.
Hikaru, meanwhile, stood stiffly, his whole body tense and uneasy. No one had seen these games before. And no one would have if he had anything to say about it. They were . . . personal. Intimate. It felt as if Akira was peering inside, looking at his ugly soul.
‘. . .Who did you play that with?’ Akira asked, sounding honestly confused.
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘No no no,’ he repeated, shaking his head wildly.
‘. . . Are you alright? Hikaru?’ Akira reached out, only for Hikaru to jerk away from his touch.
‘Out,’ he muttered.
‘What?’
‘Out out out !’ he repeated over and over, his voice gradually getting louder and sharper until it reached a piercing crescendo. His breaths were coming in and out in short pants, and his eyes were darting around everywhere. He looked and acted like a cornered animal.
Face pale, Akira raised his hands placatingly. ‘Alright,’ he said softly, eyes hurt and saddened. ‘Alright, I’m leaving now.’ He turned to walk out of the room, but then stopped.
‘Even if you stop playing Go, you’re not alone. I’m still your friend, even if you may not believe it,’ he said, back still turned towards him. And with those last parting words, he left.
When he was gone, Hikaru shut the door and slid down onto the floor. His hands were shaking violently. Licking his lips, he looked at the Goban warily.
‘Stop playing Go?’ he asked out loud. ‘Why would I stop playing Go?’ He could scarcely remember the years in which he didn’t play Go. Go was a part of him. The thought of Shindou Hikaru without Go was preposterous. Absolutely ludicrous.
But maybe that was a fate he should expect if he was to keep himself afloat in this sea of madness.
Clenching his fists, a new resolve filled him. Removing all the Go stones and putting them back in their containers, he carried the Goban and stones all the way to the old shrine. It took him three hours, and by the time he was done it was already 4 o'clock and his arms ached from exhaustion.
Despite that, however, he did not rest. Instead, he remade the last game he had with Sai on the board. The real last game he had with Sai.
And as he walked back home, where not a soul waited for him, he made a promise to himself to never return there.
***
The wheel spun and spun and spun, never quite stopping, but never quite moving either. It was perpetually stuck in this strange and contradictory state. Even when old, knobby fingers, pale as bone, spun it around and around, the wheel never changed.
It never will.
***
‘Hikaru,’ a voice whispered, ‘Hikaru, wake up.’
Hikaru furrowed his brows in his sleep, his subconscious only hearing the calls of his name. He shivered and curled up into a ball, his body unable to find any heat. As another shiver went through him, he furrowed his brows once more, his mind starting to rise out of unconsciousness.
It's so cold. It felt like he was submerged in water, his pyjamas clinging to his skin like an icy blanket. And tiny little pebbles were hitting him, further numbing his skin.
His eyes abruptly snapped open, and he was greeted with the sight of pouring rain and a soaked Goban. Teeth chattering, he sat up and hugged himself, feeling terribly disoriented.
… How did I get here?
‘Hikaru,’ the same voice called out. It was so close that it felt as if it were whispered in his ear.
‘Who's there?’ he asked, head jerking back and forth, searching for the origin of the voice. ‘I said who’s there?’ But no one answered.
He turned to look at the Goban, shiny from the constant rain. He swallowed, suddenly feeling slightly unnerved. The game on the board . . . wasn’t the one he had played with Sai. He didn’t recognise who played white at all, but he could immediately tell that the one who played black was himself, even if the game was incomplete. And yet he had no recollection of ever playing such a game.
He glanced at the shrine, a slight suspicion in his heart. He . . . wasn’t really a religious person. Obviously he believed in the supernatural, but he had never given much thought about the Kami . He hadn’t really given much thought about anything besides Sai and Go.
‘Are . . . are you the owner of this shrine?’ he asked, privately wishing he had an offering to give. There was no response, but he wasn’t discouraged. ‘Why am I here?’ The silence dragged on and he nearly thought there would be no response until he heard that same voice again.
‘ Do you want it? The Hand of God? ’
He froze. ‘What?’ The wind started to pick up, and the shrine’s wind chimes clanged together so furiously he almost thought they would break off and fly away. The rain came down harder, displacing the Go stones on the board.
He looked down, feeling a lump form in his throat. He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Hand of God?’ He picked up one of the Go stones, a white one stained by mud, and brought it up to his face to study.
It had been a long time since he thought about the Hand of God, and even longer since he wanted to obtain it. Go was his life. And he played Go because of Sai. But the Hand of God . . . the Hand of God was Sai’s dream, not Hikaru’s. He didn’t deserve to pursue the Divine Move.
‘No, I just . . . I just want Sai .’
‘ Is that your answer? ’
He tossed away the Go stone and closed his eyes. ‘Anything,’ he muttered. ‘I’d give anything, just to see Sai again.’
***
The butterfly beat its wings softly, the beautiful shade of blue glinting in the sunlight. How lovely it looked, as it flew freely in the sky. How lovely it looked, as its wings caught aflame, and its ashes scattered in the wind.
***
Hikaru gasped, his eyes snapping open as he sat up. Panting hard, he realised that he was just in his room, lying in his own bed. No shrine, no mysterious voice, just the biting silence of the room.
Rubbing a hand over his face he fell back onto the bed. Akira was going to be even more upset with him for missing another match but he knew he wouldn’t be able to get himself to leave his room that day. He felt . . . raw; peeled open so that everything was left bare and exposed.
He closed his eyes, hoping that he could fall back asleep. But it was quickly evident that he wouldn’t be able to. Maybe not even for a long time.
Tilting his head to the side, he stared at where Sai's Go board used to be. The room felt so empty, now that it was gone. It was hard to not give in to the urge to go back to the shrine and take the board back. He had had it so long that it almost felt like a part of him; it was like missing a piece of himself. But despite that, he also couldn't help but feel that a weight had been lifted off his chest; he felt lighter, somehow.
He wondered if he was a bad person for feeling that; for feeling like Sai’s memory was a burden. After all the good memories with Sai, the thought of him should have brought warm feelings. Instead, it was like he was shackled to a looming, black hole.
His thoughts turned back to the dream he had.
Anything. I’d give anything, just to see Sai again.
‘Anything,’ he whispered.