Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

~~~~~~
He spent his days, of course, playing go. For variety, sometimes he picked up his biwa or his flute. Although there was no one for him to play go with, and no one to hear his energetic strumming or haunting notes. No matter how far he walked east, west, north, or south, he never found anyone. Just endless fields of ripened grasses and trees with painted leaves and a mountain range he could somehow never reach.

He had no way of determining the passage of time. It was always sunset in this land of eternal autumn. He knew that what he thought was a day might have very well been twenty-four hours or twenty-four weeks.

Still, he liked order in his existence as well as in his go, so he pretended to know and woke up at what seemed the proper time and went to sleep when he grew bored of games with himself.

When he slept, he dreamed. And in his dreams, he also searched and called just as in his waking hours:

Can you hear? Can you hear my voice?

No one ever answered.

So he continued on in the same pattern for what might have been a hundred days or a hundred years.

Until the night he drowned in his dream.

~~~~~~

Ogata Juudan drummed his fingers against the table irritably, itching to pull out a cigarette. Of course, smoking had always been banned in the archives room; the priceless, irreplaceable kifu couldn't be risked, but lately the little insidious red “no smoking” signs had been cropping up all over the Japan Go Association at a rate that suggested they were breeding. Ogata strongly suspected the proliferation was related to the Association's campaign to lure more brats in. While Ogata had no issues with that campaign – the more brats in, the sooner decrepit old men like Kuwabara would get flushed out in the “new wave” - he did sorely mind being nicotine-deprived. Ogata permitted himself the luxury of a smirk at the mental image of Kuwabara being flushed into a rain gutter before returning to the kifu sprawled out before him.

His match against Kurata 9-dan for the right to challenge the Gosei title holder was scheduled to take place at the end of May. Kurata was a strong, wily opponent who always presented a fresh challenge, continually refining his methods and testing out new tactics on the goban. Ogata found it necessary to invest a lot of time preparing for their matches in order to secure a win, a task which he usually greeted eagerly; truly challenging opponents were becoming scarcer as his game improved.

But recently, he'd had trouble concentrating, even with the prospect of an engaging opponent looming. There was a slight but niggling disinterest that he just couldn't shake, and Ogata had noticed his go was becoming more... mechanical. He'd always been known as a precise player, executing his moves with a ruthless efficiency, but there was still a certain fluidity present, the result of those little flashes of spontaneity and inspiration that brought his go to the next level and allowed him adapt to confront different playing styles. Lately, those little flashes had been too far and few between, although he had managed to defend his Juudan title for the second time the previous month.

Ogata wondered what his old sensei would think if he were to play a game with him now, in his present state. He grimaced at the thought, and his skull started to throb again. Damn, he really needed a hit of nicotine. Of course, Touya-sensei would say little as per his custom, but that eyebrow would lift up ever so slightly in a manner that Ogata secretly found infuriating at times.

If he were to play his sensei now, he would lose.

Perhaps not by much, but the gap between himself and the Meijin had been widening ever since the old man had taken off on his wild overseas jaunt like a boy fresh out of college. Many in the go community still shook their heads in bewildered affection at what was wildly regarded as “Touya Kouyou feeling his oats” but Ogata was not one of them. He had copies of Touya's kifu faxed or e-mailed to him after every single match, and the kifu told him a story in black and white circles, a story of Touya's progression from an incredibly powerful player to an outright menace on the goban.

In the past, Ogata had been able to wrest a few victories here and there from his sensei's grasp; he'd played Touya Meijin enough over the years to prevent himself from being overwhelmed by the onslaught of Touya's go. Familiarity, along with those occasional flashes of inspiration, had allowed him to secure a few cherished wins.

But during Touya's hospitalization, something dangerous had taken root in the Meijin's game. He'd seen it in the game Touya had played with him directly after his release. Ogata had won, but in the patterns of Touya's stones, he'd seen something beautiful and dangerous emerging. Like a cobra slowly uncoiling itself, preparing to strike with a deadly grace. Ogata had wracked his brains for days, trying to figure out when the Meijin's go had taken such a dramatic turn, and had come up with only one answer:

s a i.

That mysterious Internet player who had both terrorized and thrilled the online go community with his (her?) brilliance and strength like a wired, modern Shusaku. s a i , who refused to hint at his life or even chat with opponents, the sole exception apparently being that scrappy student of Morishita's, if the loud red-head was to be believed. s a i had started playing in July 99, then disappeared forever after that fateful Internet match with Touya. Three days later, Touya lost the fifth game of their match and thus lost his title of Juudan, which he'd held for years.

And Sensei hadn't given a damn. Still didn't, judging from his latest kifu. When Ogata had probed Touya after the game (ever so tactfully, the man was his sensei), Touya had merely said he'd discovered a new element to his go, but there had been incongruous emotion like mirth or exuberance lurking in his eyes – as if Touya hadn't been about to spring news of his retirement on the unsuspecting go world, upstaging Ogata's victory. Bastard.

Ogata had hoped that replaying s a i 's Internet games and studying Shusaku's kifu would bring a spark back to his own games, but he still remained unable to shake that air of detachment. Perhaps one had to actually have been granted a chance to play s a i for the magic to work. He'd have to harass Shindou again as soon as the boy returned from China. If Shindou performed well in the Hokuto Cup the second time around, perhaps he'd be in a relaxed mood and let something slip.

With a small sigh, Ogata carefully replaced Shusaku's kifu on the shelf. Maybe a vacation was in order. It had been awhile since he'd permitted himself the luxury, he'd been so intent on claiming titles. Or maybe trying something new would stimulate him. He'd heard that old Ichiryuu had gone skydiving in Australia after an extended slump and returned energized enough to pull off a win against Shirakawa 8-dan. Ogata couldn't suppress a small chuckle at the thought of throwing himself out of a plane, thousands of meters in the air, in hopes of invigorating his go. Top that, Sensei.

Ogata took the elevator to the first floor, squinting through the dimmed lighting. He was the only one still at the Association apparently, but he wasn't surprised. It was nearly seven-thirty on a Monday night, after all. Ogata locked the doors as he left (it was rather convenient, having his own set of keys.) His favorite fish store was probably already closed, but the one by the Ichigaya canal stayed open until eight. He paused, debating whether or not to get his Mazda from the parking garage. Usually he preferred to drive everywhere, but the fish store's parking lot was basically a long, steep slope. The thought of some old woman dinging his precious car gave Ogata the shudders.

He started walking. It was only about five minutes, and Japan in early May was still tolerable.

There weren't any other customers at the fish store, so Ogata took his time, leisurely peering at the tanks. There were some rather nice, mature discus in stock; Ogata particularly liked the gold variety. But he already had angelfish at home, and he'd heard that angelfish would harass discus mercilessly. Too bad. He wasn't spending 7000 yen on a fish to have it die from stress.

By the time the store closed, Ogata still didn't feel ready to return to the Association and kifu research, so instead he strolled down the narrow sidewalk that ran alongside the canal. Occasionally, a fish would leap out of the water to snap at a bug, weak moonlight glinting off silvery scales. Ogata stopped to pull his cigarettes out of his pockets. No damned signs here. He leaned his arms on the sidewalk's railing as he puffed away contentedly, admiring the way the water looked under the moonlight with the railroad tracks in the background. At night, one would never guess the water actually had an ugly, murky green hue by day.

That didn't mean idiots ought to throw their trash in the canal, Ogata thought, narrowing his eyes. Something big and white had gotten tangled in the roots of the willow tree that clung to the bank, almost directly below his position. He wondered if it were a bed sheet. The way it rippled gently in the water reminded him of the trailing, delicate fins of a white strain of betta. “The Ghost Betta,” they called it.

Ogata took a few more puffs, noticing that there were long, black strands attached to the sheet. Bed sheets don't have hair, Ogata noted idly, about a second before his brain put two and two together. Oh shit. In retrospect, he was proud that he only hesitated for a moment before scrambling over the railway (his pants were white, after all.) Ogata crouched low as he picked his way down the canal bank; the slope was steep and his dress shoes had horrible traction.

The stranger was almost completely submerged, except for her head. Ogata was relieved; he wouldn't have touched a corpse. Her eyes were shut, though. If she were unconscious, that would explain why she was still in the water. But then Ogata noticed her hands – her fingernails were literally digging into the tree's roots, her grip was so tense. Surely she had to be at least somewhat aware.

“Hey, wake up.” Ogata gently shook a shoulder. “You can't stay here all night,” he said reasonably.

The woman's eyes fluttered open. She looked dazed, although Ogata couldn't smell any alcohol on her. Maybe she was high. He hoped not. Even a small woman could be a real challenge if she were strung out. It would explain how she'd managed to end up in the canal, though: the railing was too high for a person to simply fall in by not paying attention.

“Where?” she rasped, casting her gaze around nervously. Her voice was quite hoarse; how long had she been in the water?

“The Ichigaya canal. I'm guessing you weren't out for an evening swim?” Ogata wrapped his right arm around the willow's trunk before extending his left hand. “Here, let go and take my hand.”

The woman regarded him warily for a long moment and bit her lip before reaching her hands out. Ogata hauled her forward heavily, leaning back to compensate for the weight of her water-logged clothing. She stumbled on the willow's roots, so Ogata was obliged to catch her under the arm. He suppressed a sigh. Damned good deed was going to get him soaking wet. He placed her other arm across his shoulders. “I'll help you walk to the road,” he said, pointing his chin to the left. They'd have to walk alongside the bank; there was no way this woman could manage climbing up the slope and over the fence in her present state. The slope was at least three meters high, and Ogata could feel the woman trembling as if her legs would give out at any moment. He guided her carefully over a small rain culvert. Her sodden clothing certainly wasn't helping matters either – it was long and caught in the overgrown grasses, and it was heavy as hell. Actually, perhaps costume would be a more accurate term than clothing, the style reminded him of something out of a Noh play. He could barely feel her arms under all the layers – who wore three layers of clothes in May? And it was genuine silk, too, judging from the feel of it. And her hair was ridiculously long, at least down to her hips. Nowadays, most women didn't even grow their hair past their shoulders.

Finally they made it to the end of that stretch of canal. Ogata helped the woman sit down in the grass near the road. “Do you want to call someone to pick you up?” he asked, patting his pockets for his cell phone, only to discover he'd forgotten it in the archives room. Damn. “Look, I seem to have forgotten my cell phone. I'm going to get my car, and then I can just drive you home, okay?” Ogata offered, reasoning that the woman must live nearby.

“I was just sleeping... and then I was... drowning.” She sounded like she was on the verge of tears. Ogata really hoped not. He could handle just about anything, including a woman having a full-blown temper-tantrum complete with flying go stones (well, that time had actually been rather entertaining, although perhaps he shouldn't have laughed to begin with.) Anything but a crying woman.

“It's okay now.” Ogata patted her on the shoulder. “Just wait here while I get my car. It's close. And please don't fall into the canal again.”

She offered him the barest hint of a smile as if to suggest she would do her very best.

Ogata hurried back to the Association as quickly as he could stride. He would have jogged, but his dress shoes weren't designed for it. Ogata wondered if the woman really were a sleep-walker, and decided he liked that explanation better than drugs because she wouldn't be going stark raving mad on him anytime soon. He rushed up to the archives room to retrieve his cell phone, then to the parking garage.

When Ogata returned, the woman was still sitting where he had left her. Ogata put his emergency flashers on and opened the passenger door before helping her – and her copious robes – into the car. “Where to?”

She blinked in confusion and Ogata arched his eyebrows up, wondering if perhaps this sodden affair wasn't going to be resolved as quickly as he'd like. She was apparently still suffering from the affects of near-drowning or hitting her head. He turned his emergencies off and drove to the nearest parking lot, flicking on the dome light as he engaged the emergency brake. “It's alright. Just take your time. You're probably still exp--”

Ogata's voice broke off as he got his first good look at the woman. It had been too dark outside with only a quarter moon, but under the dome light he could see that she was gorgeous. Her thick black hair complemented a pale, flawless complexion, and she also had fine cheekbones and a mouth that looked both proud and dainty. But her eyes were absolutely compelling, an unusual shade – violet?-- with some of the longest lashes Ogata had ever seen.

Ogata pretended to cough, glad the woman was still too out of it to have noticed his staring. “As I was saying, you're probably still experiencing the effects of a concussion. I should take you to a hospital so they can run some tests.”

“No!” The woman sat up straight in her seat, jerking against the seat belt in her haste. “I don't want to go there!”

Surprised at the sudden outburst, Ogata instinctively drew back. The woman flushed and hid her mouth behind a flowing sleeve. “Please forgive me,” she said. “I did not mean to be rude. I just don't know this 'hospital' place.”

She had good breeding, at least; her speech was very polite and respectful. Although her voice was hoarse, it wasn't slurred at all, which was a good sign. But Ogata was disturbed by the way she referred to a hospital. It wasn't uncommon for people to be afraid of hospitals, but she was acting as if she didn't know what it was. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “What about ... the police?” Ogata ventured. “There's a koban very close, right across from the station.”

The woman's fingers curled into her palms. “I'm sorry, I don't know that either.” Ogata felt his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He'd heard of people temporarily forgetting things like the date and their pet's name, but the hospital? The police?

“That's not good. I'm going to do a quick check to make certain you're not seriously injured,” Ogata said as he started rummaging under his seat for his car emergency kit. He pulled a small flashlight and flicked it on. “I'll shine this in your eyes so I can make sure they're dilating properly, okay?” The woman nodded and Ogata gently tilted her chin up, noting that she did not cringe away from his touch. He shone the light in her right pupil first, then her left. Her pupils seemed to be responding like anyone else's, as far as he could tell. He held up an index finger. “How many?”

“One.”

Ogata held up three fingers.

“Three.”

Ogata sat on his hand, keeping his features straight. “How many now?” Ogata was rewarded with a full smile, one that lit the woman's features up, making her seem quite young, definitely younger than he was. He wondered if she were a college student, and then remembered there were other questions one ought ask a head injury victim. “I'm Ogata Seiji. It's nice to make your acquaintance, although perhaps not under these circumstances.”

The woman bowed as far as the seat belt allowed. “Thank you for your assistance, Ogata-san. I'm Fujiwara... Fujiwara...” A look of vague horror flitted across the woman's face, and she drew her hand up to her mouth. “I don't remember. I don't remember my given name,” she said, sounding stunned.

Ogata was alarmed, but he didn't want to upset the woman into tears. “I'm sure it will come to you soon. I'll just call you Fujiwara-san for now. Do you remember how old you are?”

She thought for a moment, then bit her lip. “No.”

“Where do you live?”

She shook her head.

“Who's the prime minister?”

“ 'Prime minister'...?”

“Do you have a headache, or does your neck feel stiff?”

“No, I don't think so.”

That was odd. Ogata figured the woman – Fujiwara – ought to be experiencing at least some pain if her injury were severe enough to make her forget her name. “Can you hold your right arm out like this?” He stretched his own over the dashboard.

Fujiwara mimicked him easily, then stretched out the left as well.

“You don't seem to have any motor skills problems.” Ogata fiddled with his glasses again, rather intrigued to have run across someone with apparent, genuine amnesia. It was like a puzzle. Puzzles could be fun off the goban, too.

“Are you a doctor?”

Ogata made a small, dry laugh. “No, I just spent a lot of time harassing one when I was a brat, following her around and playing with her stethoscope. I'm a professional go player; that is, I play games for a living,” he said, waiting for her inevitable reaction of surprise or befuddlement or even disdain. He'd gotten some terribly amusing reactions before, as if he'd just admitted to playing professional strip poker for a living.

“That's wonderful,” Fujiwara said, her voice soft, but there was something so openly genuine in her tone that Ogata glanced away for a moment, embarrassed at his own assumptions.

“I don't suppose you're familiar with go, then?”

“I apologize. I don't think so. It's just that when you mentioned go, you seemed... happy. Like you love it.”

“Sometimes. But that's not really important now,” Ogata said, mentally scolding himself. Peppering an amnesiac about go, honestly, Seiji. “I don't think you're in immediate danger, so I think it would be okay for you to go home, although you really ought to go to a ho—doctor—tomorrow and at least get a scan done. Have you remembered where you live, or your phone number? Your parents?”

Fujiwara looked down at her folded hands. “Please excuse me. Nothing's coming back yet.”

Ogata knew then he was stuck in a tough spot. He really didn't know where else to bring her since her amnesia made her afraid of the hospital and the police. He supposed he could just dump her off at one of those places against her wishes, but the thought of doing that to a young woman sat wrong in his gut.

Then Ogata heard the sound of a seat-belt being unfastened, and saw that Fujiwara's face was set in resolve.

“Ogata-san, thank you very much for your assistance. I apologize for taking up so much of your evening and getting you wet. I wish there was some way I could repay your kindness.”

“You're just going to start walking?” Ogata asked in disbelief as she put her hand on the door handle, and Fujiwara nodded firmly.

“Where exactly are you going to walk to? It's dark, you're not well, and you don't remember anything. You're also young to be wandering around by yourself.” A little harsh, but Fujiwara needed to realize she was being foolish, especially since her sensitive behavior and mannerisms suggested she was used to being sheltered by her probably doting parents, who could afford to buy her authentic, silk costumes. Ogata bet that she had never even lived on her own.

“I'll be fine. I'm sure things will start to come to me soon. Please forgive the inconveniences,” Fujiwara said with a trace of haughtiness as she got out of the car. Ogata realized his miscalculation then: because of Fujiwara's politeness, he hadn't realized that he was dealing with a very proud woman.

Ogata watched her stand in the parking lot, clearly trying to decide which direction to take. I ought to just let her walk around by herself in the dark, sopping wet. She'll learn a valuable lesson. And it wasn't like Ichigaya was Roppongi or Kabukicho. She'd be fine, Ogata reasoned. He ought to forget about her and go back to the Association and actually study for a hour or so, then dinner.

Except it would just be his luck to start worrying about her instead of concentrating. She was exceptionally beautiful, after all. Maybe someone would try to take advantage of her. Or she would start hemorrhaging from an undetected internal injury. Or his mother would find out he let a young woman wander off by herself in the dark. Ogata drew a sharp breath: his mother was a force of nature not to be meddled with.

Well, time for a new game strategy. Ogata got out of his car. “Fujiwara-san, I apologize if I offended you. Why don't you stay at my apartment tonight?” he proposed smoothly. “After you've had some rest, you'll probably start remembering things, and then you can call someone to come pick you up.” Ogata usually did not invite people to his apartment, even his girlfriends. He had a very particular order and he liked things quiet so he could concentrate. But one night was okay, and hadn't he been wanting to try something new anyway? Rescuing a lovely stranger was cheaper and safer than skydiving.

Fujiwara hesitated, but Ogata could see uncertainty starting to crumble her proud expression. “You... wouldn't mind? I wouldn't be imposing on you and your family?”

“No, it's not a problem. And I live alone.”

Fujiwara bowed to him deeply, almost to her waist. “Then, please accept my deepest gratitude. You are truly a kind man.”

Ogata bowed back, a little awkwardly. She really was well-mannered, if a little old-fashioned. And kindness wasn't a trait that was usually attributed to Ogata, but it wasn't like he could have just left her alone in the dark.

~~~~~~

On the drive to his apartment, Ogata learned a few interesting things. Fujiwara's amnesia was not complete. When they'd driven by a hospital, Ogata had pointed it out to her. She'd recognized the ambulances in front of it, and recalled having ridden in one before, and that memory triggered other memories of doctors and nurses inside the hospital. So she hadn't actually “forgotten” the concept of a hospital, she just didn't recognize the word hospital. The mechanisms of the brain were intriguing indeed.

Given that, Ogata wondered if she did really work for the Takarazuka theater troupe. She hadn't recognized the name when he'd asked her about it, but given her amnesia, perhaps that didn't mean much. He'd gotten a chance to examine her costume more closely, and was convinced it was an extremely accurate replica of a Heian-era nobleman's clothing, especially since Fujiwara had sadly noted that she'd lost her “eboshi” (that funny-looking black hat, if he remembered his history classes correctly.) It had been awhile since he'd attended a Takarazuka performance, but Ogata recalled that the all-female troupe specialized in historical re-enactments, and the actresses who played the male roles were both notably tall and beautiful. He was tall himself, but when Fujiwara had been standing outside of the car, he realized she was actually a little taller. Also, if she were used to playing a character like a Heian noble, it would also explain the deep bowing and why she hid her mouth behind that water-ruined fan when she giggled or was embarrassed. Strange, but yet oddly charming – like one would expect an actor to be.

The entrance to Ogata's high-rise apartment was completely electronic. No guards or receptionists to deal with, just a wave of his security card and then a ride up the elevators. Ogata preferred it that way, especially now since he was currently accompanied by a still-soaking wet young woman and didn't feel like dealing with questioning glances. Although, of course, he already had a clever story concocted about a friend's costume party and a pool and a little too much alcohol in case his neighbor's nosy Chinese aunt happened to be on her self-assigned corridor patrol tonight.

The corridors were thankfully deserted, and the story was not needed. Ogata removed his shoes in his apartment's entranceway and left Fujiwara there while he fetched towels. She tried valiantly to dry off, but there were simply too many layers of clothing for her to be successful. “You'll have to hang those up to dry. Come to the restroom, I'll give you a change of clothes – I think it should fit you okay, as long as you don't mind wearing men's clothes.”

Fujiwara gave him a puzzled look. “No, of course not.” Then she glanced down at his floor, hesitating to step forward.

“Don't worry. This apartment is all tile – no tatami here.” Ogata gave her a reassuring smile, and she followed him down the hallway. Ogata noticed that her eyes lit up when they passed by the opened door of his study – she must have seen the aquarium, glowing in the dark.

Ogata opened the door to the restroom and gestured inside. “There are more towels in that cabinet under the sink if you need them. Wait and I'll get the clothes.”

Ogata went to his bedroom and rummaged through his bottom dresser drawer, where he stashed clothes he no longer wore. He settled on a pair of cotton sweatpants with a drawstring, and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a pair of thick socks. Ogata, naturally, owned no women's underclothes, so he supposed Fujiwara would just have to make do with whatever she was already wearing or go commando if she so chose. Then he grabbed some hangers so she could hang her clothes on the shower rod.

He handed the clothes and hangers to Fujiwara, who accepted them with a smile. “I'll be in the kitchen putting on some tea for when you're done.” The tea would be good for Fujiwara's raspy throat, and maybe it would stave off a cold.

Ogata was pouring the hot water into the teacups by the time he heard Fujiwara emerge from the bathroom. Must have taken awhile to dry off all that hair, a thought that was confirmed by the mussed appearance of her now-unbound hair when she stepped into the kitchen. “I'm glad the clothes seem to fit. Luckily you've got long arms and legs too,” he said as he added a bit of honey into his own tea. “Do you want anything in yours?”

“No thank you.”

Ogata handed the cup to Fujiwara before enjoying a few sips of his own. He flicked his gaze over her discreetly, noting that she definitely seemed a lot better, displaying no weakness or trembling as she had when he'd first pulled her out. Her body seemed lean and strong, so that would doubtless aid in her recovery from amnesia.

Ogata was almost finished with his tea when he realized that Fujiwara's body was a little too lean and flat. As a matter of fact, she... had no breasts at all.

“You're not a woman.” To his credit, he managed to state it fairly calmly.

“Ehhhhh??!!” Fujiwara turned a brilliant red and jumped a little, almost sloshing her--his tea out of the cup. “Why would you think I was a woman? I was wearing men's clothes – I'm wearing men's clothes now!”

Ogata almost mentioned the Takarazuka again before remembering that Fujiwara didn't recall the troupe. He could definitely see a little Adam's apple in Fujiwara's throat now that he knew to look for it; earlier, it had been concealed by the robes. But even knowing that, Fujiwara still seemed remarkably feminine in appearance. Ogata had seen beautiful men before--had even seduced a few--but he'd never mistaken them for women. Maybe it was the body language and the behavior. Fujiwara's definitely had a few wires crossed. “Well, you do have long hair and you're wearing earrings, too,” Ogata finally stated, trying to pick features that seemed like relatively neutral territory.

Fujiwara fingered his earrings with a slight pout. “Men can wear earrings and long hair too.” Then he furrowed his brow in worry. “You're not... upset with me, are you?”

“No, just a little surprised is all. It doesn't really matter,” Ogata said calmly. It wasn't as if Fujiwara had ever explicitly claimed to be a woman, or that he had asked. They'd both just acted on their own assumptions. True, Ogata would have been a little more wary of letting a strange man in his apartment, but Fujiwara just didn't seem capable of posing any sort of threat. Although they were both about the same height, Fujiwara looked very slender. Ogata wasn't a big-framed man like Touya Kouyou, but he did work out regularly enough to have a well-muscled body. Fujiwara didn't give the impression of being capable of physical aggression, either.

Ogata let his gaze flick over Fujiwara again, noticing that the other man had lovely posture. Fujiwara being male didn't change the fact that he was pleasant to look at. Ogata could manage with a strange man in his apartment for one night.

~~~~~~

Chapter Text

~~~~~~
Dinner was a simple affair of grilled salmon, rice, steamed vegetables, and miso soup. Usually Ogata cooked slightly more elaborate meals for himself; one of the key selling points of this condo was its spacious kitchen with its sleek, black counters and stainless steel appliances. But it was already late and he'd noticed Fujiwara muffling a few yawns, so he went for something quick (Fujiwara, not surprisingly, had insisted on helping, but he'd maneuvered the man out of his kitchen to finish off the tea in the dining room.) Dinner conversation was pleasant but ultimately boring; Fujiwara inquired after his family and hobbies, and Ogata was obliged to do most of the talking since Fujiwara kept drawing blanks about himself. Ogata was reminded that he much preferred gleaning information about others rather than prattling about himself; he already knew himself quite well.

After dinner, Ogata did not extend their conversation for long, and ushered Fujiwara into the living room with a pillow and blanket tucked under arm. Unlike Ogata's study, which contained his painstakingly cultivated library, computer, TV set, aquarium, and numerous lamps, his living room was mostly bare, the only furniture a white Italian leather couch and a glass coffee table. His goban perched on the coffee table, still covered with stones from a title match game. Not one of Ogata's games, but the one Kurata had played to successfully seize the Ouza title from Zama 9-dan.

Fujiwara's eyes lingered on the goban.

“Do you recognize this game?” Ogata asked, referring to Go in general. It was possible Fujiwara was just staring because the goban was really the only interesting object in the room.

“It seems familiar somehow...” Fujiwara gave a small, helpless shrug.

“Well, I'm sure things will start coming back to you soon. I'll be in my study if you need anything. I'll wake you up in three hours to check on you, just to make sure you're doing okay.” That was standard procedure for treating head injury victims at home: wake them up at frequent intervals to make certain they haven't lapsed into unconsciousnesses.

“I apologize for the--” Fujiwara began, but Ogata cut him off with a wave.

“Don't worry. Get some rest.”

As he left the room, Ogata glanced back. Fujiwara looked small and forlorn somehow, curled up on the couch under the blanket. He was still staring at the goban, as if it contained his missing memories.

Instead of researching Kurata's kifu, Ogata found himself surfing Internet medical sites. The information he'd dug up on amnesia wasn't very conclusive because the degree of severity and duration of amnesia varied wildly, and medical experts disagreed about the best form of treatment for it. Apparently, near-drowning could also be a cause of amnesia because the brain started suffering from oxygen deprivation after about three minutes of no air. However, motor skill impairment was far more likely than amnesia.

A glance at his computer's clock showed that about two hours had passed. Ogata decided to go ahead and check on Fujiwara. As he drew close to the living room, he realized the lamp by the couch was still on. Silently, Ogata moved into the doorway and paused.

Fujiwara's head was bent over the goban, his hair spilling onto its edges. A black stone hovered in the air, held expertly between his index and middle fingers.

Clack. After a long moment's deliberation, Fujiwara placed the stone somewhere in the upper left quadrant. That was the section, Ogata recalled, where the death of a group of key black stones had become certain. Kurata, who had been playing White, had set the cunning trap in play about fifteen moves earlier, and his opponent had resigned after realizing there was no foreseeable way for him to escape.

Yet Ogata's instincts had told him that there was a way for Black to survive, but the path remained frustratingly hidden to him, hovering just beyond the edge of his perception. It was wholly improbable, Ogata reminded himself, to imagine that Fujiwara had found that path when he himself couldn't, but Ogata couldn't help but slow his breath as he padded quietly across the room. Something about the expression on Fujiwara's face had snared his attention. Intensity. An intensity so strong it was almost palpable. Was Fujiwara one of those hard-core amateurs, or perhaps one of the more talented Net-Go players?

Clack. Clack. Clack. The stones clicked into place quickly now that the first had been laid. Black's path to survival glittered like an onyx serpent, twisting in a pattern Ogata had never fathomed. Ogata's heart thudded in his chest as the brilliance of the moves sunk in; with this play, Black could not only live but tip the balance of the entire game. But surely, Fujiwara simply happened to be familiar with a very similar scenario; perhaps some professional kifu had been uploaded to the Internet and Fujiwara had just recognized that he could apply the play to this specific game. There was just no feasible way that a non-pro could be capable of such a level of play.

Then Fujiwara looked up, his expression of surprise quickly mutating into guilt. “Oh! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to mess with your game! I'll put it back just like it was!”

Ogata grabbed Fujiwara's wrist before he could remove the offending stones and Fujiwara blinked at the contact, wide-eyed. Ogata stared at the board, releasing Fujiwara's hand only when he'd committed the pattern to memory.

Fujiwara began reiterating his apology, but Ogata ignored him, instead studying Fujiwara's face as if he could read its secrets like he would a board. Then Ogata swept the goban clean, and placed it on the floor, settling himself cross-legged style in front of the board. “Play a game with me.” It wasn't a request.

Fujiwara stared at him, then a small smile flitted across his lips. He slid off the couch, fan in hand, and settled on the opposite side of the goban, folding his legs under himself neatly.

Ogata did not offer Fujiwara a handicap but instead wordlessly passed him the goke with the black stones. “Onegaishimasu.”

“Onegaishimasu.” Fujiwara returned the bow, then deftly snapped a black stone onto a star point.

Ogata answered with a white stone on another star point.

They continued in this manner for a few moves, claiming key points of territory swiftly. Solid play but nothing extraordinary, any player of intermediate skill knew what the key positions were. But now came the test of ability.

Fujiwara's almond-shaped eyes narrowed, and he snapped his fan open, hovering it in front of his mouth before placing the next stone in Ogata's territory with a decisive clack.

Ogata stroked his chin appraisingly. Not a bad move.

Several exchanges later, Ogata felt his pulse begin to accelerate: Fujiwara's stones were taking shape. The emerging patterns stirred Ogata's memory, a thrill shooting up his spine as he realized that he'd seen this style of play before. Tell me who you are, Ogata commanded silently, maneuvering his stones to swiftly sever intruding Black's life.

I don't know, said Fujiwara's honest eyes. But his escaping stones whispered, You know, you know it in your bones, in your blood, in every part of you that loves Go.

Sweat beaded on Ogata's forehead as he focused on yet another breach of his territory. The breach was elegant, executed with subtle plays so it would be overlooked in favor of more obvious threats. He'd caught it early, but he could see how it would have spread like poisonous creepers had it been left unchecked just a hand or two more. Ogata strengthened his presence in Fujiwara's sphere of influence, forming an attack that struck with the force of a brutal, unavoidable spearing. Who are you, an unknown who exchanges equal blows with the Juudan?

Fujiwara tapped the folded fan against pursed lips, considering the damage.

Ogata allowed himself a small smirk as Fujiwara's pause stretched into minutes. It was a particularly insightful attack on his part, the caliber of play that had granted him long-desired victory over Touya Meijin. Yet deep inside, he felt a small, traitorous twinge of disappointment. You can't be him. Even though there's no escape, he'd find one. He'd make one.

Finally Black answered, and Ogata let a small breath of air escape, readying his next play. Fujiwara's was a decent move, one that would stem Black's losses, but not enough to recover from White's vicious attack. Fujiwara was quite gifted, no doubt, and he must have certainly studied that player online, but he wasn't--

Ogata froze, his vision nearly blurring from shock as a second pattern emerged from the board like a phantom rising out of a fog, a pattern that encompassed nearly the entire board in its influence. That single black move had breathed life into Fujiwara's stones and death into his. Ogata grasped his knees tightly with trembling hands; he'd been confident that he'd been reading the game deeply. But Fujiwara had read it down to its skeleton. How... ?

Tell me who you are. And Ogata looked up to meet s a i 's eyes.

Fujiwara's face was gentle in victory, glowing with accomplishment, the beautiful smile indicating pride in game well-played on both sides. But Sai's eyes were deep and unknowable as Go itself, a thousand years of experience peering out from a young man's body. Ogata was overwhelmed, overwhelmed by the game and overwhelmed by Sai.

“Makemashita.”

~~~~~~

Chapter Text

“It was a beautiful game,” Fujiwara breathed, after Ogata had surrendered. “Ogata-san, I'm honored that you asked me to play a game. Your go is wonderful – like right here, when you played a hane. That was perfect timing. Or those last few moves of yours! Absolutely brilliant, I didn't think I'd be able to recover from that. I was quite worried, but I suppose I got lucky. Oh! Should I be calling you Ogata-sensei instead, since you're a professional? I'm sorry, I'm not sure of the procedure! Please don't be offended!”

Ogata managed to pry his eyes off the board to stare at Fujiwara in utter bewilderment as the man continued to gush about the game and wave his fan at certain stones. The man had just beaten him by two moku, yet Fujiwara was rambling on about whether or not he should be called “sensei.” At the title-holder level, half a moku wins were not uncommon, so a two moku loss was basically considered a trouncing - not a fluke or luck. Didn't Fujiwara realize that? Ogata entertained the idea that Fujiwara was very slyly mocking him, until he noticed a suspicious dampness glittering in Fujiwara's eyes. His opponent was crying from sheer happiness.

Ogata wordlessly handed Fujiwara a tissue, then took a moment to compose himself and collect his thoughts. First, he'd found Fujiwara – who was really s a i. Then he'd taken Sai home. He'd played Sai. Sai had crushed him. Now Sai was crying. Which was apparently a good thing because Sai was crying from happiness, not because Ogata had played a really bad game. No, the game hadn't been bad at all, Ogata conceded, glancing at the board again. Confronted with Sai's brilliance, he'd been forced to try a new tactic he'd never used before. Playing Sai for just one game had energized Ogata's play just as he'd hoped; already, several more possibilities for enhancing his game were racing through Ogata's mind.

No wonder Sensei was so desperate for a rematch with Sai. Ogata smirked, imagining the Meijin's expression when he received a phone call in China, informing him that while he'd been off globe- trotting, Sai had been under his nose all along. Wouldn't Sensei be so surprised to learn Sai had popped up under their noses, just a mere stone's throw away from the Go Association?

Why tell him? He wouldn't even share a little information about Sai with you, not even when you begged him in the hospital. Same with that Shindou brat. Ogata blinked in surprise at the old venom behind that sudden thought. Ogata had thought he had gotten over the resentment about being left out of the secret; he'd realized that obviously Shindou had made Sensei swear to keep a secret, and it simply wasn't in Sensei's nature to break a promise. Although Sensei could have at least made the effort to see if s a i would be willing to play Ogata as well. Ogata had been Sensei's student longer than anyone else, after all, and Ogata had wanted to play Sai so very badly.

Rather like the position Touya Meijin was in now, apparently. According to Internet rumor, someone had overheard Sensei remark to a Korean pro that there was nothing he desired more than a rematch with s a i . Well, tough luck. Ogata felt his spine stiffen with resolve as he willed away the faint sense of disloyalty nipping at his conscience. Sensei had already had his chance to play Sai, now it was Ogata's turn. Anyway, Ogata was certain Sensei knew no details of the real person behind the net handle s a i; if Sensei had, he could have used those details to track s a i down. Touya Meijin would be of no use in helping Fujiwara overcome his amnesia.

Shindou, on the other hand... he'd been the one to arrange the match between the two. Obviously Sai and Shindou had shared some sort of private correspondence, and Sai trusted Shindou enough to let him arrange matches. And there was also the matter of Shindou's incredibly fast-paced rise in the world of Go. Ogata had made discreet inquires here and there as to Shindou's teachers, but all his information suggested that Shindou had never had a private tutor. Shindou had studied in Shirakawa 8-dan's community class and Morishita 9-dan's study group, in addition to time spent playing in go salons during his insei days. But Shindou had never had a formal sensei.

That incongruity had always set wrong with Ogata's instinct: the rapid development of Shindou's skills was the sort that only came from constant exposure to an excellent, demanding teacher. Yet if Sai had taught Shindou only over the Internet, then he could have maintained his precious anonymity easily. Furthermore, if Sai had only Shindou as a pupil, then he must have poured all his energies into improving the boy's game so Shindou grew even faster. There was little doubt in Ogata's mind that Sai's style was stamped all over Shindou's; he'd found way too many similarities while comparing their kifu.

s a i was infamous for maintaining silence with his NetGo opponents. But there was a difference between an opponent – even one of the Meijin's caliber – and a treasured, trusted pupil. Perhaps, Fujiwara had exchanged personal details with Shindou: where he lived, who he lived with, his pictures, his job... But then again, maybe he was just as secretive with Shindou, and Shindou was sensitive about being prodded about s a i because he didn't want to risk a relatively fragile relationship. There was also the matter of Shindou's sudden withdrawal from the Go community for a few months, back when he'd first turned pro: had Shindou had a falling out with Sai? Or had Sai suddenly disappeared from the Internet due to circumstances beyond his control, perhaps the very same circumstances that had resulted in him floating half-conscious and amnesiac in the Ichigaya Canal?

It was possible Shindou had some answers. It was just as possible he didn't. Maybe it would be unfair to get Fujiwara's hopes up just for a mere hunch.

“Is something wrong, Ogata-sensei?” Fujiwara had finally noticed his non-responsiveness and was now staring at him, fine brows furrowed in concern.

“No, I'm fine. And please don't call me 'sensei',” Ogata said, removing his glasses so he could wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Shindou and Sai – it would be best to simply bide his time and see what Fujiwara remembered on his own, rather than influencing him with unsubstantiated hunches. “Excellent game. Obviously you haven't forgotten how to play go. You routed me rather completely,” Ogata said frankly with a dry smile, replacing his glasses. “If you don't mind my asking, what exactly are you remembering now?”

“Just games. Hundreds of them. I don't remember the context or time or even my opponents, just the moves and the arrangements of the stones.” Fujiwara looked down at the ruined fan in his hands, turning it over and over. “I wonder what that says about me, that I can remember games down to the stone but can't even remember a single face.”

Shindou, whispered Ogata's instinct. Ogata ignored it and the twinge of unease in his stomach, and said instead: “I'm sure it's just a result of however you hit your head or injured yourself. The brain reacts in strange way to injury. It's not a reflection on you personally.”

“But you have to admit, it is a little odd that I don't even remember my family but I have no problem remembering that a small keima works best in this situation here.” Fujiwara gestured towards the goban, his voice wavering slightly. There was absolutely no trace of that incongruous and ancient presence Ogata had sensed during the game; Fujiwara looked just like what he was: a young man, lost and confused.

Ogata experienced a sudden urge to give Fujiwara a consoling touch on the shoulder or hand, but he shook it off. He was hardly the sort of person who went around doling out pats like a doddering grandmother, and certainly not to a beautiful man he'd be trying to seduce, given normal circumstances. “I don't think it's that odd at all,” Ogata said reassuringly, in lieu of touching. “Your level of skill suggests that you've spent a lot of time playing go. So maybe it's why go is the first thing you've remembered – it doesn't mean it will be the only thing you remember.”

Fujiwara gave Ogata a tiny, uncertain smile that said he knew Ogata was just guessing to make him feel better, but that he appreciated the gesture all the same. “You said I'm skilled... do you think perhaps I'm a professional player as well?” Fujiwara ventured carefully.

Even though Ogata had been anticipating the question, he was barely able to maintain a neutral expression at hearing s a i himself echo the question so many go players had been asking ever since his first appearance online. “No, the professional world of go isn't a large one. I'd already be familiar with you if you were a professional,” Ogata said with conviction.

Fujiwara looked crestfallen, and Ogata found himself adding that – although it was a long shot – he could check with the Go Associations in Kansai and Western Japan, just to make certain that they weren't missing any go players. Maybe, Ogata thought privately, Fujiwara had decided to become an insei after realizing how easily he was dominating his opponents online, although it was hard to believe that news of such a talented insei wouldn't have reached Tokyo.

Immediately, Fujiwara's face brightened. “Thank you very much, Ogata-sensei. I'm afraid I haven't got many ideas myself about what I should do next, since I don't remember enough yet. Earlier, you had mentioned that I should go to a doctor and get a 'scan' done. Would this 'scan' help me find my memories?”

Ogata knew he ought to be very worried that apparently Fujiwara hadn't retained even a basic grasp of modern technology. But there was something almost... cute about the way he was phrasing his question, completely earnest and serious. Ogata bit the inside of his lip because laughing just wouldn't be appropriate in this situation. “The scan can't 'find your memories' directly. But if you sustained an injury to your brain, then a scan can help the doctor detect the injury and possibly treat it. If you'd like, I'll take you to my family doctor first, and then she might recommend you to a specialist, probably a neurologist.”

Fujiwara nodded sagely. “Ah, so the neurologist is a memory specialist. I think that would be a good idea.”

“I have a free schedule tomorrow, so we can go first thing in the morning,” Ogata said, glancing at his watch. It was almost 2:00 a.m. “Why don't you try to get some sleep now?”

“Can't we play just one more game?” The look that Fujiwara gave Ogata then could only be described as impish and wheedling. And possibly illegal. It was wrong for a grown man to be able to pull off a look like that, Ogata groused to himself.

Fujiwara got his game.

~~~~~~

Chapter Text

“2:00 open. Bring Marlboros.”

Ogata smirked, then winced. The computer screen seemed far too relentlessly bright and sharp at the unholy hour of eight in the morning. He leaned back in his leather chair, and removed his glasses to rub at his throbbing temples. Usually, Ogata was not a particularly early riser, but he'd dragged himself out of bed to fire off a short query to Doctor Kiyohara's cell phone. He'd simply asked if she had time available to examine a friend; the particulars weren't necessary, not as long as they'd known each other.

Coffee. Coffee would be good. Then a cigarette. And maybe another coffee. His second game with Fujiwara had lasted until 3:30, but it would have undoubtedly lasted longer if Ogata hadn't insisted on an hour and half time limit. The reading of the game at such a level required at least three hours play time for each side, but Ogata had wanted at least some sleep. It was Fujiwara's own business if he wanted to stay up all night, but Doctor Kiyohara would give Ogata a tongue-lashing, since he'd taken on the responsibility of looking after Fujiwara's health temporarily. The good doctor had elevated verbal flaying to an art-form.

In the second game, Fujiwara hadn't pulled off any spectacularly jaw-dropping plays like in the first and his eyes hadn't taken on that peculiar ancient cast, but his strong, elegant moves alone had been sufficient to propel him to a six moku victory, to Ogata's surprise. Ogata had assumed he would have a slight advantage the second time around. His style of go involved a lot of analysis, so he was strongest when he was familiar with his opponent.

Obviously, so was Fujiwara.

Ogata grinned in anticipation. He couldn't wait to play Fujiwara again, and now that he'd made Fujiwara's acquaintance, he'd certainly have plenty of opportunities to play Fujiwara in the future. Fujiwara probably lived somewhere in Tokyo, so it would be convenient for them to meet for games. Ogata just hoped Fujiwara didn't have an extremely demanding boss or a possessive partner. Non go-players were often rather intolerant of what they regarded as time “wasted” spent playing go; he'd broken up with more than a few girlfriends over that very issue. Then there was the one who'd thrown a handful of stones at him when he'd bluntly stated that he found go far more interesting than her. (Ogata still maintained that she shouldn't have asked the question if she hadn't wanted an honest answer.) Still, as go-obsessed as Fujiwara was, he'd probably manage to make some time regardless of his personal circumstances.

After a few cups of coffee and two cigarettes, Ogata felt satiated and ready to greet the day properly. He showered, then pulled on a pair of white slacks and a dark green shirt to match his favorite leather jacket. Now as for Fujiwara's clothing... the costume had dried, but it still reeked of canal water. And Doctor Kiyohara would hardly appreciate it either if Fujiwara arrived at the check-up wearing five layers of clothing. Ogata took out a pair of jeans that were small in the hips for him, a belt, and a blue button-down shirt. Then Ogata also got a pair of boxers out, quelling the twinge of embarrassment he felt at sharing underwear with another man, surprised to find that even he was a bit of a prude when it came to some things. As for shoes, Fujiwara would just have to make do with whatever pair he could manage to walk in.

Fujiwara was sitting on the couch, eyes still half-lid with drowsiness when Ogata rapped politely on the living room door's frame. Ogata handed him the clothes, and Fujiwara thanked Ogata with a blush and a stammer, his shy manner and expression bearing little resemblance to the intense player who'd dominated the goban earlier.

“After you take a shower, let's eat breakfast. We'll have some time before the appointment, so I was planning to replay some of my next opponent's games. I have an important match coming up at the end of this month, so if you wouldn't mind, I'd like your input.”

Fujiwara's face lit up as if he'd just won the Japan Jumbo Draw. “Of course! If you think I'd be useful in helping you prepare, Sensei,” he added deferentially.

“Definitely. And don't call me 'sensei',” Ogata said, half-heartedly this time. Fujiwara was beginning to remind him of his mother in that aspect, if she thought something was the “proper” thing to do, she'd continue doing it regardless of what you asked. She would just politely pretend not to hear you if you protested. Ogata thought her selective hearing was definitely one of her more useful skills, and he admired it when it wasn't driving him up the wall. One day, Ogata hoped she would bequeath that skill to him, so he could add to his arsenal in the on-going war against Kuwabara.

Soon, old man. Soon.
~~~~~~

Fujiwara was the very picture of indignation, arms crossed, two pink spots staining his cheeks, nose upturned.

Ogata couldn't stop chuckling. The way Fujiwara was standing wasn't helping matters any.

“I don't see what is so terribly funny about what I said,” Fujiwara said in clipped tones, sounding severely tempted to say something impolite.

“I'm sorry. I don't mean to make light of your condition, but... that's the first time I've ever heard anyone refer to a computer quite like that. Your description was just”--Ogata paused, searching for a diplomatic word that might mollify Fujiwara--“unique,” he finished, aware that the apology was a little lacking.

Apparently Fujiwara thought so as well. He swatted his folded fan against his palm sharply, his violet eyes flashing dangerously. “'Unique' as in weird, yes? Then Sensei, please explain to me how you would describe this... 'computer' then.”

Not as 'that box with players inside,' that's for certain, Ogata thought wryly. Fujiwara had gotten excited when he'd stepped inside the study and spotted the computer, and had proceeded to identify it in the most amusing of terms. His amnesia had definitely damaged his grasp of modern technology. During breakfast, Ogata had noticed that Fujiwara was watching him very carefully as he operated the microwave. Shortly afterwards, Fujiwara had cautiously approached the microwave to reheat his drink. There was something odd about the manner he had touched the microwave, with wariness yet not complete unfamiliarity, almost as if he had never actually operated one himself. Like he'd only seen microwaves on TV or something. Assuming that Fujiwara knew how to operate a television; Ogata wasn't quite ready to discount his latest outlandish theory, which was that the man had been raised in monastery with robe-clad, go-playing monks and no contact with the outside world. Although that wouldn't explain how Fujiwara had been able to wreak havoc online as s a i.

Regardless, Fujiwara's pride was injured, and Ogata wanted his help. So he gave Fujiwara a concise explanation about the computer and the Internet along with a visual demonstration.

“Ah,” Fujiwara said when Ogata finished, looking pacified. He pointed at the modem cable with his fan. “So if you take that cord out, then you can't talk to other players anymore.”

“Precisely.” Pleased, Ogata nodded. He hated explaining himself twice. Some go players' intelligence didn't extend beyond the goban (there was one notable Korean pro who hadn't bothered to learn to tie his shoes until his late teens), but obviously Fujiwara wasn't one of them. His fractured memory just meant he was lacking reference points for the time being. “Would you like to try?” Ogata stood up and gestured to the seat. It would be interesting to see if Fujiwara retained computer skills without the memory of having them, just like his go skills.

Fujiwara leaned forward, regarding the computer with a mixture of eagerness and caution, but then he remembered the sheaf of kifu Ogata had printed out. “No thank you, not right now. May we play go instead?”

“Of course.” Ogata handed the kifu to Fujiwara. “These are my opponent's kifu. His name is Kurata Atsushi. He's a relatively new pro, but talented, and we've played each other frequently so he's familiar with my style. I'd appreciate it if you would review these, then play a game with me the way you think he would play it. I want to determine if there are weaknesses in my game that he could exploit.”

“Mmm, yes.” Fujiwara nodded absentmindedly, intent on the kifu as he sank to the floor, settling into seiza.

Ogata watched as Fujiwara pored over the kifu with an expression of intense concentration. All successful pros had strong concentration skills, although of course some were better than others. (One of Ogata's favorite memories of Touya Meijin was the time his sensei been playing in a match and hadn't realized the fire alarm had been ringing for a good solid minute. The puzzled expression on the Meijin's face when he finally noticed people scrambling for the door had been priceless.)

The task Ogata had requested of Fujiwara was by no means a simple one; most players simply weren't capable of imitating another player's style for an entire game, but Ogata had little doubt that Fujiwara was quite capable of such a feat. Not after that second game. Ogata was well aware of the quirks and habits that manifested in his personal playing style, but they weren't “weaknesses” that could be exploited; Sensei had pounded any of those out years ago. But by the time they'd reached mid-game, Ogata had been seized by a thrill of dread and admiration: Fujiwara was reacting to his moves with an uncanny accuracy, as if Fujiwara were reading his mind. Fujiwara had already assimilated some of Ogata's idiosyncrasies, and he was wielding that knowledge against Ogata with cunning. Not all of Ogata's plans, of course, but enough to give Fujiwara a lead which he easily maintained throughout yose.

Ogata had known of s a i's ability to adapt quickly, but experiencing it first-hand was a completely different matter. There was a website dedicated to s a i 's kifu, maintained by a Chinese player who went by the handle old man 'n' sea. Ogata had studied the site carefully: old man 'n' sea had painstakingly scraped together ten reproductions of games known to have been played by s a i during his short-lived NetGo career. Ten was a pitifully meager number compared to the actual number of games s a i was rumored to have played. The absence of so many kifu meant that reading all of the kifu together for an overview of s a i's phenomenal development was akin to watching film footage with key scenes missing: it was jerky and sporadic, with inexplicable results. When Ogata had analyzed the kifu, he'd marveled at the difference between the game played against Touya Akira, and the game against Touya Meijin. Both were excellent games between extremely talented players, but the contrast between the levels of play was striking.

That a player could progress so far in only a year was incredible, but not completely unheard of. There were several child prodigies in China and Korea whose play had experienced rapid bursts of development as they'd matured. For an adult, such rapid progress was not quite as common, although not impossible, Kurata being a chief example.

But Ogata had never fathomed that any player, even s a i, could be capable of such progress after just one game, without even any downtime from the previous game to mull the outcome.
There was no doubt in Ogata's mind now that s a i - Fujiwara – was a go genius in the purest sense of the phrase. The man was an absolute monster on the board.

Said monster looked up then, beaming as if he'd just unwrapped a particularly nice gift. “His style of play is quite intuitive! Kurata-sensei also has very interesting ideas, and the strength to execute most of them,” Fujiwara reported. “How long do you have before your match with him?”

Ogata did some quick math. “Today is May 6th, and the match is on May 29th. So a little over three weeks.”

Fujiwara's eyes sharpened and glinted behind his opened fan, and Ogata thought of a sleek jungle cat, tracking its prey from the shadows. “That's plenty of time.”

Perfect. Fujiwara had just agreed to coach him for several weeks, and Ogata was very glad Fujiwara was instructing him and not Kurata. Kurata had a nice surprise coming to him. That Gosei title was going to be his again.

~~~~~~

Fujiwara hadn't said much since they'd gotten into the Mazda, instead preferring to stare out of the window, wide eyes drinking in the sights they sped by, and his nose pressed up against the window like a little boy.

Ogata would have to Windex the smudge later.

A memory of Touya Akira at three years old flitted through Ogata's mind. It was afternoon, cicadas droning lazily in the summer heat. Akiko-san had gone back into the house to fetch something, so Ogata had stayed in the driveway to keep an eye on Akira, strapped into his little car seat. Ogata had been impressed that the boy had not cried or squirmed, but had merely stared through the window, bright little eyes absorbing every detail, as intent as if he were studying the goban. He'd always liked Akira-kun.

Ogata slipped a Grace Jones CD into the player. Her voice wasn't beautiful in the traditional sense, but it was warm and mature.

“You know... English?” Fujiwara asked several songs later.

"Yes," Ogata replied, not explaining that he'd learned English from his mother since he didn't want to answer the inevitable questions about her.

“Ah, Ogata-sensei is very talented,” Fujiwara said, but his eyes were distant, as if he were combing his ruined memory.

Probably trying to remember if he knew a foreign language, Ogata thought with a trace of sympathy. He couldn't imagine not knowing anything about himself.

They pulled up to the clinic a short time later. It was a small neighborhood clinic with an unremarkable but respectable brick facade and a white door. Fujiwara stayed unnecessarily close to him as they went inside, just maintaining enough distance to not trip over Ogata's heels. The receptionist, a young woman with a pretty smile, handed Fujiwara a clipboard and pen with a medical questionnaire.

Fujiwara settled into an armchair, frowning as he filled in the date, his last name, gender, and that he was right-handed. Under complaint, he wrote “I can't remember anything” in an elegant calligraphy. “The doctor won't be angry, will she?” Fujiwara whispered, gesturing to the mostly incomplete questionnaire.

“Of course not,” Ogata said. “Besides, it can't be helped.”

A sheepish-looking teenager with an arm in a sling entered the reception room then. He was ushered by Dr. Kiyohara, who was dictating a list of instructions to the boy in her raspy smoker's voice. Her dark hair had gained several additional streaks of gray since his last visit, Ogata noted with amusement. He'd definitely have to mention it to her.

“Absolutely no sports for six weeks, not even running laps. If you jostle your arm, your bone might grow back funny. Mutant-like, if you catch my drift. Young ladies don't like that at all.” The boy's head bobbed up and down in acquiescence as he paid the bill and exited the office with haste. Doctor Kiyohara watched him scurry out of the driveway, her smile almost grandmotherly as she turned to her receptionist. “Kanako-chan, the baseball coach at Tosei school is Suzuki-sensei, isn't it? Call him up, and tell him I'll have his pitching arm for my lunch if he lets that boy even look at a baseball,” she said cheerfully.

“Yes ma'am,” chirped the receptionist, already dialing a number.

Fujiwara clutched the clipboard to his chest like a shield. “Scary!” he mouthed to Ogata.

Doctor Kiyohara's piercing gaze honed in on them like a hawk locating its prey. “Ogata-kun, you're three months overdue for your physical,” she said, her lips pressed firmly together in mock-disapproval.

Ogata stood up, bowing slightly. “I'm afraid I've been rather busy defending my title.”

“That's no excuse to neglect your health, young man.”

“I can't argue with your mature wisdom.” Ogata was unable to suppress a smirk, and Doctor Kiyohara's eyes glimmered with pleasure at the come-back. “Doctor Kiyohara, this is Fujiwara-san. Fujiwara-san, this is Doctor Kiyohara.”

Fujiwara bowed gracefully. “It's a pleasure to meet you. Please regard this one favorably,” he said, his voice sincere and clear.

Doctor Kiyohara's gaze softened as she returned the bow. “The pleasure is mine. Well, let me see what we have here.” She took the clipboard. “Amnesia, hmm? Well, I'll just have a look at you and see if there's anything we can do,” she said, patting Fujiwara on the arm. “Ogata-kun can wait here until it's his turn.”

Fujiwara cast Ogata an anxious look over his shoulder as he was led past the reception desk, so Ogata gave him a reassuring nod, feeling vaguely out-of-sorts. Ogata wasn't accustomed to playing someone else's support.

* * *

Ogata was halfway through the April edition of National Geographic when Fujiwara and Dr. Kiyohara emerged from the back rooms, Dr. Kiyohara speaking in the amused tones she always used to tell stories: “...so then he learned to play with his left hand because he kept dropping the stones with his right, and he was too impatient to just wait for his fingers to heal. And then he'd pull the cutest pouting face because he didn't like using his left hand.” Fujiwara glanced in Ogata's direction, hiding his mouth behind his hand to conceal laughter, and Ogata narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“You're telling stories about me again, aren't you?”

“Oh, but you were such a cute boy, Ogata-kun.” The doctor sighed. “Then you grew up and grew cranky.”

Ogata chose not to make a comment about her growing up and growing gray since she was about to drag him off for his overdue physical. Maybe he was “cranky,” but he wasn't stupid.

Dr. Kiyohara turned to Fujiwara. “You should be able to take off that bandage by dinnertime.” Fujiwara's left sleeve had been been unbuttoned and pushed up to make room for a thick gauze wrapping around his bicep. She handed him a card, which Fujiwara took with bow. “I'm referring you to Dr. Yamada for that MRI, but if you have any questions or start feeling ill, feel free to call me. Or if you want to hear more stories about Ogata-kun,” she said with a wink that promised that she had plenty of embarrassing ones stored up.

Fujiwara and the receptionist shared an identical expression of delight, which Ogata knew would only encourage the doctor – fuel to the fire, so to speak -- so he swiftly made his way over to the counter before she had the chance to start another tale. “I'm surrendering myself to your hands,” Ogata said with an air of long-suffering.

“Ah, so soon?” Dr. Kiyohara made a moue of disappointment as she took his patient file from the receptionist. “Fujiwara-san, please make yourself comfortable,” she said, gesturing towards the waiting room. “I'll try not to keep him too long.”

“What are his chances of a complete recovery?” Ogata asked as soon they were inside of the examining room, well out of earshot.

“Your health first, then you can fret over your friend,” Dr. Kiyohara said, not bothering to look up from the medical charts she was leafing through. She stopped on the last completed page and clicked her ballpoint pen out. “How have you been eating lately? Not too much of that rich hotel food, I hope.”

“I've been eating salads or vegetables. For meat, mostly fish or chicken.”

“Exercise?”

“Usually jogging or running a few times a week. I alternate with working out.”

The doctor nodded with satisfaction. Although she hadn't said as much, Ogata knew she'd worried more about his health ever since learning about the Meijin's collapse. Of course Ogata wasn't related genetically, but Dr. Kiyohara was a strong believer in “social illnesses.” The theory went that people who spent large amounts of time together often shared similar eating and exercise habits, and experienced similar stresses, so they were more likely to be vulnerable to the same illnesses. Doctor Kiyohara didn't approve of the “go lifestyle”: competitive, high-stress games that involved long hours of sedentary activity, lots of traveling, and smoke-filled go parlors.

“Any new medications?”

“Only the occasional aspirin. Usually after a long match.”

“Alcohol use?”

“The usual. Social drinking. Or a beer after dinner occasionally.”

“How much are you smoking now?”

Oh, that was always the fun question. “Most days I'm down to half-a-pack.” Unless he was stressed, in which case he tended to chain smoke.

Dr. Kiyohara peered at him from over her half-moon spectacles. “You're well aware of the dangers of smoking by now. We both know exactly how we're killing ourselves. But as long as you're informed, that's what counts.” She laughed with a rasp Ogata suspected was intentional. He'd definitely have to quit if his voice started to take on a hoarse quality. The thought of sounding gravelly like Kuwabara was something his pride couldn't tolerate.

She weighed him and took his blood pressure, and then patted the exam table. After he was seated, Dr. Kiyohara checked his heart and lungs and lymph nodes. Then she shone her flashlight into his mouth and ears, nodding to herself.

“Well?” Ogata asked when the doctor turned away. She was prepping a needle, he realized unhappily. He'd never managed a visit without getting pricked at least once.

“Disgustingly healthy, Ogata-kun. Despite your best efforts to poison yourself, your lungs sound clear as a bell and your heart is in good shape too. I pronounce you fit for at least a few more title matches.”

“Then why do you have to stab me?” Ogata eyed the needle unhappily as she swabbed his arm with disinfectant.

“Routine cholesterol check, dear. There are some things even my x-ray eyes can't detect. Sometimes people have high cholesterol even if they eat right. Anyway, don't whine. You're only getting pricked once. I stabbed your friend four times and he didn't even flinch.”

“Four times? What warranted such wanton sadism?” Ogata arched an eyebrow mockingly in lieu of wincing as the needle pierced his skin.

“Obviously, your amnesiac friend doesn't recall if he had his booster shots as a child. Although even if he did, adults need to have their shots updated. I gave you your new round of diptheria and tetanus shots last year, remember? I also gave Fujiwara one for pneumonia since he was floating around that filthy waterway.” Dr. Kiyohara pulled a face as she bandaged Ogata's arm. “He's going to need to be monitored carefully for any signs of a fever. If he develops one, I'll have to get samples of that water.” She scribbled a few notes into the chart, then snapped it shut. “Well, all done, Ogata-kun. Let's go into my office and chat. Since we can't destroy our lungs in my examining room.”

Dr. Kiyohara's familiar office (or “the war room” as she had affectionately dubbed it) was small and cluttered with books and medical journals, except for her walnut desk, which was meticulously clean. There was a small, stylish laptop perched on the desk.

Ogata handed the doctor the Marlboros, offering her a light before pulling out his Larks. He took a calming drag on his cigarette. He'd never admit it, but receiving shots always stressed him out. “So we've established that I'm going to be around at least long enough to pry the Honinbou title from that old man's grasping hands. How about Fujiwara?”

Dr. Kiyohara blew out a ring of smoke towards the ceiling, then regarded him thoughtfully from behind her spectacles. “He told me about your little medical tests last night. Not bad, Seiji-kun, but you still flunk out of medical school.”

“Oh?”

“His amnesia is bad. Truly, shockingly bad. I've dealt with a few head injury cases during my practice, mind, but nothing on this level. You ought to have taken him to a hospital for a scan last night after realizing he couldn't even answer the most basic questions about himself.” She fiddled with her cigarette. “But to be fair, I don't think it would have made a difference.”

“What do you mean?”

“His amnesia, as far as I can determine, is not related to whatever accident he had in the canal. If he had drowned enough to damage his brain that severely, he'd almost certainly be displaying some signs of motor impairment. His lungs would have some sign of damage. But he said he didn't have any problems breathing last night, no coughing, no wheezing.”

Ogata nodded. “His voice was hoarse, but that was it.”

Dr. Kiyohara blew out more smoke. “Then there's the question of how he ended up in the canal in the first place. Most drowning accident victims are children – the parents forget to lock the gate to the pool, or Junior decides that dunking his head in a bucket of water would be really fun. The next vulnerable group is young males, teens to early twenties. Usually, alcohol or drugs are involved. Or some sort of water sport, like diving off cliffs. But if he'd injured himself in a sport, he'd certainly have detectable injuries like broken bones or bruising. He said he wasn't drinking either, and he seemed puzzled when I asked him about drug usage.”

“He wasn't high or drunk when I found him last night,” Ogata said. “I wouldn't have let him get in my car if he had been.”

“I didn't think you would, as fond as you are of your baby. Still, I'll know for certain if he's used drugs within the last three months.”

Ogata couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice. “You took some of his hair for drug testing?” Hair was the only body part that could provide a record of drug usage for such a long window of time.

Dr. Kiyohara didn't bat an eye. “Well, I didn't tell him it was for drugs per se. But I have to know who Seiji-kun's keeping company with. If a crazy druggie hurt you, your mother wouldn't invite me over for dinner anymore. She's a much better cook than I am, too.”

“Fujiwara is not a crazy druggie. Odd, but not 'crazy.'” Ogata said, defensive about his judgment. And because his mother's name had been invoked.

“A hard drug habit would provide me with a convenient explanation for his memory problems, and his wandering into a canal. But I'm inclined to agree with you. He doesn't fit the profile.”

“What do you mean?”

“Physically: no needle tracks, no evidence of sudden weight loss or gain, no problems with coordination. But more than that, he's obviously been well-cared for. There are exceptions, but usually people with good support don't turn to hard drugs. Or if they do, Mommy and Daddy have deep enough pockets to pay for rehab.”

Ogata leaned forward and pushed at the bridge of his glasses. He himself had pegged Fujiwara as the sheltered sort, but he was interested in the doctor's reasoning. “How can you determine that?”

Dr. Kiyohara waited before replying, taking the time to cross her legs and adjust her chair. “His posture, for starters. He carries himself like a prince; I didn't see him slouch once. He's also extremely polite; he was speaking to me in keigo the whole time. Most young people don't know keigo, but his is flawless. He's obviously been educated, as well-spoken as he is. Then there's that handwriting of his. I'm guessing a traditional family.” Her lips quirked up. “Did you really think he was a woman at first?”

Ogata managed to maintain a cool gaze. “I told you his voice was hoarse. And some women have deep voices. Regardless, how does Fujiwara being from a 'traditional family' help matters any?”

The look Ogata received informed him that he was missing something painfully obvious. “His family probably filed a missing person report as soon as possible, maybe even hired a detective.”

“He's an adult. What makes you think they would have noticed?” Ogata asked, thinking about his own situation. He usually tried to meet with his mother for dinner at least once a week, although sometimes it was every other week. If he were to suddenly disappear, it was more likely the Go Association would notice his absence first if he missed scheduled matches or teaching sessions. But they wouldn't probably wouldn't contact the police for quite some time.

“That kind of parent notices,” Dr. Kiyohara said decisively, “and I seriously doubt he lives by himself.” Her expression became thoughtful. “You'd think that with that sort of amnesia, he'd be feeling just a teeny bit paranoid because he doesn't know anybody. How do you know who you can trust if you can't remember anything? But he's still open and friendly, didn't get defensive about any of my questions. That's the sort of trusting attitude that you only get when you've grown up sheltered and haven't been exposed to the 'real world.'” She shook her head. “Fujiwara-san seems bright enough, but he's not in the right state of mind to be making medical or legal decisions for himself. He needs a guardian. So take him to the police station. It shouldn't take them too long to search their records for missing young men with the last name Fujiwara. Mommy and Daddy can take him to his MRI appointment.”

“I didn't think it would be necessary to involve the police. I had expected he would have started remembering things by now. Like where he lives.”

“He's really not your problem, dear,” the doctor replied. “Although the case itself is interesting. I'll definitely be interested in the results of that MRI scan.”

The reluctance Ogata felt must have shown on his face because Dr. Kiyohara smirked and waved a teasing finger at him. “Ah-ha, so you are attracted to him. I'll admit I was curious as to why you were taking such an interest in a complete stranger – you even lent him your clothes.”

Ogata pinched at the bridge at his nose. Dr. Kiyohara was aware that he occasionally preferred men because he'd hardly thought it wise to be less than frank about his sexual behavior with his doctor, and her advice was sound. Although she had been a very close friend of his mother for years, Ogata knew Dr. Kiyohara would maintain professional confidentiality and respect his decision that his mother did not need to know. On the other hand, as his friend, she enjoyed ribbing him about his relationships on occasion, real or perceived. “I just met him last night. We're not 'involved.' But he does play go. Very good go.”

The doctor took a drag on her cigarette as she mulled his words. “You're the Juudan. Coming from you, that's quite a compliment. Exactly how good are we talking? Amateur level? Professional level? I've never seen him in Go Weekly.” Dr. Kiyohara only played go casually, but she had taught Ogata go when he was a child so she would have someone to play. Then, when Ogata had started beating her regularly after just a few months of play, she had introduced him to a doctor who competed in amateur contests. That doctor had recognized Ogata's skill and encouraged him to go pro. (Dr. Kiyohara had groused later that she wouldn't have introduced them if she'd known the outcome of the meeting would be Ogata choosing go over medical school. Eventually, however, she'd grudgingly accepted Ogata's career choice, and purchased a white suit for him to wear to his shodan match, stating that she'd have him wearing white one way or the other.)

“He's not a professional. But I'm certain he's the one who beat Touya Sensei when Sensei was hospitalized and playing NetGo.”

Dr. Kiyohara's eyes widened. “Damn,” she said finally. That match had become a legend among go players. “He's such a young man. I had assumed Meijin's opponent would be at least as old as he is. Still, knowing that doesn't help any, does it? I heard s a i always maintained anonymity.”

Ogata nodded. “I was never able to dig up any useful information on s a i myself. But Fujiwara might not even remember how to use a computer, judging from his reaction to mine. How old you think he is, anyway?”

“Legal,” said Dr. Kiyohara with a grin that would shame the Cheshire Cat. “It's difficult to guess age precisely – some people age badly, others well. But I'm supposing his early twenties. He doesn't have lines on his face, and he's got the hands of a young man.”

Feigning disappointment, Ogata asked, “Is that the best estimate modern medicine can give us?”

“Unless you want to, say, grind down one of his teeth and send the enamel off for radioactive testing. Then we could determine his age within two years accuracy.” Dr. Kiyohara pointed her chin towards an issue of Nature on a table. “It's amazing, the things they come up with nowadays. But I'm quite certain he's under thirty.”

Ogata met her measuring gaze evenly. “Is that so?” he said, puffing on his cigarette nonchalantly as if that age had no particular significance.

The doctor arched an eyebrow. “If I know you, Seiji-kun, you're caught up with thinking about how you can use him to improve your go. Which isn't a bad thing in itself, but the situation is more complex than go. You're dealing with a person who is vulnerable right now. I just don't want you to get involved in something... messy.”

“I know. Thank you for your advice. I'll contact the police if he hasn't remembered anything by tomorrow,” Ogata said, stubbing his cigarette out in an ashtray before getting to his feet.

“It's the best decision.”

Dr. Kiyohara followed him to the waiting room where Fujiwara was listening intently to the receptionist chatter about the pictures of her children. Ogata paid the bill while Dr. Kiyohara made Fujiwara promise to play a game of go with her sometime. “I've heard you're quite talented,” she said, and Fujiwara blushed and protested modestly.

~~~~~~
“I thought the doctor was a little scary at first, but she is actually very nice,” Fujiwara said when they were inside the car. “And she gave you a cute bandage for your arm!”

Ogata cast a baleful eye at his bandage, noticing that the good doctor had seen fit to slap an unnecessary bandaid over his gauze wrapping. It was decorated with a small, glittery bear with a tear in its eye and a bandaid over its furry ass. “She has a wicked, perverse mind,” Ogata muttered under his breath, peeling off the offensive object and handing it to Fujiwara, who promptly put it on his own gauze wrapping with relish.

But ignorance was supposedly bliss, so Ogata decided he wouldn't divulge the details of the “war room” conversation with Dr. Kiyohara, especially since the doctor was currently the only other person Fujiwara knew. No, that receptionist made three. Three people made up the sum of Fujiwara's human knowledge. Ogata glanced at Fujiwara out of the corner of his eye after he merged the car into the afternoon traffic rush. The other man was angling his bandage in the sunlight so the glitter sparkled, his expression one of contentment.

Ogata thought then that perhaps he ought to pity Fujiwara, but the other man was smiling.
~~~~~~

Chapter Text

The police sergeant's frown deepened, and he leaned forward in his roller chair, placing his large hands on the desk. “It's not that we don't believe you, Fujiwara-san. It's just this is the first time a missing person has reported himself. Your situation is highly unusual. And I've been on the force for over twenty years, so that's saying something. The circumstances surrounding your injury are suspicious, too. Are you sure you don't recall any enemies, someone with a grudge or a score to settle?”

Fujiwara did not shift in his chair, but Ogata noticed the other man's fingers tighten around the fan in his lap. “No sir. I frankly can't imagine doing someone else harm. It does make me a little nervous to think I might have an enemy I don't remember, though.”

The sergeant grunted and settled back into his chair with an air of faint disappointment. “Well, if you notice anything out of the ordinary – strange cars following you, prank phone calls, that sort of thing – be sure to contact this station. Regarding your efforts to find your family, it's possible that they have filed a report, but in another jurisdiction. Sometimes reports don't get properly indexed or uploaded into the national database, so that can complicate matters. But I'll send your picture around the network and see if I can scare up any leads,” the sergeant said, tapping the flash drive Ogata had given him. “If anything turns up, we'll contact you right away.”

“Please do. Thank you very much for your help,” Fujiwara said as he stood up, recognizing that the meeting had drawn to a close. He and Ogata exchanged bows with the sergeant before leaving his office.

“This sort of thing takes time. You just have to be patient,” Ogata said in the car. “Anyway, you have that MRI scheduled tomorrow. Maybe that will be more useful.”

“I suppose so, Sensei,” Fujiwara said faintly, buckling his seatbelt. He didn't speak again as they drove down the freeway.

Fujiwara's downcast gaze bothered Ogata. In the short time he'd known the other man, Fujiwara had been quite upbeat overall, especially considering his situation. “I have some commitments today, so I'm going to drop you off at the apartment after lunch. But we could squeeze in a few rounds of speed go first, if you'd like.”

The swiftness at which Fujiwara's expression lightened was impressive. “Speed go? That sounds like fun!”

Ogata smirked. “Well, if you haven't played it before, perhaps it will be more fun for me. I hope you're a graceful loser.”

“I'm very graceful. Because I don't lose,” Fujiwara replied promptly.

“Well, you seem to like trying new things, so maybe you'll enjoy losing.”

“I think I'll enjoy beating you again more,” Fujiwara said, sticking out his tongue, and Ogata chuckled. New things indeed: he'd never had a go instructor stick a tongue out at him. Not, Ogata hastily clarified to himself, that he particularly wanted to see Touya-sensei stick out his tongue.

~ ~ ~

“I've finished reviewing the radiologist's report,” said Dr. Yamada, standing beside his white board. Several black-tinted scans hung on the board. “Good news, Fujiwara-san. Your brain presents no visible sign of injury or inflammation or tumor. If that were the case, you'd see a bright white splotch amongst all this gray matter. I am puzzled, though. I'd expected to find some damage in your hippocampus” - here the doctor pointed out a small, curved shape on the scans -“because your relational memory has been damaged.”

“Relational memory?” Ogata echoed questioningly.

The doctor pulled up a chair opposite Ogata and Fujiwara. “Humans have two types of long-term memory: relational and procedural. Relational is the way objects or things or people relate to each other – that covers quite a lot of territory, including labels and names and terms. For example... 'that woman over there is my mother. Her name is Michiko.' If your hippocampus has been injured, you would probably recognize her as a 'woman,' but not remember that she is your 'mother,' or that her name is 'Michiko.' Fujiwara-san is a go player – but when you first asked him about go, he didn't recognize the name of the game, but he did recognize the goban upon sight, and he retained his ability to play the game. Fujiwara-san, that tells me that you haven't suffered injury to your cortical processors. That's the part of brain that deals with procedural memory – processes and skills. Your go playing ability is a skill, just as your ability to walk is. And you present no signs of injury to your skills, as far as I can determine from today's tests and your own descriptions. Your short term memory – your 'working memory' - is also fine, so you shouldn't have any trouble on the job or learning new things.”

“But I don't remember what my job is in the first place. And if the scans don't show any damage, why am I having problems?” Fujiwara asked, his brows furrowed.

Dr. Yamada stroked his salt-and-pepper mustache thoughtfully as he composed a reply. “That's what makes your situation a little tricky. Usually my patients are accompanied by their families, people who know them very well and can aid in their recovery, tell them about their jobs and so forth. For example, your mother knows your favorite foods and books, so she can present them to you and help trigger your memory. In your case, it's going to be more hit-or-miss, more random, like Ogata-sensei happening to be a go player as well and owning a goban. As far as the scans – it's possible your injury has already healed, and it healed cleanly enough to not leave any evidence of scarring. I'm still convinced that it was a physical injury because a severe infection like encephalitis would have definitely left scarring, and the blood tests Dr. Kiyohara took didn't show anything abnormal either. We've also ruled out a degenerative condition and Wernike-Korsakoff's.”

Ogata posed his pen against his notebook. “What would you suggest Fujiwara-san do to speed up his recovery?”

“Really, my best advice to you is to continue in your efforts to locate a family member or a close friend. I'm certain that would help immensely. Barring that, it's good for you to explore things that interest you or catch your fancy. Like the goban, it's possible that things that interest you do so because you're actually quite familiar with them. Sometimes my patients find keeping a daily journal about their interests and activities helps them recover memories and recognize patterns about themselves.”

“Thank you for your advice; I'll certainly do that. But isn't there something you can do, just in case... in case I can't find anyone I know?” Fujiwara's fingers tightened around his fan again.

Dr. Yamada gave Fujiwara a long, sympathetic look. “Currently there is no medically recognized treatment for retrograde amnesia.”

~ ~ ~

Saturday found Ogata at Touya-sensei's go salon, playing shidougo with customers. Ogata hadn't offered to bring Fujiwara along since Fujiwara would inevitably be peppered with a bunch of questions about himself, and Fujiwara had grown increasingly worried about his inability to answer those questions. The other man hadn't admitted as much, but he'd become prone to staring off into space pensively and biting at his lip whenever they weren't playing or discussing go. And the regulars in the go salon were a bunch of terribly chatty gossips since most of them played go as a social outlet and to relieve boredom. Many were retired men whose wives encouraged them to play go in order to get them out of the house.

“Hmm... I think I'll move... here!” said Ogata's current student, clacking a black stone down decisively. “By the way, how are things going with your girlfriend – Tanaka-san, isn't it?”

Yes, they'd definitely bug Fujiwara. So it wasn't really that Ogata didn't want to share. “Inoue-san,” Ogata corrected absentmindedly as he placed a white stone next to Hirose's last stone, hoping to guide his student into realizing Black's mistake. “Just fine, thanks for asking.” In truth, he and Inoue had amicably decided to see other people during Ogata's preparations for his Juudan defense. She'd pointed out matter-of-factly that he was simply too busy spend enough time with her, and he'd agreed. But Ogata could count the people on one hand with whom he would actually be frank if asked that sort of personal question, and most of them wouldn't ask in the first place.

“Oh darn, that last move of mine weakened my formation, didn't it?”

Ogata nodded. “Yes, now I can bring the game into yose. That you noticed so quickly means you've improved since our last game.”

Hirose brightened. “Really, Sensei? That's great. Maybe I can crush Kitajima-san during our next match! Right now I've got three losses to his five wins.”

“Hey, I heard that you, you rascal! And there's no chance you're gonna win next time!” hollered a sour-faced man from across the salon.

Hirose laughed heartily, his belly shaking with mirth. “That son of a gun needs to be brought down a peg or two. I just hope I can be the one to do it.”

“Undoubtedly, an admirable goal,” Ogata said with a wry smile as he placed the stones that would finalize the game. He would win, of course, but not by such a large margin as to discourage his student.

The bells on the salon's front door rang noisily. “Guess who's back from Beijing? Team Japan! Didja miss me?” called out Shindou cheerly as he tromped inside. “Hey, I brought omiyage, everyone! It's this really tasty pineapple tart stuff.”

“I didn't miss your noise. You're so loud, Shindou-kun. Why can't you be more like Akira-kun?” Ichikawa replied, crossing her arms grumpily.

There was a pause as if Shindou were seriously considering the question. “Well, for starters, I'd have to start dressing like an old man.”

“Shindou! I do not dress like an old man,” said Akira, sounding aggrieved, and Ogata was impressed that Shindou had returned from the trip with all limbs apparently intact. It was a testament to Akira-kun's incredible self-restraint; the trip had been ten days long, after all. Akira's e-mails had described the horrors of sharing a hotel room with Shindou and Ochi.

“You're right, an old man doesn't wear purple and pink. You dress like an old woman,” Shindou laughed gaily, his bleached bangs bouncing against his forehead.

“SHINDOU!” Akira's voice cracked with indignation, veins standing out on his forehead as he clenched his fists.

“Akira-sensei has refined tastes, unlike you! You look like one of those gutter punks that hang around Harajuku making silly poses for the damn tourists,” growled Kitajima, stalking towards the reception counter to sample the omiyage.

Shindou grinned cheekily. “You do know Harajuku's a fashion center, right? But don't feel too left out, Tou-yaaa. I'm sure you'd fit right in--in Saitama, watering your garden or something.”

Hirose pushed his chair back, chuckling again as Akira snapped a retort back. “Ah, the joys of youth. They're so energetic. Maybe some of their energy will rub off on us old men. Thanks for the game, Sensei. I'm going to go congratulate Akira-sensei on his two wins.” Hirose bowed.

“A pleasure as always,” Ogata said, dipping his head in return. He leaned back into his chair and lit a cigarette so he could properly savor a fight between two attractive boys. He took a long, satisfying drag, wondering idly when exactly the two would realize that rivalry and repressed sexual attraction could indeed be two sides of the same coin. Shindou was somewhat dense about everything not directly go-related, and Akira-kun had never been accused of social sharpness himself.

“Ogata-san, would you like to see the pictures I took in Beijing?” Akira cradled a digital camera in his hands.

“Finally escaped from Shindou, I see,” said Ogata, pulling up a chair next to his. He stubbed his cigarette out into the ashtray.

Akira sat down with an exasperated expression and switched the camera on. “Shindou's too busy gloating over his win against Ko Yongha. To hear him tell it, you'd think he'd won by twenty moku instead of two. He's also neglecting to mention that he lost his game against China's Chen Yi.” Ogata could hear Shindou in the background, eagerly offering to replay his game against Yongha for any interested parties.

Ogata smirked. “I wouldn't expect otherwise.” He feigned interest in the pictures Akira was scrolling past with brief explanations. They were good pictures, of course (Ogata wouldn't expect any less from Akira) taken with proper lighting and good composition, but they were also terribly predictable. Perhaps Ogata would have to teach Akira the joys of stealth photography someday. “I saw the kifu of your games against Suyon Hon and Zhao Shi.”

Akira did not pause his scrolling. “Their level of play has improved. I was happy to play them.”

“As modest as always, Akira-kun. You out-played them both.”

“Thank you,” Akira said, his lips puckering slightly as if he'd just eaten a sour plum. Most people would misinterpret the expression as Akira being too haughty to accept compliments, but Ogata knew that Akira was shyly trying to hide a smile.

“Was Touya-sensei able to attend either day?”

Akira nodded. “He was there both days, along with the other members of the Beijing Team. After the matches, they gave advice to the contestants and played shidougo.” An image of Ochi and Shindou scowling over a goban appeared on the camera's screen then, and Akira winced. Ogata bet anything they'd ruined a pose Akira had painstakingly arranged. He didn't have the heart to tell Akira that was the most interesting picture so far.

“And your mother?” Shindou's squished face was now pressed up against the screen.

“Very well. She's enjoying the opportunity to travel and shop. We had lunch together. She thinks that Father's health has improved since he spends a lot more time out--is he licking the screen?!”

Shindou's tongue was indeed caressing the camera's screen. Akira's ears flushed. “That's the last time I let Shindou borrow my camera. He's certifiably insane.” He muttered several dark threats of retribution under his breath.

Ogata magnanimously neglected to point out that he had noticed that Akira, for all his indignation, had failed to delete Shindou's pictures.

An image of a large, multi-story brick building filled the screen. “This is the Chinese Go Association. Because we stayed a few extra days, we had enough time to play as well as see some sights. There are a lot more children studying as insei in China, so the competition for the professional slots is more fierce,” Akira explained, pointing to a picture of a large room filled with students crouched intensely over goban.

“Wait, Morishita's student went too?” There was a very familiar-looking redhead clinging like a leech onto the arm of that tall, quiet boy who'd become a pro the year after Shindou – Isumi, wasn't it? Ogata had started to observe Isumi after he'd surprisingly and thoroughly defeated Kuwabara during his shodan match. Ogata now thought of Isumi with a certain fondness and kinship, especially since the old man had started to go out of his way to harass Isumi as well.

“No, that's a Chinese player named Le Ping. He competed in the Hokuto Cup this year. He looks just like a little Waya-san, doesn't he? And he likes to hang around Isumi just like the one here.”

“How amusing. Is the Chinese one as loud and prone to scrapping as ours?”

“Ogata-san!” Akira scolded, his grin ruining the admonishment. “These are the other Chinese players: Zhao Shi, Chen Yi, and their leader, Yang Hai. Yang Hai was our translator; he speaks four languages: Chinese, Japanese, Korean and even English.”

Yang Hai—that name was familiar. “Did he mention anything about computer programming?” Ogata narrowed his eyes calculatingly at Yang Hai, a tall fellow with long, messy bangs and an aura of mischief that came across even in the picture.

“Actually, yes. He's really excited about this go-playing program he's working on.” Akira wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I don't see the purpose myself. A computer can't reach the Hand of God, so what's the point? Do you know Yang Hai?”

“A little better now, thanks to you. I think I've played him at NetGo frequently.” Judging from the photos, Yang Hai enjoyed touching Isumi almost as much as Le Ping did. He wasn't clinging to the Japanese boy like Le Ping, of course, but in every picture the two were both in, Yang Hai had his arm draped around Isumi's shoulders, or he was deliberately leaning into the other boy's personal space. Isumi, for his part, seemed blissfully oblivious to his molestation by Tag-Team China.

Ogata felt immensely smug to have finally confirmed old man n' sea's identity. old man n' sea had coyly rebuffed Ogata's attempts to learn his identity during their after-game chats, but he'd revealed enough about himself for Ogata to put the pieces together. old man n' sea had mentioned he dabbled in A.I. technology, and Ogata had drawn a connection between that and Project GoGhost, a Chinese-led effort to create a computer program that could consistently win against go pros on a 19x19 board. Previous attempts had failed as soon as the board's dimensions were expanded from 9x9 playing dimensions. Perusing Project GoGhost's homepage had brought up a short list of sponsors and software developers - one of the developers was Yang Hai, of the Chinese Go Association. If Yang Hai were indeed the leader of the Chinese Hokuto cup team, that would explain old man n' sea's online absence during the previous week. Usually, old man n' sea logged on every day.

Shindou flopped down sloppily into the chair on the opposite side of the table. “Did you like my pictures?” He looked impish.

Akira turned his nose up. “Your pictures were distasteful, of course. I'm going to go speak to Ichikawa-san now,” he said, rising from his chair with the miffed air of a royal who has just been subjected to something utterly beneath his dignity.

“Touya sure does get into a snit sometimes,” Shindou said with a shrug, then he cast a wary glance at Ogata as if uncertain whether or not it was okay for him to criticize Akira in front of Ogata.

“He's just... high-strung,” Ogata said with a slight smile, so Shindou would realize that Ogata actually possessed a sense of humor as well. The boy always had been surprisingly suspicious of him. Although he had dragged Shindou to Touya Meijin that once, and then there was that incident in the hospital involving a wall. But both of those had happened a long time ago, and Shindou didn't seem like the type to harbor a grudge. “He didn't delete your pictures, by the way.”

Shindou's face brightened. “Eehehe, he knows they're more interesting than anything he took. He kept taking a ton of shots of crumbling buildings and flowers. I told him, the marketplace is where the action is at. They eat the weirdest things, it was so cool.”

Ogata began to clear the goban. “I'd like to see your game with Yongha.” Shindou shot him a look of disbelief, so Ogata said, “Touya-sensei played Yongha before and said he was definitely one of the top young players in Asia. So I was curious about your strategies against him.”

That explanation apparently satisfied Shindou because he reached for the goke and started laying out stones. “Well, since I'd played him the year before, I had a better idea of what to expect. So I was prepared to wipe the board with him. He is good, but he's cocky and doesn't always read as deeply as he thinks he does. So I outread him. Like here.”

As Shindou continued to lay out stones, Ogata nodded and feigned deep attention to Shindou's explanations. Now was an opportune time to probe Shindou about s a i since the boy was exuberant and confident from his win over a hated foe, and relaxed because he was in a familiar place.

Ogata wasn't certain if Shindou's relationship with s a i had been personal, but Ogata was running out of leads. This morning, Ogata had received a reply from the Kansai Go Association: no, they'd never had a player matching Fujiwara's description and skill, but Fujiwara was more than welcome to take their pro test if interested (Ogata had turned them down graciously.) At the very least, perhaps Shindou knew what area of Japan Fujiwara lived in. Still, Ogata wasn't going to come out point-blank and ask Shindou. The boy would probably just clam up or maybe even run out. It wouldn't be Shindou's first time bolting. Ogata would have to be... oblique.

“And then, right here, I forced that bastard into a KO! Damn girly-looking Korean can kiss Shuusaku's goban!” Shindou chortled as he snapped down the final stones of the game.

“Nice,” Ogata said, pushing up his glasses. “Although Yongha didn't actually make any mistakes. He just didn't realize the extent of your plan.”

Shindou nodded thoughtfully. “That's why I said he didn't read as deeply as he should have. He thinks he's smarter than I am, but he is so wrong.”

“Clearly. But your smarts were insufficient to beat China's second,” Ogata said, leaning back into his chair. He lit another cigarette.

“That was on the first day. I was a little wound up is all, and I made some dumb mistakes. No need to rub it in.” Shindou glared at Ogata as if he'd figured out Ogata's real motive had been to taunt him.

Ogata drew his cigarette to his mouth to hide a smile. The art of misdirection was useful.

“Ochi also lost to China, didn't he?”

“Yeah. But he lost by more moku than I did.” Shindou seemed to find that comforting. “China's play is a lot stronger than last year. They beat Korea, too, except for Yongha.”

“I've heard the Chinese players are encouraged to practice online often, and against as many players as possible. So they don't get too comfortable with particular playing styles.”

“Yeah, I guess so. And Yang Hai's a total web-head,” Shindou groused, pushing a stone around the board with his finger idly.

Ogata blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. “Maybe you should practice online too, Shindou-kun. That is, if you know how to use a computer.” Anger was useful too. It made people hasty. Sloppy.

Shindou's head snapped up. “I do too know how to use a computer!”

“You can't even type in English,” Akira said from where he was chatting with Ichikawa at the reception counter.

“You don't need to know English to use a computer! And I know how to log onto NetGo if I feel like it, but why should I bother if I can walk over here and kick your ass in person?”

“Big words from the person who had trouble opening kifu he was sent in an attachment. And you can speak to a lot more players online if you know English.” Akira was probably still miffed over Shindou's insults to his wardrobe. Ogata knew that Akira took special pride in his unique color combinations.

Shindou's bottom lip pushed out. “Big deal. Anyway, why does it matter to you, Ogata-sensei?”

Ogata gave a small, nonchalant shrug as he twirled his cigarette between his fingers. “It would be nice if Japan could win against China and Korea next year. You still don't have a formal sensei, so I thought perhaps you simply hadn't found one who could tolerate you in this area. But an online mentorship can be as beneficial as a face-to-face one, given the right teacher and right student.” Ogata let his eyes meet Shindou's. “Or perhaps you've tried it before and found it... not to your liking?”

In the space of a heartbeat, Shindou's green eyes went glassy, and his face paled.

Afraid. He's actually frightened, Ogata realized, blinking. He'd purposefully gone out of his way to annoy Shindou, not frighten the boy. Ogata let concern creep into his voice. “Are you all right--”

“I'm fine,” Shindou said abruptly, his expression closing off like a door slamming shut. He pushed his chair back with a loud scrape, his body rigid, all of the fluid laziness of earlier vanished. With flat eyes, Shindou looked down at Ogata coolly. “No, I wasn't mentored online. And I'm not interested in a new teacher. Thanks for asking. Gotta go. It's getting late.”

Shindou didn't run out of the door this time, but he did clip over to the counter and grab his bag, with just a few mumbled words to Akira before hurrying off into the night.

“What did you say to him, Ogata-sensei?” asked Akira, crossing the room. He stared at the door intensely, as if contemplating dashing off after Shindou.

“Nothing much. I was just discussing online go tutoring with him and he got upset. That boy's an odd one.”

“Shindou... was upset earlier this week too.” Akira's chin drooped from the recollection. “On Monday. He got that same expression on his face and wouldn't talk to me, and he just walked off by himself without telling anyone where he was going. I thought he was just worried about his game with Ko Yongha, though.” Akira whirled his head suddenly and fixed Ogata with a hard stare. “You weren't asking him about s a i again, were you?”

Ogata held up his hands in mock surrender. Being the recipient of Akira's stare was akin to being eyed down by an angry raptor. “I swear, I wasn't.” He hadn't been able to get that far, unfortunately. Shindou 1, Ogata 0. “So protective, Akira-kun.”

“I just don't like to see him like that.”

Ogata arched an eyebrow knowingly. “I wonder why?”

“Because I prefer my friends happy, naturally.”

“Your friends. Of course.” Akira earned a big fat 0 too. For denseness.

Ogata found it annoying that he hadn't learned anything about s a i. Maybe he'd been wrong about the connection between Shindou and s a i. It didn't make sense for Shindou to get so worked up – even frightened - about an online teacher, even if the relationship had ended on a sour note. Cyber-stalking or bullying, yes. Not a fall-out.

Regardless, Shindou obviously wasn't going to be persuaded to spill his secret. The boy was stubborn as hell, which was one reason he was shaping up to be a fine go player. Ogata's instincts told him that Shindou would become one of his chief rivals soon, but Ogata's anticipation had started to outweigh his concern. Playing a person of Fujiwara's caliber every day rather helped put the game into perspective.

~ ~ ~

gofish: you have good taste.
old man n' sea: :flutters eyelashes: moi? you're too kind. but i have excellent tastes in everything. Specify?
gofish: in boys.
old man n' sea: your honor, i swear! he said he was over eighteen! :coughs: explain?
gofish: team japan's chaperone.
old man n' sea: don't know who you're talking about.
gofish: oh, so you wouldn't care if i took him out for a celebratory drink then.
old man n' sea: shouldn't you stick to people... within your own decade, give a year or two?
gofish: how old do you think i am? that scale works for me. i like them on the lower end of the scale, though. they're more... energetic.
old man n' sea: :shudders: no wonder you wear white. It suits you.
gofish: just like tacky Hawaiian floral prints suit you.
old man n' sea: you're just jealous. that you're not manly enough to pull off such an elegantly casual look.
gofish: i'll be sure to contact you first when i decide to update my wardrobe. with “clueless tourist chic.”
old man n' sea: jealousy is such an ugly thing! i bet you've been simmering with envy ever since you beheld my glorious face.
gofish: i can think of a few ways to console myself.
gofish signed off at 10:05:15.
old man n' sea: oh crap.
old man n' sea signed off at 10:05:30.

~ ~ ~

Ogata had no such intention of actually asking Isumi out for a drink, although Isumi was quite attractive, with his dark lashes and pert nose. Isumi was a bit too reserved for Ogata's tastes. But old man n' sea had no need to know that. Ogata smiled as he walked up the stairs to his match at the Go Association. It was fun being wicked.

Isumi was standing in the corridor, staring at his cell phone's screen with a bewildered expression. Isumi looked up at Ogata's approach, then twitched guiltily. “O- ... Ogata-sensei,” Isumi stammered, bowing his head. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon. Isumi-kun.” Ogata drawled, letting his tongue draw out the syllables in a manner more suited for an adult-rated film than a greeting.

Isumi turned a delicious shade of red.

Yes, it was indeed fun being wicked.

~ ~ ~

“Ogata-sensei! That doctor's advice worked!” Fujiwara bounced over to the genkan where Ogata was removing his shoes.

“You mean Dr. Yamada's?”

Fujiwara nodded happily. “I was sitting in the garden, that one on the third floor. It's very relaxing, so I've been writing in my journal by the koi pond. Today while I was writing, your neighbor Chen Lian-san walked by and glanced at my journal. She said she was surprised I was writing in Chinese, and I said I didn't realize it was Chinese, that's just how I've always written my notes to myself.” Fujiwara plucked a blue notebook off the breakfast table and flipped it open for Ogata. “See?”

The journal's page was covered with vertical rows of very stylized kanji. “You have a nice hand.” Tiny, too. That nosy old woman must have been standing very close in order to spy over Fujiwara's shoulder, Ogata thought wryly.

“Thank you. That's what Lian-san said too, then she started to speaking to me in Chinese.”

Ogata raised an eyebrow. “You speak Chinese too?”

A flush crept over Fujiwara's cheeks, and he turned to busy himself with taking out the teapot. “Well... somewhat. If I understood correctly, I believe Lian-san said 'Your Chinese is offensive to my poor ears!' She said I sound like I learnt Chinese by reading one of Confucius-sama's textbooks.”

Just as Ogata had always suspected. The old bat was even more formidable in her native tongue. Ogata was relieved she hadn't mastered Japanese yet.

Fujiwara put the teapot and cups on the table. “Then she said, 'I must burden myself with a student, so your tear-inducing abuse of the Chinese language is halted! Now, how will you compensate me, young man?' ”

Ogata sipped at his tea, repressing the urge to grin. Listening to Fujiwara's very honest narration was as entertaining as tormenting Isumi.

Fujiwara looked smug as he sampled his own tea. “I offered to teach her go, of course. She actually played when she was a little girl living in China, but that was a long time ago. It seems that she's led a very interesting life.”

“It sounds like a win-win situation for both of you, then.” Ogata suspected the old woman was thrilled to have a willing victim to lecture and chatter at. She often complained that her “ungrateful” nephew and his wife were too busy for her. And Fujiwara seemed happy about the arrangement too. Ogata handed the notebook back to Fujiwara. “So what did you write about today, if I may ask?”

“It might seem a little odd, but I was actually writing about my fan.” Fujiwara gestured to the ever-present fan, which was resting on the table between them. “I keep experiencing this feeling that I shouldn't have it, that in the past I had lost it, or given it to someone. Perhaps if I keep thinking about it, I'll recall something significant.”

“That reminds me. I got a call from the police station today. They haven't turned up any leads,” Ogata said gently.

Fujiwara looked down at the table. “I see. But I can't... keep imposing on your hospitality like this.”

It had been a week and a half since Ogata had found the other man in the canal. During that time, Ogata had mulled over what course of action he would take in this situation. “Fujiwara-san, it's really not a problem for you to stay here while you're recovering. I have an extra bedroom that's just being used for storage. You're welcome to it.” The arrangement wasn't inconvenient since he owned his condo and thus did not have to worry about an increase in rent. And Fujiwara was proving to be pleasant company. He wasn't messy or loud, and did not complain about cigarette smoke.

“But I don't have a way to repay you now.”

“The same way you're paying Lian-san. Just keep playing go with me. It used to be common, actually, for a go instructor to live with his student. They still do it sometimes in Korea and China, I think. So I don't want you to worry yourself over it.”

There was a loud, sniffling noise, and then suddenly a pair of arms wrapped around Ogata. Ogata's mind blanked as soft, damp skin pressed up against his face. Fujiwara's long eyelashes brushed across Ogata's cheek before he pulled away. “Ogata-sensei is so kind!” said the other man, wiping at the tears trickling down his face as he continued to sniffle.

“It's just a mutually beneficial arrangement,” Ogata said faintly, relieved that Fujiwara was still too preoccupied with crying to have noticed that Ogata's face had gone red. He ought to have guessed that Fujiwara was the physically affectionate sort, as easily and unashamedly as the man showed his emotions. Not that Ogata minded touching, but usually he was the one initiating it. Fujiwara had caught him off guard.

Perhaps he might have to lay down some ground rules with Fujiwara, like 'no touching the student.' It would be difficult to concentrate on go if he were distracted by thoughts of distinctly non-go-related activities. And Ogata didn't want to complicate matters unnecessarily: he could find acceptable partners easily, but a sensei of such caliber was rare indeed. Ogata had felt Touya-sensei's regular absences far more keenly than he'd expected.

“Ah, I feel so much better.” Fujiwara dabbed his face dry with his sleeve. “Let's play now!” he said with a coy smile.

Insatiable go-freak, Ogata thought fondly. Fujiwara had his priorities straight.

Chapter Text

Owning a car in Japan wasn't always convenient: the insurance rates were ridiculous, parking spaces were scarce, and the speed limits were disappointingly low. But five minutes inside Shinjuku Station reminded Ogata exactly why he put up up with those inconveniences: even midday traffic at the station was absolutely insane. Such a high volume of passengers poured through the station that it was nearly impossible for them to avoid jostling each other if they weren't paying attention (and many weren't), especially if they were carrying anything (like the oblivious bleached-blonde who'd just smacked his elbow with her over-sized designer handbag.) Ogata narrowed his eyes at her retreating back; he would bet anything her bag was a cheap knock-off.

With a scowl, Ogata rubbed at his elbow, acutely reminded of exactly how much he detested public transportation; Ogata had only deigned to take the train in order to make certain Fujiwara could cope with its rigors by himself. Ogata had no issues giving Fujiwara rides if needed -- Fujiwara liked going fast, and apparently had no recollection of speed limits – but Ogata's schedule meant he had to travel often. If Ogata won the right to become the challenger for the Gosei Title, he would be traveling for three of the five games, including a trip all the way to Okinawa.

Fujiwara glanced up from the map on the wall that he'd been studying. “We're going to Ikebukuro, so it's 150 yen?”

With a nod, Ogata approached the ticket vending machine, positioning himself at an angle so Fujiwara could watch the purchase. Fujiwara purchased his own ticket without a hitch, but there was a reservation in his movements that suggested unfamiliarity. That reservation seemed to be at odds with what Dr. Yamada had said about Fujiwara's procedural memory being undamaged: wasn't purchasing tickets a “skill”? Unless Fujiwara had simply never ridden the train, but Ogata dismissed that as almost completely implausible for a person living in Japan. Even cloistered go-playing monks rode the train occasionally.

He and Fujiwara trudged through the slow-moving crowd towards the ticket gate. “It's more convenient to purchase a pass so you don't have to buy a ticket every time, so we'll get you a SUICA card on the return trip,” said Ogata as they fed their tickets into the gate. When they reached the platform, Ogata pointed out the LED signs flashing train information, and the yellow bumped lines that stretched from end to end. “Don't stand in front of those lines, or you'll be too close to the train when it arrives.”

“Yes, of course.” Fujiwara looked around the platform eagerly. “There are so many people here! I wonder where they're all headed.”

Ogata shrugged, considerably less enthusiastic about their fellow passengers, with whom they would be competing for train space shortly. “Shopping. Work. School. The Yamanote line is probably the busiest in Tokyo because it loops through the biggest stations.”

The platform shook as the train pulled up and hissed to a halt, disgorging a mess of commuters, several of whom brushed against Ogata and Fujiwara as they pushed their way off the train.

“How rude,” Fujiwara said with a huff of indignation, following Ogata into the car. All the seats were already occupied, so they stood in front of the doors on the opposite side. Ogata gestured for Fujiwara to take a hold of the security bar; he didn't want the unsuspecting man thrown off balance when the train lurched to a start.

Fujiwara's indignation disappeared as soon as he spotted the computer display above the doors. He tapped his fan against his lips as he stared at the route information, apparently mesmerized by the information about station arrival times.

He's certainly easily distracted, Ogata noted with amusement. Anything new seemed to catch Fujiwara's attention, and just about everything was new to Fujiwara's eyes, as if he were a precocious child on a rare outing.

Fujiwara looked away from the display. “Three minutes to Shin-Okubo, six to Takadanobaba, nine to Mejiro, twelve to Ikebukuro, fifteen to Otsuka, eighteen to Sugamo...”

Surprised, Ogata raised his eyebrows as Fujiwara cheerfully recited the entire Yamanote route; Fujiwara couldn't have spent more than two minutes reading the display. Fujiwara had already demonstrated an excellent memory when it came to recalling games, but most go professionals were capable of that, although not at Fujiwara's speed. Memorizing more-or-less random station names, on the other hand, was far more challenging than memorizing moves with clear patterns of thought and principle.

Clearly, a test was in order to satisfy his curiosity. “See that map over there?” Ogata asked, pointing to the JR railway map next to the computer display. “It would be useful to memorize for riding the trains.”

“Oh, thank you, Sensei.” Fujiwara peered up at the map, his eyes flickering over the routes while Ogata surreptitiously checked his watch. Three minutes and twenty seconds later, Fujiwara looked at Ogata. “Finished!”

“What stations are on the Chuo-Sobu line?”

With ease, Fujiwara rattled off the thirty-nine stations.

“If you wanted to get from Narita to Omiya quickly, what route would you take?”

“The Joban Rapid Line to Ueno, then transfer to the Utsunomiya Line.”

Ogata quizzed Fujiwara for awhile longer before deciding that Fujiwara had indeed memorized the entire map. “That's quite impressive.”

Fujiwara tilted his head. “Really? But the lines are color-coded. That makes it easy,” he said, as if committing over a hundred stations to memory was just a minor feat if one had visual aids.

Easy for someone like you. Ogata was no mental slouch himself – he'd always been one of the top students in his class, even when he'd been spending most of his free time in high school studying under Touya Kouyo – but Ogata knew he couldn't memorize that map in under two hours. “You must have an eidetic memory.”

“Eidetic? Is that good?” asked Fujiwara, tapping his fingers lightly against the safety bar.

“It means you're capable of memorizing images in such detail that it's as if your brain is capable of taking photographs of what you study, or so I've heard it described.” The corners of Ogata's mouth quirked up. “Eidetic memory is a rare ability, and yes, most would call it 'good.' ”

Ogata was rewarded with a brilliant smile that lit up Fujiwara's entire face. “You've helped me learn another thing about myself, Sensei! You've been so helpful.”

That familiar twinge tugged at Ogata's stomach again, but he firmly pushed away the thought of broaching the subject of s a i with Shindou. There was no reason to believe Shindou would suddenly confess his secrets, even if Ogata could manage to get Shindou to stand still long enough for a conversation. It had been almost two weeks since he'd asked Shindou about NetGo, but the boy was still going out of his way to avoid Ogata.

To make matters worse, Akira-kun-- his usually impeccable logic undoubtedly skewed by teenage hormones-- had decided to hold Ogata responsible for Shindou's rekindled tendency to bolt like a skittish colt. Akira-kun had graced him with a particularly glowering look on Wednesday, gesturing angrily towards an unfinished game before stalking off. Ichikawa informed Ogata then that Shindou had suddenly remembered an “important errand” at incidentally the same time he had heard the distinctive roar of Ogata's car engine in the parking lot. “Really, Ogata-sensei,” Ichikawa had told him primly, her index finger upraised, “can't be you be more careful not to intimidate younger players? You're getting as bad as Kuwabara-sensei!” Naturally, Ogata had almost choked on his cigarette. Getting compared to that old monkey-faced man definitely was not an experience he cared to repeat.

It wasn't like the brat probably had any useful information anyway, Ogata groused to himself. What he was doing was likely of more aid to Fujiwara; by being observant and patient, he'd already helped trigger several of Fujiwara's memories.

Ogata wondered what sort of person Fujiwara would become as he regained more of his memories. The other man was currently staring out of the train windows, watching the landscape flicker by with great interest. Almost certainly, Fujiwara wouldn't retain such a level of childlike fascination with the world. And for his own sake, Fujiwara hopefully wouldn't remain quite so naïve: the man still hadn't noticed any of the sidelong glances he'd been getting from some of the other passengers. Ogata had been expecting Fujiwara to draw attention – Tokyo had its fair share of colorful and odd natives, like all metropolitan cities – but a young, beautiful man with such long hair was still an anomaly. As intelligent as Fujiwara was, Ogata was beginning to suspect that the man was rather blissfully wrapped up in his own interpretation of the world. Fujiwara had taken to him quickly, and Chen Lian-san as well, with little apparent reservation or wariness. Had Fujiwara always been such a trusting person, or was it a result of having no memories of negative experiences, no memories of betrayal, no memories of exactly how rotten humans could be? Somehow, Ogata suspected that if he himself were to lose his own memories, he'd become more suspicious, not less.
~ ~ ~

“Oh, this one is lovely!” Fujiwara exclaimed, fingering a deep crimson blouse with long, flowing sleeves.

He was not going to laugh. Really, he wasn't. Ogata tapped into his vast reserves of willpower in order to fake a polite cough instead of laughing until his sides hurt. Ogata rather thought he deserved some sort of recognition for his restraint; the earnest expression on Fujiwara's face in this particular situation was truly, deeply hilarious. “It's a nice color... but I think you're looking in the wrong section,” Ogata finally managed. “The men's section is over there.”

“Ehhh?!” Fujiwara dropped the blouse as he followed Ogata's finger to the men's section, which was mostly stocked with somber business attire, before casting a longing look back at the noticeably brighter clothes in the women's section. “So the ladies get all the pretty clothes,” he said in an aggrieved tone.

“I'm afraid so. But the 'metrosexual' look is still popular, so perhaps you can find some nice pink shades,” Ogata said, thoroughly enjoying himself now. This was even better than clothes-shopping for himself.

~ ~ ~

Fujiwara had narrowed his clothing selection down quickly because he disapproved of most of the men's clothing, finding the colors boring and the styles plain. He'd finally decided to try on a pale gold shirt, a light blue one, and a red one in almost the same shade as the coveted blouse, although he'd seemed particularly vexed that all the sleeves buttoned narrowly around the wrists instead of flaring out like the blouse.

Come to think of it... that period costume he'd found Fujiwara in had draping sleeves too. Ogata pushed at the bridge of his glasses with a thoughtful expression. Could it be that Fujiwara was trying to seek out clothes that were similar to that costume? Perhaps Fujiwara subconsciously found that style of clothes reassuring because the costume was something familiar to him, a link to his forgotten past.

The dressing room curtains were pulled back and Fujiwara stepped out hesitantly, wearing the gold shirt with a pair of black slacks. He tugged at the hem of the shirt. “Does this look right? Do these pants fit correctly? They seem tight.”

“That's because you've been wearing my clothes, and they didn't fit you in the shoulders or the hips. You shouldn't need a belt to keep your pants from falling off,” Ogata said as he walked around Fujiwara, admiring the view. He would have made time to take the other man shopping sooner if he'd known how Fujiwara looked in properly fitting clothes. Fujiwara's graceful posture accented the curve of his back, which led the eye down to his slender hips and decidedly nice ass. “It's a good fit, and the colors suit you too,” Ogata said, careful to keep his voice neutral and free of the purr he'd usually allow himself in such a situation. No need to traumatize his innocent go expert, after all.

After a little more browsing, Ogata turned up a forest green canvas jacket with floppy sleeves which pleased Fujiwara immensely, although Fujiwara remained suspicious of the pair of blue jeans. “Blue jeans are a staple of any wardrobe,” Ogata insisted. Partially because it was true, but mostly because he thought they looked good on Fujiwara.

Fujiwara wrinkled his nose but nodded in acquiescence, adding the jeans to the pile of clothes to keep. “The fabric does seem rather stiff, though.”

“Denim is supposed to be. It's a tougher fabric, so it's useful if you're doing some sort of activity or sport. Or if you just want to dress casually.” Ogata helped Fujiwara gather up the clothes and they headed towards the checkout counter, where the cute, pigtailed clerk smiled at them with poorly concealed delight, apparently convinced they were a couple. Ogata reflected that it probably wasn't that common for men to shop together unless they were related, and Fujiwara was obviously not his son or even his brother.

Well, Ogata could hardly be bothered to care what a random clerk thought about their relationship. There was only one woman whose opinion truly mattered to Ogata, and he hoped she would remain safely oblivious to the fact that he had acquired a roommate, or else he'd be forced to make a very awkward introduction.
~ ~ ~

gofish: you seem particularly smug today.
old man n' sea: now now, what have i told you about projecting? happiness =/= smugness for normal people.
gofish: you aren't normal by any contortion of the definition. you might as well go ahead and tell me so you can savor gloating.
old man n' sea: :hurt look: gloating? you have such a low opinion of me!
gofish: you mean i have an accurate opinion of you.
old man n' sea: heh. well, i suppose i'll be generous this time, since you're the biggest closet s a i fanboy i know. i'm updating the website soon with a special surprise... :drumroll:
.
.
.
gofish: and?
old man n' sea: i was recently contacted by a pro who copied down many of s a i's kifu. you know s a i almost always played during daytime; well, this pro was an insei then so he was able to watch a lot of s a i's games.
old man n' sea: apparently this guy even got to play s a i once. lucky bastard.
gofish: indeed. so how many kifu did you get?
old man n' sea: :tutting: greedy greedy! 20. 20 lovely ladies. all the real deal, i ran them through the program to compare them to the database. undoubtedly s a i's handicraft. i always check 'em, you wouldn't believe how many yahoos get their kicks out of trying to fake a s a i.
gofish: i'm looking forward to reading them.
old man n' sea: i bet. this is going to advance the program a lot. although it's still not a replacement for s a i himself.
gofish: now who's being greedy? and why would you need s a i if you collect enough of his games for your database?
old man n' sea: :snorts: it's obvious you're not a programmer. right now, the program can make fairly accurate guesses as to what course s a i would probably take in any given situation, based on the formulas i'm deriving from the kifu. but my formulas are based only on the moves s a i actually made. His primary choices.
old man n' sea: i can't make a formula that accounts for what his secondary or tertiary choices would have been... there's a reason that there is always a discussion held after a major game. without knowing what choices a player rejected at certain critical junctures, you can't truly understand that player's reasoning.
gofish: and s a i's reasoning is particularly deep.
old man n' sea: :nods: without knowing those rejected choices, my formulas will always lack a certain depth.
old man n' sea: heh. now if only s a i would cooperate and just reply to one of my posts. maybe i need to offer better candy.
gofish: he's obviously too good a judge of character to be lured into your schemes.
old man n' sea: you are a cruel, cruel man. but i never really expected him to reply.
gofish: ?
old man n' sea: i never told you my crackpot theory about s a i, did I?
gofish: no. explain.
old man n' sea: you keep your secrets, i'll keep mine. well, i'm off to play with my shiny new kifu. i'm sure they'll keep me up all night. :winks: later!
old man n' sea signed off at 11:45:25.
gofish signed off at 11:45:50.

~ ~ ~

Ogata leaned back in his computer chair and took a long drag on his cigarette. Poor Yang Hai. His “GoGhost” program was an admirable, ambitious pursuit, but Ogata had absolutely no intention of introducing Fujiwara to Yang Hai. Not because he didn't like Yang Hai: the Chinese player was a strong player, amiable, and intelligent. Yang Hai was also connected on a level that few go players were - especially the older generation of Japanese professionals, many of whom were borderline xenophobic, to the point of refusing to compete in international events. In stark contrast, Yang Hai had cultivated contacts in just about every country where go had a foothold, or apparently intended to do so. (Recently, Yang Hai had casually mentioned taking up Spanish; Ogata had his suspicions the new interest was connected to his go program.)

Of course, all this meant that Yang Hai was likely the worst possible person to be alerted to s a i's sudden emergence. Even if Yang Hai promised not to spread it all over the Internet, he would probably be unable to resist sharing the information with his friends, two of whom were closely connected to Ogata. A shadow flickered over Ogata's face. Sensei... he'd already proven he could keep a secret quite well, at least from his supposedly most intimate student. Touya-Sensei would be perfectly fine with maintaining silence, as long as he could play s a i. Isumi, on the other hand, didn't appear to be too terribly interested in s a i or NetGo; the quiet boy was merely focused on the obstacles directly in front of him. But Isumi was a good friend of that redheaded student of Morishita's. Judging from the World Amateur Go Championship, the redhead played go online constantly, and he was obsessed enough with s a i to carry on unabashedly about the player in front of a room full of international amateurs. Ogata could easily imagine the excitable redhead blabbing about s a i to everyone, thus ensuring that Ogata and Fujiwara would never get a moment's peace. The last thing Fujiwara needed was a bunch of excitable players harassing him while he was still suffering from amnesia.

Ogata stubbed his cigarette out decisively before pushing his chair away from the computer. Telling Yang Hai was out of the question; the world of professional go was simply too small. It was unfortunate that Yang Hai's interests conflicted with his own, but such were the vagaries of the game.

After getting a glass of water in the kitchen, Ogata walked into the living room.

Fujiwara had eschewed the couch again in favor of sitting in seiza in front of the balcony's sliding glass doors. He did not look up as Ogata settled onto the couch, completely focused on the recording paper in his hand, his pen moving deftly over the kifu without pause. Neat stacks of kifu were spread around his knees.

Ogata squinted at the stacks, trying to estimate the number of kifu. There were probably at least a hundred kifu. He wondered how many more kifu Fujiwara would record. The first night they had played, Fujiwara had told him that he remembered “hundreds” of games. Ogata had assumed Fujiwara was simply speaking figuratively until Fujiwara's nonchalant demonstration of his photographic ability during the train ride. A seasoned pro could remember a few dozen games in their entirety, but then again, Fujiwara was hardly average. So when they'd returned from the shopping trip, Ogata had encouraged Fujiwara to make use of the kifu paper in the apartment.

That had been three days ago. Fujiwara had attacked the task with the same single-mindedness and tenacity that he approached his journaling with, spending hours writing move numbers in black and red ink. Apparently, Fujiwara's recall was flawless; he never hesitated while working on a kifu but maintained a steady, even pace.

With a rustle, Fujiwara turned the current kifu over and frowned at the blank back, tapping the pen against his lips. His eyes took on an unfocused cast, as if he were reaching deep into his memory for an elusive answer. Finally the other man gave a little sigh, and scratched a few characters onto the kifu before sorting it into the largest stack. Then Fujiwara picked up his fan and set it on his knees, turning his head towards the balcony, his expression pensive as he stared at the bright, flickering lights of Shinjuku's nightscape.

It wasn't the first time Fujiwara had been drawn into a reverie. Ogata had noticed that when Fujiwara fell silent like this, he became completely unaware of his surroundings or company, even if he'd been chattering away just a moment before. Such behavior would have normally annoyed Ogata, but he knew Fujiwara wasn't simply being inattentive. Not with that look on his face - a wistful, lost expression that was incongruous with his usual energetic and optimistic attitude. At these moments, Fujiwara seemed almost... breakable.

Ogata had never been comfortable handling things that shattered easily. So he simply watched as usual, waiting for Fujiwara to emerge from whatever melancholy had seized him. I can remember games down to the stone but can't even remember a single face, Fujiwara had said that first night. Perhaps Fujiwara had been trying to remember his opponent for that game he had just recorded.

Ogata wondered how many opponents those kifu on the floor represented, opponents with forgotten faces. For Fujiwara to have developed such strength, he must have played many opponents over the course of many years offline; that one month of brilliant domination on the NetGo servers as s a i had been a refining of skills Fujiwara already possessed. Which made it even more seemingly impossible for Fujiwara to exist as an unknown: where were all those opponents? His teacher or teachers? The monks? Why hadn't they come forward? Surely they'd have noticed his disappearance, and Ogata found it difficult to understand why his inquiries hadn't been met with even a single reply, or why the police investigation had turned up nothing. The world of go, after all, was one with an intricate network of connections.

Naturally, Ogata was intensely curious about the kifu, but Fujiwara had been oddly reluctant to share them. Whenever Fujiwara wasn't working on the recordings, he slid them back into clear files and tucked them away inside his room as if hoarding treasured photographs or love letters. “I'd rather wait until I can tell you about the games properly,” Fujiwara had said apologetically, his eyes lowered as he clutched the clear files to his chest. Despite his disappointment, Ogata could understand that sentiment, wanting to have ownership over one's own memories. The kifu, after all, were the most direct link Fujiwara had to his past.

Ogata set his empty glass on the table with a clink, and Fujiwara turned at the noise with an exclamation. “Oh, I hope you haven't been sitting there long! I didn't notice you.”

With a shrug, Ogata said, “I didn't want to interrupt you. But if you're finished for now, would you like to play a game?”

“Yes, of course!” Fujiwara spoke a little too quickly, as if he were desperate for a diversion from whatever he'd been brooding about.

Ogata placed the goban and goke on the floor, then snagged a pillow from the couch. He settled on the pillow cross-legged. Ogata loathed sitting in seiza because he'd never managed the trick of keeping his feet from falling painfully asleep, whereas Fujiwara seemed capable of holding the pose for hours with no visible discomfort.

Fujiwara won Black, so Ogata dedicated his early hands towards hindering Fujiwara's plans. Ogata had always possessed a tendency to play defensively during the beginning stages of the game, preferring to reserve his attacks for later stages when he had more of a framework to support him. (Not that he wouldn't attack early if a tempting opening invited it, but the only “tempting openings” Fujiwara played were invariably traps.)

Ogata furrowed his brow as Fujiwara skillfully danced around Ogata's protective moves to forge a vexing formation in Ogata's lower left corner. Always talented, Fujiwara particularly shone while playing Black because his play was naturally aggressive and able to fully capitalize on the advantage of first move. Ogata had only come to appreciate the level of Fujiwara's aggressiveness, however, after playing him repeatedly. His moves were elegant and always well-planned and executed, which belied the underlying risk-taking nature of his game. A go game was comprised of hundreds of moves, so it was very difficult for aggressive players to avoid some sloppiness and occasional slip-ups over a course of an entire game, although the more skilled ones could capitalize on the pay-offs from their risks enough to balance out the mistakes.

Fujiwara did not make mistakes. None that Ogata had seen yet, and Ogata knew he was very good at spotting his opponents' mistakes. Yes, there were the occasional stones sacrificed and territory ceded, but the sacrifices usually made Fujiwara's position stronger. A game with Fujiwara always left Ogata a bit shaken and drained, as if he had been engaged in battle with an ancient, fearless warlord instead of his young, gentle instructor. Every ounce of Ogata's ability and strength had to be marshalled to keep Fujiwara from simply overrunning his territory.

Finally, Ogata decided to ignore the vexing formation in favor of an offensive attack against a key Black group. His instincts told him the group was spread thin, but Ogata laid his attack out carefully, keenly aware that “thinness” in Fujiwara's stones could translate to a flexibility which Fujiwara would instantly turn against Ogata if he erred. If defending his own territory required all Ogata's talent, then invading Fujiwara's required him to reach above what he knew his own natural limits were.

It was an absolutely exhilarating experience.

Ogata finished White's attack and looked across the board, where Fujiwara hovered his opened fan in front of his face. “Have I progressed much?”

Only Fujiwara's eyes, round with coyness, were visible. By now, Ogata knew Fujiwara's fan concealed a smile that was either proudly beaming at his student's good move, or curved in predatory anticipation of a vulnerable target. “Part of progression is being able to recognize the advancement of one's own abilities. What do you think?”

“Don't go all Socratean on me. I'm not interested in what I think,” Ogata said, crossing his arms and glowering at the other man. He just knew that Fujiwara was laughing at him behind that fan by now.

Fujiwara picked up a stone and placed it into position in another area of the board, then he snapped his fan shut. He was smiling, and Ogata realized that Fujiwara was acknowledging the inevitable death of that Black group Ogata had attacked. “I think,” Fujiwara said, arching an eyebrow, “that perhaps you're a little too hard on yourself sometimes. Being able to properly perceive and appreciate your own abilities is a strength too... but yes, you have progressed mightily. You learn quickly, and it requires some effort for me to keep ahead of you.” Fujiwara's smile brightened then, and he waved his fan at the board. “Well, now that we've established your progress, can you tell me how many more moves before I win?”

“If I'm too hard on me, where does that put you? You're an utterly sadistic teacher,” Ogata grumbled as he peered at the board, reading ahead far enough to determine that Fujiwara, with a few clever hands, would indeed secure another win. But Ogata had not and would not ask Fujiwara to give him a handicap; he fully intended to beat Fujiwara in an even game. Just as surely as he was going to wrest the title of Honinbou from the old geezer, probably sooner than later if he kept practicing with Fujiwara.

“Ah, but I wouldn't dream of going easy on Ogata-sensei! That would be an insult to his abilities,” chirped Fujiwara, looking entirely too innocent and pleased with himself.

Ogata wasn't the only one who liked winning, obviously.

~ ~ ~

“I won't give my autograph to you even if you ask, so don't bother!” Kurata 9-dan admonished, waving a thick finger at Ogata while the reporters scribbled away frantically at their notepads, undoubtedly thrilled at the material. One of them even shot a picture. Ogata entertained himself by imagining what captions would accompany the picture if someone managed to sneak it past the editors. Kurata 9-Dan To Ogata Juudan: “No Autograph!” Juudan Visibly Traumatized!

“You'll have to defeat me in this match first – which you won't – but if you did, I might consider it,” Kurata continued with the air of a teacher lecturing a pupil. He folded his arms as if to suggest his iron-clad resolve on the matter.

Ogata had been well-bred enough to repress his urge to yawn theatrically. Plus, it would ruin the detached, cold persona he'd cultivated at the Go Association to his own benefit. Ogata's reputation had preceded him to a point that sometimes simply turning a cool eye on weaker opponents was enough to disorient them. There were very few opponents at the Association who were actually able to get under his skin, and Kurata was not one of them. Frankly, Ogata rather found the man's brash, unashamedly arrogant attitude amusing; it was akin to watching a small, feisty rooster strut about with its breast puffed out. Yet as much as Kurata liked to brag about himself, he was never cruel, and he was able to acknowledge defeat honestly.

The latter would come in particularly handy after today's match concluded, Ogata thought, unable to conceal a smirk.

“What's with that look?!” Kurata demanded. “I hope you've been training hard enough to back up that attitude.”

“Just playing a little go with a friend,” Ogata replied smoothly as they took their places in front of the Go Association for the official Challengers' Match photograph. He'd worn his favorite white suit, of course, and was perversely pleased to see how horribly it clashed with Kurata's black one.

“Uh-huh,” Kurata said as soon as the photographer had finished, sounding suspicious. “I know you. You've got something up that white sleeve of yours.”

Ogata merely smiled as they headed inside the building. Kurata's uncannily good instincts wouldn't be sufficient to save him this time.

~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

Twenty moves into the game, Kurata Ouza abruptly stilled, his eyes widening as he took in the goban. Then he raised his head to glower knowingly at Ogata, as if his pre-game suspicions had been wholly confirmed.

Ogata merely arched an eyebrow, keeping his features carefully neutral until Kurata turned his attention back to the goban, although Ogata was rather pleased to notice Kurata's habitually slumped back straighten and stiffen. A few hands later, Kurata even dropped his left arm to the floor, moving it from its usual position (casually draped on his bent leg), as if to brace himself for the oncoming onslaught. Ogata allowed himself a brief, inner smirk at the telling display: Kurata did have uncannily good instincts, after all. Then Ogata turned his full concentration onto Kurata's last hand. Although Ogata knew Black's current position to be the stronger one, he wasn't going to let a single advantage slip through his fingers through a failure to read ahead far enough.

As the game progressed into mid-stage, Ogata felt a little thrill rush down his spine, his pulse accelerating at the sight of the evolving shapes on the goban: his formations were distinctly different from any he'd woven before. Ogata had known, of course, that his play was evolving because of his constant play with Fujiwara, but this was Ogata's first opportunity since meeting Fujiwara to test his skills against another truly talented opponent. Playing Fujiwara demanded that Ogata tap into every last ounce of his ability, to discover new possibilities for plays he'd once thought predictable, and to forge ahead where he was accustomed to holding back. Even so, it still hadn't been sufficient for him to defeat Fujiwara yet, but against Kurata now...

Ogata had been pitted against Kurata with an increasing frequency, and he had found defeating Kurata more of a challenge each time as the younger man's skill and experience increased, the gap always narrowing between them.

Deftly, Ogata placed the finishing stone to a formation that would cut off White's chances of expanding its territory in any of the upper right quadrant.

That gap had become a chasm.

Kurata knew. He continued clacking his stones down with his characteristic resolve as the game slipped into yose, but his shirt was clinging damply to his skin, even though his suit jacket had been shed several hands prior. A bead of sweat rolled down Kurata's forehead, but Kurata remained oblivious to it, his intense eyes fixed on the unsalvageable upper right quadrant.

Kurata's faith in his predictable ability had been shaken. That ability, Ogata suspected, was heavily reliant on Kurata's near-compulsive research, so it was no surprise that Kurata would have been misled if he had based his predictions on kifu from Ogata's latest matches. Ogata had not needed to deploy his new abilities to defeat those opponents with his characteristic efficiency.

Ogata considered the goban, then dipped his hand into the goke to draw out the stone he would use to kill White in the center. Would Kurata appreciate the irony that his own admirable skill was more or less responsible for his little shock today? Ogata certainly did.

Kurata's brow furrowed into a heavy crease as he surveyed the sharp lines of Black cutting into the heart of White, radiating out like spokes on a tire to effectively cut off any hope of White connecting with an outside group. Kurata drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly like a wearied marathon runner. He bent his head.

“Makemashita.”

The flashing and the whirring of cameras flooded the room then, and the observers began to chatter excitedly. Ogata ignored them in favor of removing his glasses and closing his eyes. His head always ached a little after a high-stakes match, and he preferred not to have camera flash blinding him.

“What is this?” Kurata demanded, his voice a mixture of indignation and curiosity.

Ogata deigned to open his eyes. He wiped his glasses and replaced them, then pretended to examine the goban carefully. “Why, I'd say it looks like my victory.”

Kurata was undeterred. “Don't gimme that! Before the match, you said you were playing go with--”

“I hope you don't honestly expect me to answer questions about my personal life,” Ogata interrupted quickly as the door of the room slid open. The observers from the viewing room had arrived, among them Amano with his notebook in hand and pen already uncapped. Ogata sincerely hoped the post-game analysis wouldn't take long. His legs were sore from sitting in seiza for so long, and he doubted anyone present could tell him anything enlightening about the game he'd just played. Ogata wanted to go back to his apartment, eat, and properly savor his victory by reviewing the game with Fujiwara. Fujiwara would probably be finished visiting with Chen Lian-san and her family by now (the old woman apparently liked Fujiwara enough to invite him to dinner frequently; Ogata might have felt a little sympathy for Fujiwara if Fujiwara hadn't gone on about what a “divine and creative” cook she was.)

Kurata crossed his arms petulantly. “There's no point in playing mysterious, Ogata-sensei. You know nothing stays a secret long in this profession anyway.”

“A secret? Kurata-sensei, are you asking Ogata-sensei to reveal the secrets behind his victory?” Amano said with a laugh as he walked across the room. “I'm afraid you shouldn't expect him to be that generous.”

For a tense moment, Ogata thought Kurata would blurt out exactly what they'd been discussing, but instead the other pro brightened at the sight of the reporter. “There's nothing generous about a man who plays like this!” Kurata said with an exaggerated sulk. “Look at how he carved up my territory in the center and the left here. I should have blocked him off with a hane, and pulled back a little here. And if I'd placed a stone here, he would have needed several additional hands to secure his position.”

Ogata blinked as Kurata proceeded to review the game with a frank honesty, his exuberance apparently not hindered by the fact that he'd, well, lost. The way Kurata basked under the spotlight never failed to surprise Ogata. But it was perfectly fine with Ogata, if it meant he could get away with saying less.

“Ah, we need to get a quote from our new challenger! What are your thoughts on this game, Ogata-sensei?” Amano looked at him expectantly, no doubt recalling that sometimes Ogata had a tendency to get snippy with his post-game commentary.

“It was a satisfying game,” Ogata said carefully, not desiring to provide Amano with any overly interesting material (especially since Touya-sensei had started to keep up with Go Weekly online while he was in China.) “The play on both sides was solid, but there were some areas where Kurata-sensei could have done more, as he already pointed out.”

Amano rapped his pen against his notepad, looking faintly disappointed at the bland answer. “Your playing style seems different today, quite brilliant. Is there a reason behind that, some sort of new outlook on the game, or is Touya Meijin just putting you through special training – online Go boot camp, maybe?”

A laugh went around the room at that question, and Ogata smiled, but not at the joke. Let them think that if they liked. “You could say a change of perspective, I suppose. It's a little difficult to explain, though.”

Ogata managed to stay bland and vague during the rest of the interview until Amano lost interest and turned to the other professionals who had come to officiate the match. After posing for a few pictures and making a bit of polite small talk with well-wishers, Ogata headed for the door, intent on making his escape.

“You know I'll find out. And I'll definitely win next time.” Kurata was standing in the hallway, his confident stance more suited to a bullfighter than a go player.

“There isn't anything to 'find out.' I won,” said Ogata.

Kurata rolled his eyes. “Your friend. Or whoever you've been playing go with, and don't expect me to believe it was Touya Meijin. You don't change your go like that playing someone you're already too familiar with, or studying kifu and replaying games. You only improve that quickly from playing someone really good constantly.” An intense emotion flickered over Kurata's face then, his focus turning inwards. “To think... there's someone that good out there that I don't know about.” Kurata looked up then, a huge smile breaking across his features. “That really excites me, somehow. Especially since I'm going to play him too.”

“You certainly have a wild imagination,” Ogata said dismissively, although he was wishing he hadn't made that stray remark before the game. He'd had no idea Kurata was this obsessive.

“Sure do. It's part of what makes me such an amazing player! You'll be regretting not getting my autograph while you had the chance. Well, I'll be seeing you around.” Kurata waved a hand and headed back into the playing room.

With a sigh, Ogata got into the elevator. Really, he shouldn't be surprised. All go players were just a hair crazy, after all.

~ ~ ~

Waya Yoshitaka snapped his cell phone shut. “Damnit,” he muttered - under his breath of course - but the old lady in the seat across the car glared at Waya disapprovingly. Waya ducked his head in embarrassment. Old woman had probably developed bat-like hearing just so she could catch teenagers slipping up.

Well, Waya had a good reason for being irritated: he'd just gotten an apologetic text from his student canceling their shidougo session, something about his boss dumping a last minute assignment on his desk. Although Waya completely understood (it wasn't as if Tanaka-san could just tell his demanding boss “no thanks”), it would have been nice to have received the text before he was almost at Shinjuku. Waya frowned. He might as well head to the salon since returning to his apartment now would mean he'd just wasted a half hour trip, plus he'd already gone to the trouble of putting on a suit. And even a stupid tie in the middle of summer, too, because Isumi-san had insisted that it was necessary to present “a professional image.” Waya tugged at the tie grumpily as he stepped off the train into the humid air. It would be sticking to his neck by the time he'd walked from the station to the salon.

The Iwamoto Go Salon was a little inconvenient because of the distance from Shinjuku Station; it was about a fifteen-minute walk, but the inconvenience was actually in Waya's favor since he'd never seen any other professionals at the small salon. Waya didn't want to have to compete for students, not when he was still just a 3-dan and not yet well-known. So far his only students were Tanaka-san, a salaryman who'd competed with his college's go club and wanted to keep his skills sharp, and Morimoto-san, a retired grandfather who liked talking as much as playing go. But Waya was finding he enjoyed teaching a lot more than he thought he would, although some go pros seemed to regard shidougo as merely a necessary evil to earn enough money to make ends meet. There was just something special about seeing the expression on his students' faces when his explanations clicked. (Plus, Waya privately admitted to himself, it was nice to get to play teacher for a change.)

Waya pushed the door of the salon open, inhaling the familiar scent of cigarette smoke, wood polish, and brewing tea. Only about seven of the salon's twenty tables were occupied, most of the players chatting quietly as they placed their stones and mulled over their moves.

“Oh, good afternoon, Waya-sensei!” called the owner, a portly man with graying hair. He set a stack of worn books on the counter. “You're just in time. I've got a number of joseki books here that I've collected over the years. I'm thinking of setting up a little lending library in that corner over there. No sense in letting the books just collect dust in the backroom, after all. Would you mind taking a quick look and telling me if you'd recommend any of them?”

“Yes sir,” Waya replied, taking the books. He already recognized some of the titles, so it wouldn't take much time to pick out a few that would be appropriate for the skill level of the average player in the salon. “I was wondering if anyone's interested in a teaching game today.”

The owner wiped at his dusty hands with a damp cloth. “Oh, you usually come in with Tanaka-san, don't you? Guess the poor guy had to work overtime again. I'm glad I'm my own boss, with the way some bosses drive their employees.” Then he shook his head. “No, I don't remember anyone asking for a lesson today, although that new fella over there's practically playing shidougo with Muramatsu-san.” With a wink, the owner leaned across the counter to whisper conspiratorially. “Don't tell Muramatsu-san, though. I don't think he's caught on yet.”

Waya followed the owner's line of sight to a corner table he hadn't noticed earlier. Muramatsu-san was sitting across from a tall man with the longest hair Waya had ever seen; it was almost touching the floor. Waya couldn't see the man's face since the man's back was facing him, but Waya knew there weren't any pros with hair that long, at least not at the Tokyo Go Association. So the new guy was giving free shidougo lessons – no wonder no one had asked for a paid lesson. “He's doing shidougo? May I ask what his ranking is?” Waya asked, careful to keep the traces of irritation out of his voice. Shidougo was an art; not just any idiot could do it. Waya had studied under Morishita-sensei for years before he even dared to try teaching shidougo himself.

“Well... we're not exactly sure.” The owner held out a clipboard with the list of the day's customers, and tapped on an entry that had only “Fujiwara” written in an elegant hand. Someone else had scrawled “Amateur 7-dan?” in the ranking slot. “Fujiwara-san says he doesn't compete in events, so I know technically he can't have a 7-dan ranking, but I can't just put him down as a 1-kyuu. He's as strong as anyone I remember playing back when I competed as an amateur.” The owner shook his head. “I'd heard young players keep getting stronger because of the Internet, but I had no idea how much. Fujiwara-san doesn't lose, even playing with a nine-stone handicap.”

“That's pretty good,” Waya said, just to be sociable. Winning with a large handicap wasn't necessarily as impressive as it sounded, depending on the skill level of one's opponents – and the average player in the Iwamoto Go salon just wasn't that good (although Waya wasn't stupid enough to say that aloud.) He himself had beaten casual players on the NetGo server with bigger handicaps than nine stones.

“Hey, why don't you play Fujiwara-san after he finishes that game? You can give him an official rank for me. And I bet he would love to play a real pro, too, since he said he just usually plays with his friends.” With a large grin, the owner added, “Try not to play too rough, Waya-sensei,” and returned to rummaging around the backroom.

“Of course.” Unless the guy was doing a crappy job of teaching shidougo, in which case Waya would feel perfectly justified kicking his ass around the goban. Waya took a seat at the nearest table to the corner table, and pretended to read one of the joseki books while he strained to listen to the conversation between Muramatsu and Fujiwara. He would have preferred to watch the lesson, but Muramatsu was more prickly than most players and didn't like observers.

The two players, however, were largely silent, other than Muramatsu's occasional vocalized thoughts. Waya wondered if the older man was aware of his tendency to speak aloud, and he just didn't care if the other players heard.

“I wonder if I oughtta go here... nah, that sneaky guy's probably plotting something.”

Waya stifled a laugh with his hand, but nearly lost it a few hands later when Muramatsu addressed a captured stone with a “Come to papa, little one.” Hearing a grumpy old man talk like that was almost as entertaining as Ochi tapping out Morse Code on the bathroom stall when he lost.

About fifteen minutes later, Muramatsu acknowledged his defeat. “I don't think I can do much more. You've got me surrounded here and here, and you're about to kill my stones in the center. I could fight you longer, but it won't change the outcome, will it?”

“I'm afraid not,” answered Fujiwara in a tone that managed to sound both gracious and cheerful. “You could play a katatsuki here and save these stones, but you've lost too much territory here to make up the difference.”

“What if I'd done a tsuke at this hand, instead of a hane?”

Waya listened intently as Fujiwara answered Muramatsu's question thoroughly, explaining the consequences of the hypothetical move in terms that a casual player could grasp easily, pausing occasionally to make sure Muramatsu was following. There were no traces of condescension in Fujiwara's voice, like the gloating attitude stronger players sometimes developed when they'd become accustomed to easy wins.

Waya nodded appreciatively. Waya couldn't tell how good Fujiwara's explanation actually was since he couldn't see the goban, but at least now he knew there was no need for a retributive ass-kicking. Fujiwara had respect for shidougo.

“Thanks for the game, Fujiwara-san,” said Muramatsu, and the go stones clattered across the board as the two players sorted them. Muramatsu pushed his chair back with a scrape. “Next time, you'd better not go easy on me just because I'm an old man, and don't think I didn't know you were all along. You're a hundred years too early to fool me.”

“Perhaps you're simply improving,” offered Fujiwara, sounding amused.

“Liar,” retorted Muramatsu with a familiarity that suggested the two men had held this particular conversation many times before.

Muramatsu noticed Waya then, and nodded in greeting. “Afternoon, Waya-sensei. Is that homework there? I thought you young go pros were all dropouts.”

“No sir, these are joseki books, and I'm not a drop--”

Waya broke off abruptly at the sight of Fujiwara, who had half-turned in his chair to look at Waya. There was just no way, Waya thought incredulously, that the decidedly masculine voice he'd been listening to could belong to guy with such a girly face. Fujiwara looked even girlier than Touya ever had (a feat Waya would not have considered possible previously.) But at least with late adolescence, Touya's face had finally sharpened into angles that matched his icy personality. This guy, though, had apparently managed to opt out of puberty, with those soft features and wide eyes. The ruby earrings certainly didn't help matters.

“Cat got your tongue?” Muramatsu arched an eyebrow.

Waya faked a cough to cover that he'd been staring like a dork. “No sir. I was just saying that I'm a professional, and I completed junior high school. So I'm not a dropout.”

“High school dropout, then.”

Obviously, Muramatsu was just being perverse to get a rise out of him in front of the newcomer, so Waya forced himself to hold his tongue in hopes that the old fossil would lose interest.

“Waya-sensei is a go professional?” Now Fujiwara was the one staring, his eyes lit with an eagerness that made Waya shift on his feet. People usually didn't stare at Waya quite like that. (Shindou, yes, not Waya.)

“Yes, for a few years. By the way, would you like to play a game with me? Then I can give you a ranking for your profile here.”

“Yes!! Let's play right now, Sensei!” Fujiwara beamed and clasped his hands together as if Waya had just offered him a million yen. “Please, have a seat!” Fujiwara gestured to the seat Muramatsu had just vacated.

Muramatsu muttered something under his breath about go addicts and wandered off as Waya took the seat cautiously, carefully edging around Fujiwara who had started to hum an odd tune to himself. Waya knew plenty of odd go pros (like Touya and Ochi) but he hadn't realized that the amateurs could be just as weird.

“Shall we nigiri?” Fujiwara said cheerfully as he took the lid off his goke, revealing white stones.

Waya shook his head. “No, I'll play White, but other than that it will be even game so I can determine your ability.”

Fujiwara tilted his head thoughtfully. “Can all professionals give rankings, or is it a specialty?”

“All pros can do it,” Waya said as he exchanged goke with Fujiwara. “Just like all pros are authorized to teach shidougo.”

If Fujiwara had caught the slightly pointed barb, he gave no indication of it, his gaze turned slightly inward for a moment as if he were preoccupied with something else. But that preoccupation had slipped from Fujiwara's face by the time he looked up from fiddling with his goke at his end of the goban.

Waya bowed. “Onegaishimasu.”

“Onegaishimasu,” Fujiwara said, returning the bow.

About twenty hands into the game, Waya furrowed his brow. He'd always prided himself in his ability to get a feel for his opponents quickly by reading their body language in addition to their go, but so far Fujiwara was just confusing him. As soon as Fujiwara had placed his first stone at 17-16, that crazy hyperness had suddenly vanished, his face becoming as serene and inscrutable as a Buddha statue's. Sure, Waya was glad Fujiwara had stopped humming that stupid tune, but it was a little weird to see him undergo a complete 180, especially when Waya had had the guy pegged as the type to show his emotions openly.

And wasn't the ranking important to Fujiwara? Usually people who weren't used to playing with pros got a little nervous their first time, especially if something were at stake, and serious players were almost as fiercely protective of their rankings as pros their titles. Yet Fujiwara displayed neither hesitation nor nervousness, placing his stones as if it were just another game with the salon regulars.

Waya shrugged mentally. Perhaps Fujiwara just possessed a good set of nerves, or an excellent poker face. But they would be out of the beginning stages of the game soon, and Waya needed to focus on developing the framework he'd laid, along with setting a few surprises for Fujiwara. So far Fujiwara's moves had been solid with thoughtful reasoning, and Waya was curious to see how far the other man was capable of going if prodded. After a few moments of consideration, Waya placed a stone at 14-8. 14-8 didn't appear to be significant upon first glance, but if Fujiwara didn't respond to the move soon enough, White's position there would become unassailable.

Fujiwara's eyes riveted to the stone as soon as Waya placed it, his lips pursing to a point. Fujiwara dropped his hand to his lap and drew out a white fan Waya hadn't noticed before. With an elegant flick of his wrist, Fujiwara snapped the fan open, then, face concealed, laid down his response to Waya's move, a keimagakari at 15-10.

15-10? What sort of a response was that supposed to be? It left Black exposed to a pincer from White that would cut off Black's contact with its outside groups. But Fujiwara had probably just reacted too quickly and hadn't noticed Waya's trap; traps were one of Waya's specialties, after all.

Waya continued to lay out the trap, but Fujiwara still did not appear to find it worthy of his notice, instead choosing to play stones elsewhere. Hadn't Fujiwara realized his predicament yet? Waya had been expecting a little more of the player the salon owner held in such esteem. Waya cast an irritable glance across the goban.

Fujiwara met Waya's glance over his fan, but he didn't seem worried at all. Actually, Fujiwara looked pretty damn... amused? Waya did a double take. There was no doubt about it, Fujiwara's eyes were definitely crinkled in amusement and he was looking at Waya like Waya had food or something on his face.

Waya scanned the goban quickly, his pulse accelerating. Was Fujiwara just trying to psych him out, or had Waya missed something? Of course it would be pretty amusing to an amateur to catch a pro making a dumb mistake, but Waya didn't think he'd made any. Lately, his confidence in his play had been growing, and he'd noticed that he seemed to be making fewer and fewer mistakes as a result. No, Waya concluded as he gave the board a final glance-over, he hadn't made any mistakes.

But the niggling feeling remained as Waya continued playing. Maybe it was just the stupid fan – seeing another young player with a fan reminded him of Shindou, and Shindou had the habit of bringing out his fan when he was about to start an ass-kicking. Waya had developed a bit of an aversion to that cheap fan as a result, although he knew it was unhealthy to develop mental blocks towards certain players. I have got to stop overestimating people, especially Shindou, Waya chided himself. Sure, Shindou kept getting stronger, but he wasn't a go god... even though Waya still suspected Shindou had had a connection to s a i at some point. Had had – Shindou's go had fewer and fewer similarities to s a i's classic-style go as he continued to move up, like he was no longer directly influenced by s a i.

Change was inevitable for a talented go player, though. Waya wondered what s a i's go would look like now, if the mystery player deigned to reappear on the Internet. s a i's go had been so strong, yet deceptively simple on the surface. If you didn't read far enough ahead, you wouldn't realize the depth of s a i's go and the extent of the brilliant plans. You'd be caught by--

Suddenly Fujiwara's patterns sharpened into focus, and Waya's heart thudded so loudly he felt it in his eardrums. Waya had been focusing on the pincer movement, but Fujiwara had ignored it because it simply didn't matter – not when Fujiwara had been laying down stones to seize control of the entire area. In a flash of clarity, Waya realized exactly who he was facing.

Waya had played s a i before, after all.

In his mind's eye, Waya saw himself as an insei at the World Amateur Go Championship, speaking to a crowd of enthralled pros and amateurs. It's as if Shusaku has learned modern joseki. But that had been several years ago, and s a i had not remained stagnant, Waya realized as he studied the patterns of Black on the goban with a dawning mixture of awe and fear. s a i's game had grown even more sophisticated and subtle during his absence from the Internet. No wonder Waya hadn't recognized Fujiwara's style immediately, especially since Waya hadn't expected to bump into s a i at some random no-name go salon.

Waya looked up at Fujiwara again. The amusement was gone from Fujiwara's eyes now, replaced by an piercing intensity.

Before, when Waya had less experience, he would have felt paralyzingly overwhelmed by the prospect of playing s a i in person. But he'd played Morishita-sensei in several official matches by now, and Sensei felt every bit as intimidating as Fujiwara. So Waya stared back at Fujiwara, hardening his resolve to win the game. I'm going to come after you with everything I've got.

Waya quickly formulated an aggressive plan to halt Fujiwara's progress. Usually Waya didn't like to extend himself quite so much, but nothing less would stop Black. Waya was certain Fujiwara's aim was to connect Black in the center with Black in Waya's right quadrant. If Fujiwara managed that, White in Waya's right would be cut off from the White that had invaded Fujiwara's right quadrant, and White's territory would be halved.

Gritting his teeth, Waya started an attack in the center using an approach Morishita-sensei had just discussed in last week's study. Sensei had mentioned that the playing such approach in the center was regarded as unusual and risky – perhaps prohibitively so – but Waya felt certain that his only chance at beating Fujiwara was to catch him by surprise. There was no way Waya could hope to challenge Fujiwara by merely playing standard moves, not when s a i's knowledge of classic go was so complete that Waya could barely grasp its depth at times.

As Waya fleshed out his attack in the center, he altered the shape from what they'd discussed in the study. The alterations would make the shape more solid and harder for Black to break through.

A sudden inhalation made Waya jerk his head up. Fujiwara had gone motionless behind his fan, but his eyes glittered as he stared at White in the center.

Fujiwara was happy. Somehow, Waya doubted that boded well for him.

Black began a punishing assault on White's formation in the center, encircling the stones in order to cut the group adrift. White fought back fiercely, but Black danced around White's attacks easily. He's outreading me, Waya realized with a sinking feeling. How far ahead could s a i read?

After a few more hands, White lay dead in the center and Waya knew he had to concede defeat. He could feasibly regain a few points during the endgame, but it wouldn't be enough to make up the difference, even with komi.

“Makemashita.” Waya bowed low over the goban. He heard Fujiwara's fan snap shut, and when Waya straightened up, the other man was smiling.

“It was a wonderful game. Thank you for playing me, Sensei.”

“Don't call me that,” Waya mumbled, raking his fingers through his bangs. Rank s a i indeed. If there were any go gods, they had a perverse sense of humor. “I don't have anything to teach you.”

Fujiwara pursed his lips indignantly. “What do you call this, then?” He waved his fan at the center of the board. “I've never seen this played before, not at this location!”

“It didn't work.”

“The concept was good, and the execution was not flawed either. But I have more experience than you do, Waya-sensei, so I was still able to take control of the area.”

Waya felt his heart start to race again. Of course he'd lost to s a i, that really wasn't anything to get depressed or embarrassed about, even if the man was technically an amateur. More importantly, he was actually with s a i in person. He could actually get to know the mysterious NetGo player. That Chinese boyfriend of Isumi's would kill for a chance like this, Waya thought smugly.

“How long have you been playing go?” Waya said. Probably since he was freakin' two years old like Touya. The other man had placed his stones with a fluid grace that Waya envied, moving them from goke to goban as if the stones were merely extensions of his fingers. Such skill came only with a tremendous amount of practice.

A frown flitted across Fujiwara's face. “I'm not sure, exactly...”

“Oh, how old are you? You really don't seem much older than I am, but the way you play reminds me of my sensei, like you've been playing for like a long time.”

“I'm in my twenties,” Fujiwara said, but his eyes slid to the side as if he were nervous, and he shifted back into his chair, putting more distance between them.

He doesn't like me asking him questions about his personal life, Waya realized, remembering how silent s a i had been on the NetGo servers. s a i had never even chatted with anyone - with the sole exception of himself. Some people had theorized that s a i had a very pressing reason to remain anonymous, and he had stopped playing NetGo because people had been trying to trace his IP address. Waya narrowed his eyes. A dark secret would explain why Fujiwara hadn't gone pro and why he was playing in some little unknown salon where no one was likely to recognize his play. Perhaps “Fujiwara” wasn't even his real name.

But on the other hand, if he pressed Fujiwara too much, the other man might simply disappear again. Waya really wanted to learn more about s a i, but satisfying his curiosity about Fujiwara would have to wait. Fujiwara's secret probably wasn't that bad (unless Fujiwara's secret was that he liked to ax murder go-playing redheads, and frankly Waya thought he could take Fujiwara in a fight anyway.) Getting a chance to play Fujiwara again was more important, and if Waya gradually established a rapport with Fujiwara, then the other man might start to open up. Maybe Waya would even get a chance to ask Fujiwara about his connection with Shindou.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you a personal question like that, when we've just met!” Waya said, feigning sheepishness. “I just got excited. This was a really great game, even though I lost. Would you explain to me what moves I should have played in the center instead?”

Fujiwara lit up then, and he launched into a thorough explanation for Waya. He really does enjoy teaching, Waya thought. By the time they had finished discussing the game, Fujiwara's earlier tension had disappeared, and Fujiwara readily agreed to meeting Waya at the salon again the following week for another game.

On his way out of the salon, Waya told the owner that it would be perfectly acceptable to rate Fujiwara as an Amateur 7-dan. Waya was proud that he managed to keep a straight face.

Chapter Text

Ogata slid his Mazda into his parking spot in the condominium's garage, then popped the trunk and pulled out his suitcase. It certainly was convenient that he'd been able to secure an apartment with an adjacent garage, especially since he seemed to be travelling more and more frequently as he advanced his career. Hauling luggage around Tokyo was unpleasant, to say the least, even if one travelled light like he did.

Still, Ogata usually enjoyed travelling (as long as the accommodations were decent) but lately he'd felt a little more reluctant to travel since that meant leaving Fujiwara alone. Not that Fujiwara was irresponsible – he listened attentively when Ogata explained the more mundane, non-go-related details of daily life like turning off the stove, locking the door, and avoiding certain areas. But sometimes Ogata was still taken aback by the gaps in Fujiwara's memory, even though he knew how severe the other man's amnesia was. Last week Ogata had been performing a routine test of his fire alarm's batteries, and Fujiwara had been so startled he'd jumped, banging his knee on the coffee table hard enough to almost knock the goban off the table. After a few questions, Ogata had discovered that Fujiwara had not only forgotten fire alarms, but earthquake and typhoon protocol as well. Of course Ogata had given Fujiwara thorough explanations then, but he couldn't be certain he'd remembered every essential survival tip. He'd never been responsible for completely re-educating an adult before.

That Fujiwara was just so naturally trusting complicated matters, especially since Shinjuku wasn't one of Tokyo's safest wards. But at least he wasn't likely to bump into many dangerous characters while indulging in his go obsession. Lately, Fujiwara had been visiting a neighborhood go salon that Lian-san had recommended when Fujiwara had been sulking about Ogata's four-day conference in Nagoya. Initially Ogata had harbored some private reservations about Fujiwara visiting a go salon, but judging from Fujiwara's chatter, he mostly just played shidougo with them. So it was unlikely Fujiwara would find someone else who could offer him a proper challenge.

“I'm back,” Ogata called out as he slipped off his shoes in the entranceway, but Fujiwara didn't answer so Ogata went to his bedroom to put his suitcase down.

Fujiwara was in the study, staring at the aquarium so intently that he didn't turn his head when Ogata entered.

“Anyone get eaten?”

Fujiwara glanced up and smiled. “Welcome back! And of course not, I kept them well fed. Murakami was chasing Mishima again, and Ginko and Momiji are going to give birth again. I also cleaned the gravel and did a partial water change.”

“You named the fish?”

“Well it's not as if I can just go around calling them “Pterophyllum altum Number One” and “Poecilia reticulata Number Three.” That would be rude,” Fujiwara said with a sniff that implied only a barbarian would disagree.

Ogata could hardly disappoint Fujiwara when he was making such a haughty expression and being a know-it-all as well. “They're fish. Naming cats and dogs makes sense because they'll come when you call and do tricks. Fish don't.”

“This clown loach does tricks... well, he's tricky, at least. He floats on his belly and plays dead, and he steals food from the other fish.”

Ogata stared at the black and orange striped fish in question, which was currently reclining on a plant, its belly distended with its ill-gotten gains. It stared back at him with a fishy smugness that somehow seemed familiar. Ogata smirked. “Well then, name this one Kuwabara.”

“Oh, that's a nice name.” Fujiwara pressed his nose against the tank, making cooing noises. “Kuwabara, you're a fat little cutie, aren't you? Yes you are!”

Ogata wondered if he'd ever be able to look at the old man with a straight face again, now that he had that lovely image burned into his mind. Probably not.

Fujiwara pulled himself away from the tank, wiping the smudge off with his jacket sleeve. “Let's have some tea, and you can tell me all about the demonstration game.”

A few minutes later, Ogata had a cup of pekoe tea cooling in his hands. “The demonstration went fine, except Ashiwara-sensei made a weak move here,” he said, leaning forward from the sofa to place the black stone on the goban.

“Because then you could cut Black off. Your next move was at 6-4, right?”

Ogata shook his head. “Actually, no. The game would have ended at around 120 moves then, and that would have been disappointing to the audience and sponsors. They expect an exchange between pros to last for a long time, and I don't mind being a little generous when it's not an official game. This is more like shidougo for the observers rather than a regular match.”

Fujiwara tapped his fan against his lips in consideration. “Shidougo for observers... but surely the commentators noticed and criticized you.”

“No, that isn't a possibility most would notice. That's why I chose not to make it. Ashiwara bugged me about it after the game, though. He's a good player, so he realized the mistake as soon as he'd finished placing the stone.”

Ogata finished recreating the game, then said, “Now that this conference is out of the way, I don't have any major commitments until the Gosei Title match starts in July. I was considering taking it easy for a few days. You seem to enjoy the fish a lot. How would you like to visit an aquarium museum? There's an excellent one in Yokohama.”

“An aquarium museum?”

“Basically imagine a lot of fish tanks, except full of hundreds of fish and thousands of liters of water. Aquariums are also allowed to keep rare species, and dolphins and whales.”

Fujiwara bounced in his seat, looking like he was about to burst from excitement. “Yes! Let's go! Let's go now! When is it open? Is it far?”

“I'll take that as a 'yes.' And I'm afraid it's too far to visit tonight,” said Ogata, amused at Fujiwara's exuberance. Not that he'd expected a different reaction; after all, Fujiwara liked fish enough to have memorized entire passages of Ogata's copy of A Practical Guide to Freshwater Fish.

~ ~ ~

As Ogata had thought, Fujiwara thoroughly enjoyed the Yokohama aquarium. It had been a few years since Ogata had last visited, so several of the exhibits were new to him as well. Ogata took pictures of some of the most attractive fish and arrangements, just in case he decided to set up his own saltwater tank in the future.

After they had finished viewing the aquariums on the third floor, it was almost starting time for the next “Marine Mammal Show” so they walked up to the open-air stadium on the fourth floor. The show had a definite slant towards families with young children (on cue, the sea lions made raspberry noises and clapped their fins together), but Ogata was still impressed by the expertise of the handlers, in particular with the dolphins and whales. The handlers had basically trained large, potentially dangerous animals to push them around the pool and flip them up into the air for a few fish, yet there was no hesitation on the part of the animals to obey, as if they had a strong bond of trust and cooperation with their handlers. (Either that, or the rewards were really, really tasty.)

The show finished, so the only place they hadn't visited yet was the “Dolphin Fantasy” building, an unfortunate name that invoked images of a hyper twelve-year-old girl with pink bedroom walls emblazoned with a mural of neon purple dolphins. But the building itself, thankfully, was painted a sensible ocean blue, and although there was a dolphin mural on its walls, the dolphins were a natural gray shade with nary a hint of neon in sight. Directly inside the building's entrance was a small gift shop, but Ogata's eye was drawn past it to the magnificent glass tunnel that stretched down the length of most of the building. The glass had been molded in one solid piece so visitors underneath were provided with a seamless view of the dolphins darting about the tunnel. At the very end of the tunnel was a small, dark room with a cylindrical tank in which a solitary white beluga floated.

“Oh wow!” Fujiwara looked like he could barely restrain himself from pressing up against the glass and smudging it. “The show was wonderful, but here you can get much closer to the dolphins,” Fujiwara said as a small, white-sided dolphin floated down to his eye-level. The dolphin regarded him with one black eye for a long moment, apparently equally as curious as its human visitor. “They seem extremely intelligent.”

“After humans, dolphins are thought to be the smartest animals,” Ogata said. “They have very complex social behaviors, and each dolphin even has its own distinct name.” According to National Geographic, that was. Ogata had subscribed mostly because the monthly ran informative articles about aquatic life in just about every other issue.

Fujiwara watched the dolphin dart away to rejoin a pod drifting in formation. “I wonder what that cute little fellow's name is?”

“Whistle-Click-Click-Squeal the Second,” Ogata said, completely deadpan.

“Really?! Where do you see his name?” Fujiwara glanced up and down the tunnel, looking for a sign.

Ogata pulled his park guide out of his back pocket. “Right here, didn't you read this earlier?”

“Yes, I must have missed it!” said Fujiwara, taking the guide.

“The names are right next to the 'Dolphin' pronunciation chart,” Ogata offered helpfully as Fujiwara scoured the guide. Ogata bit back a smirk, aware that it was probably a sign of a deep moral depravity that he could derive pleasure from teasing an amnesiac. Luckily, Ogata had never been overly concerned with ethics because he didn't particularly want to stop the teasing; Fujiwara was just so earnest and curious and as a bonus, he made very amusing faces when he was indignant. Ashiwara also made entertaining expressions when teased, but Ogata had to be careful not to torment Ashiwara too much, or people would shoot him looks usually reserved for puppy-kickers. Ogata also had a special fondness for the way Akira's face flushed the most endearing shades of red when he was embarrassed, but lately Akira-kun had grown increasingly difficult to unsettle. Accursed teenage cynicism.

“Ogata-sensei is a horrible, horrible man.” Fujiwara had closed the guide and was rapping it against his palm sharply, but his affronted tone was belied by upturned corners of his mouth.

Ogata shrugged. “It's true, but I can't accept full responsibility when you make those faces.”

“I don't make faces. That would be childish. And unrefined.” Fujiwara folded his arms and pursed his lips.

“That's my second favorite face. I call it your 'Indignant Schoolmistress' expression. All you need are bifocals and a bun to complete it.”

Fujiwara smacked Ogata on the elbow with the guide. “I do not look like a schoolmistress.”

Ogata continued on as if he hadn't noticed the assault on his elbow. “My favorite, though, is when you puff your cheeks out. You look just like those puffer fish we saw earlier.”

“How awful, comparing me to a prickly fish and an old schoolmistress! Ogata-sensei must think I'm ugly!” Fujiwara aimed another blow at Ogata's elbow, but Ogata snagged Fujiwara's wrist this time and pulled forward, unbalancing Fujiwara enough that Fujiwara almost bumped into him.

“I never said I thought schoolmistresses were ugly, and I find puffer fish a rather tasty dish,” Ogata said softly into Fujiwara's ear before extracting the guide from Fujiwara with his other hand.

“Oh! That's... interesting,” Fujiwara said breathlessly before tugging free. He whirled around to face the tank, but not before Ogata saw that his cheeks were flushed.

Not surprising. Even if Fujiwara hadn't grasped the precise innuendo, the man could have hardly failed to notice Ogata's tone; he had been more or less purring in the other man's ear. Ogata reprimanded himself mentally; he hadn't intended to escalate the teasing quite like that. It had just happened – an excuse which sounded spectacularly stupid, even to his own ears. Ogata did not “do” unplanned, especially when it went against something he'd decided. Although Ogata had never explicitly told Fujiwara not to touch him after the hugging incident, Fujiwara seemed to have decided on his own that he shouldn't, perhaps simply from following Ogata's lead. For all his childish exuberance, Fujiwara was quite concerned with proper behavior and etiquette, so he'd obviously been flustered by the unexpected physical contact.

Ogata hadn't realized that he'd grown overly relaxed with Fujiwara, although in retrospect he ought to have been on his guard: he'd been living with Fujiwara for some time, after all. Since early May... and soon it would be July. Almost two months, then. Ogata didn't have any prior experience living with other people (his mother most certainly Did Not Count); he'd lived by himself ever since graduating high school. So he hadn't expected to get... attached. Well, Ogata resolved, he'd simply have to keep a tighter rein on himself. Attachments were messy, especially ones involving roommates. Mutually beneficial relationships shouldn't be allowed to devolve into attachments.

Fujiwara was still pretending to be preoccupied with the dolphins, so Ogata walked to the beluga tank by himself. The whale looked particularly stunning with its white skin glowing in the dimly lit room, although the lights were likely dimmed for the animal's comfort and not for the aesthetics. Belugas lived in the Arctic and spent much of their time submerged in dark, ice-covered water, which meant they were light-sensitive. Ogata frowned at his digital camera, wondering if he could take a decent picture with his flash turned off. The cylindrical shape of the tank would also probably cause some distortion if he tried to take a full-body shot. Maybe a postcard would be a better idea.

Ogata looked up from his camera and noticed that Fujiwara had wandered into the room while he'd been busy fiddling with the settings. Fujiwara stood still and silent, watching as the whale turned around and around in endless circles, gliding through the water like an apparition. Shadows flickered across Fujiwara's face as the whale's movements diffracted the tank's lighting.

Ogata's blood chilled at the unbidden memory of Fujiwara floating in the canal, long white sleeves billowing out in the dark water.

“Don't whales have names too? A language?” Fujiwara's voice was somber, devoid of the joy he'd displayed while watching the dolphins.

“I don't know if they have names, but they do have songs, so I suppose they must have a language,” Ogata said.

“Why is this one all by himself? There are seven dolphins in that other tank.”

“Whales need more space than dolphins. And it certainly seems to be healthy; look at how active it is. It's been swimming the whole time.” If captive marine mammals were pining, they usually became listless and refused to eat, but this one was energetic and well-nourished. Obviously, there was nothing wrong with it, and frankly, Ogata cared a lot less about the whale's hypothetical well-being than shaking that odd, irrational sensation that had come over him. It should not matter one iota that Fujiwara was standing next to a tank. A secured tank was definitely not a deserted canal; people couldn't stumble into tanks.

“But no one can hear him sing.”

“There are other ways to communicate. I spotted it blowing air bubbles at that little girl who was in here earlier. It seemed at least as amused as she was.” The little tableau had been disgustingly cute, like something that would get plastered on a sappy greeting card.

“Being seen, being able to see... but he's still separate. Untouchable. That seems like such a lonely existence, doesn't it?” Then Fujiwara looked over his shoulder to offer Ogata a sheepish, apologetic smile. “I'm sorry, Ogata-sensei. I don't know why I keep asking annoying questions!”

Those eyes. Fujiwara was smiling, but his eyes were brimming with a sorrow that seemed too ancient to belong in Fujiwara's young face. Ogata had met those strikingly incongruous eyes before - but only over the goban, and only during particularly fierce struggles. Ogata had come to associate the look with some inner reservoir of Fujiwara's talent surfacing, so meeting that expression outside of go was unsettling. Even more unsettling, Fujiwara himself seemed completely unaware of that presence he possessed. Had the amnesia fractured Fujiwara that badly?

“Your questions aren't annoying,” Ogata said. “You have an interesting perspective.”

“...are you sure you don't mind?”

“Not at all. It's natural for you to ask a lot of questions, given your condition.” Fujiwara's questions were definitely odd sometimes, but Ogata welcomed the opportunity to gain insight into how the other man's brilliant mind worked. And perhaps enough of the right questions would be the key to Fujiwara recalling a piece of critical information.

Fujiwara looked relieved. “I do like this aquarium. If we lived closer, I'd be tempted to visit every day.”

“You're in luck: there are several aquariums off the Yamanote Line; they just aren't as big as this one. I'll have to take you to the one in Shinagawa since you like dolphins so much.” Ogata glanced at his watch. “Anyway, we're about finished now. Let's get dinner,” he said, rather eager to leave. The mental image of Fujiwara half-drowned was still a little too fresh in his mind for him to feel comfortable staying any longer.

“Can we visit a Chinese restaurant? I want to practice ordering in Chinese. I think I'm improving because yesterday Lian-san said 'you don't make me wince in pain so much anymore.' ”

Ogata arched an eyebrow. “Coming from her, that's practically a compliment. Just do me a favor and don't offer to help her improve her Japanese.”

Fujiwara agreed with a laugh, and they walked towards the park exit, that inexplicable sadness gradually dissipating from Fujiwara's eyes as they talked. What could have possibly happened, Ogata wondered, that Fujiwara could be affected by the pain without the actual memory itself? And how would Fujiwara react when he did remember? Fujiwara gave off an air of vulnerability, like he'd never learned how to properly filter out the world when necessary, never learned how to absorb its shocks. Maybe it was a side-effect of being too trusting.

Ogata made a sardonic little snort, quietly so that Fujiwara didn't notice. He'd been cured of that particular flaw at a rather young age, thanks to Daddy Dearest. Still, it had been about the most useful thing his father had taught him during their short time together. Perhaps he ought to feel grateful to have learned early.

~ ~ ~

That evening Fujiwara had a nightmare.

Ogata had always been a light sleeper, so the sound of muffled sobs roused him awake and drew him to Fujiwara's bedroom door. He hesitated when his hand was on the doorknob, not wanting to invade the other man's privacy. On the other hand, Fujiwara was crying so hard that his breathing sounded ragged, and it wasn't as if Ogata would be able to go back to sleep while wondering what was wrong.

“May I come in?” Ogata called out, rapping on the door. There was a garbled noise that Ogata interpreted as assent, so he pushed the door open gingerly.

The bedside lamp was on. Fujiwara was hunched over on the edge of his bed, his face covered by his hands. Every now and then his body shuddered.

“Are you sick?” Ogata offered politely, in case Fujiwara didn't want to explain the real problem.

Fujiwara raised his head at the question, but stared blankly at Ogata, his vision unfocused as tears slipped down his face.

Ogata moved closer. “I said, do you feel ill?”

Fujiwara suddenly reached out, latching onto Ogata's wrist, and Ogata blinked in surprise. Fujiwara had a strong grip, even though his hand was trembling.

“Don't leave,” Fujiwara whispered hoarsely, then dropped his head down again.

“I won't,” Ogata promised. Even though he was completely out of his comfort zone. People just didn't come to Ogata when they needed a shoulder to cry on; even his girlfriends had seemed to prefer their own friends when they needed emotional support. Which had always suited Ogata; if he'd wanted to play shrink he would have gone into counseling instead of go. But Fujiwara didn't have anyone else, so he was stuck with Ogata. Lucky guy.

A few long moments passed, but Fujiwara kept crying, although more quietly than before. Deciding that Fujiwara wasn't likely to stop anytime soon, Ogata sat down next to Fujiwara, his wrist still firmly ensnared by Fujiwara's long, damp fingers. Ogata felt awkward sitting there doing nothing, so he put his free right hand over the back of Fujiwara's hand and started patting it, simply because of a vague memory of his mother doing the same for him when he was small and confused.

Ogata lost track of time as he continued the patting, lulled by the dim lamplight and his lingering sleepiness into drifting, but gradually Fujiwara's breathing evened out and the shaking ceased, although tears still streaked down his face.

“Do you want to want to talk about it?” Under normal circumstances, Ogata would not ask. But Ogata wouldn't be patting someone's hand under normal circumstances either, so he supposed that asking personal questions could hardly be breaking any worse taboos.

Fujiwara bit at his lip. “I... think so. But I don't understand it.”

“That doesn't matter, if you think you'd feel better sharing.”

Fujiwara started to turn his head as if to look at Ogata, but then he dropped it again, fixing his gaze on their hands instead. “I... had a dream, but I don't remember all of it. I know that I was with my friend. We were playing go. I remember the game, we didn't get very far... I think because my friend was so tired. I realized he was falling asleep, so I tried to speak to him.” Fujiwara gave a sharp sob then, his eyes brimming with fresh tears. “But he didn't answer. He didn't answer! I called and called, but he couldn't hear me anymore! Why didn't he answer?!”

Ogata furrowed his brows together, trying to puzzle out exactly why the dream had upset Fujiwara so much. So he'd been playing go with his friend, and his friend had fallen asleep: perhaps an annoying memory, but not nightmare quality. Unless, Ogata realized with a sensation of dread --

“I just wanted to say goodbye. I remember... I just wanted to say goodbye.”

--Fujiwara's friend had died. He had died, so he couldn't hear Fujiwara calling him anymore.

Fujiwara's grasp on Ogata tightened and Ogata winced, but he couldn't bring himself to mention it.

“I think we were very close. Because it hurts so much even though I can't remember his face.”

People were supposed to say something in situations like this, weren't they? Ogata's tongue felt heavy in his mouth. “He was playing go with you. I'm sure he was happy.”

Fujiwara wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes. If I had to... pass on myself, I can't think of a better way to leave than while playing a talented opponent. Especially a friend.”

Fujiwara let a shaky breath out. “That doesn't sound too bad, when you phrase it like that. But I wish I could remember him better. I wondered why he... passed on. He was very young.”

“How do you know? Do you remember his voice?”

“No, he didn't speak in the dream. But I saw his hands; they were small. He was playing Black.”

Ogata nodded. After hearing the description of the nightmare, he had a very good idea about what had triggered it. The neurologist had suggested that exploring Fujiwara's interests might help his memories surface, and obviously the neurologist had been quite correct. Fujiwara's sympathy for that whale's isolation had triggered his memory of his friend's death. Somehow it seemed terribly unfair that the most complete memory Fujiwara had recovered was such a tragic one. Yet, it was perhaps the best lead Fujiwara would get. “Do you remember anything else?” Ogata asked gently.

Fujiwara shook his head. “Not right now.” Then Fujiwara's eyes went round as he apparently finally registered that he was indeed gripping Ogata's hand, and he hastily withdrew his hand. “Oh, please excuse me! I didn't mean to grab you like that!”

Fujiwara's apologies only became more profuse when he saw that he had left red marks on Ogata's wrist, and then he started apologizing over having awoken Ogata at such an inconvenient hour. Ogata cut Fujiwara off after he began repeating himself. “I don't have a match or a commitment tomorrow, and I'm hardly a delicate flower. So I give you permission to stop obsessing about it,” Ogata said dryly.

“I'm just glad I didn't bruise you,” Fujiwara said, embarrassed. “But I suppose you must want to get back to sleep, now...”

Ogata did not miss the note of hesitation in Fujiwara's voice. Fujiwara did not want him to leave, although Ogata knew Fujiwara wouldn't ask him to stay again, thinking he'd already imposed too much on Ogata. “No, I'm mostly awake now. Maybe I'll just take this opportunity to commandeer that book you've been hogging and read in here for awhile.”

“It's a very interesting book,” Fujiwara said as he retrieved it from his nightstand. “I'm actually rereading it.”

“Like I said, hogging it,” Ogata said, settling down into the chair near the window.

Fujiwara handed him the book. “You don't need your glasses? I've never seen you not wearing them.”

“I'm near-sighted, but I'm perfectly capable of reading a book or a computer screen or a goban without them. It's just inconvenient to need to look at something far away and not have them on, so I usually don't take them off.” Ogata hadn't thought about putting them on when he'd been woken up.

“Oh, I see,” Fujiwara said, his gaze flickering over Ogata's face with interest.

Ogata flipped the book open to Chapter 6, which was as far as he'd read before he had forgotten the book on the counter and Fujiwara had gleefully made off with it.

He was almost finished with Chapter 6 when he heard the bed covers rustle as Fujiwara slid back under them. Ogata noticed that Fujiwara had chosen to lie on his right side so he was facing Ogata.

By Chapter 9, Fujiwara's eyelids were fluttering shut.

Ogata was puzzling over a passage in Chapter 10 when Fujiwara's voice drifted in, faint and sleep-slurred. “I'll try to not be so weak. I don't want to be a burden.”

Ogata looked up sharply over the top of the book. Fujiwara's eyes were closed, and he seemed more asleep than awake. Still, Ogata took time to consider his response. Before he'd met Fujiwara, Ogata would have thought it disdainful for a man to be so openly emotional, willing to laugh or cry easily without reservation. Ogata would have found it especially foolish to expose oneself in a moment of vulnerability like a nightmare. But then there was Fujiwara – Fujiwara, who lacked the knowledge and discernment that his damaged memory couldn't provide. Yet Fujiwara still anticipated new experiences with eagerness instead of dread, and he was also comfortable enough with himself that he didn't find it necessary to censor his emotions. And perhaps there was a strength in being capable of deep trust as well, to have that much faith in another person.

“The only kind of person who's truly weak is a coward who runs from his problems or obligations instead of facing them,” Ogata said. “You are neither weak nor a burden. Although you are a shameless book thief and you placed my bookmark God knows where, and some of us don't have an eidetic memory and actually need bookmarks.”

The only response Ogata received was the sound of Fujiwara's steady breathing: he'd finally fallen asleep. Ogata shut the book and moved to turn the bedside lamp off, but almost stepped on Fujiwara's hair. Fujiwara was lying too close to the edge of the bed and his hair trailed off the bed, falling onto the floor in long loops. Your hair might be too long if it presents a roadblock to foot traffic, Ogata thought, amused. He'd wanted to ask Fujiwara why he wore his hair so long, but he hadn't, assuming Fujiwara probably wouldn't recall the reason. Maybe Fujiwara simply liked the way his hair looked on him, enough to spend the time required to maintain it. He probably wouldn't be happy if he woke up in the morning and realized that his hair had been on the floor all night.

Ogata decided to be considerate and move Fujiwara's hair. So he could actually reach the table to turn off the lamp, of course. He crouched down and carefully slid his hands through the hair, gathering it up into a bunch to make it easy to pick up. It was soft and felt like silk against Ogata's skin. No wonder Fujiwara wore it long, if it felt that nice against his neck and face. There was enough of it, though, that the hair had some heft, like hair a model would have, Ogata decided, running his fingers through it.

Ogata's ears suddenly grew hot as he realized he was more or less playing with his sleeping roommate's hair, and it would be somewhat awkward to explain if said roommate happened to wake up. He hastily draped the hair over Fujiwara's bed covers, then clicked the lamp off and left the room (taking the book, of course.)

So much for his resolve to eschew attachments.

~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

Waya clacked the last stone onto the goban, then leaned back on his palms, grinning at the expression of wide-eyed amazement on Isumi's face.

“White is the man you've been playing at Iwamoto?” Isumi asked, his voice hesitant as if he could barely believe it.

“Yeah, once or twice a week,” Waya said with a nonchalant shrug, as if playing a title-level player were a regular occurrence. “Chips?”

Isumi waved the proffered bag away. “Waya... that you could go so far against this player is impressive.”

Waya felt his cheeks heat up at Isumi's sincere and unexpected praise: even though he was technically Isumi's “senpai” on account of passing the pro exam a year earlier, Waya had never stopped desiring Isumi's approval. “Well, I still lost by seven moku.”

“The quality of a game can't be measured in just moku count, especially not when your opponent is so much more experienced.” Isumi gestured to the 3-3 coordinates where White had played a keima with particular effectiveness. “This looks like something Kuwabara-sensei or Ogata-sensei would play. It's hard to imagine this person isn't a pro.” Isumi tilted his head to regard Waya contemplatively. “Are you certain that he isn't a Chinese pro on vacation, studying abroad like I did?”

Waya stretched back lazily, wriggling his toes against the tatami as he considered Isumi's question. “Nah, no way he's Chinese. I saw him studying a Chinese textbook once, and why would a Chinese guy need to study Chinese? Anyway, even if he was a Chinese pro, wouldn't he be studying at the Go Association instead of hanging around some little salon? 'Sides, his Japanese is better than mine. He uses all this keigo and crap.”

“That doesn't necessarily mean he's Japanese. Yang Hai-san has been mistaken for a Japanese person over the phone before.”

“Oh yeah, that's another thing! If he were a Chinese pro, then Yang Hai-san would have already definitely found out about him, as obsessed as he is about the guy.”

There was a pause for several seconds as Waya's words sunk in, then Isumi's jaw dropped open. “You don't mean... this is s a i?!”

“Yep! I'll show you some other games we've played, but yeah, no doubt about it.”

“You little rascal!” said Isumi, reaching over to muss at Waya's hair. “Why didn't you say so in the first place?”

With a laugh, Waya ducked away from Isumi's hand. “It's more fun this way, of course.”

Isumi smiled broadly. “Your sense of humor is just about as bad as Yang Hai-san's. I can't believe you just happened to bump into s a i in that salon. I have to confess that I'm really curious about what he's like, after hearing the two of you go on about him so much.” Unlike Waya and Yang Hai-san, Isumi hadn't originally been interested in s a i since he didn't play much NetGo, instead preferring to concentrate on the opponents directly in front of him (like Kuwabara-sensei, who'd delighted in tormenting him from Day One, or Ogata-sensei, who regarded Isumi with a certain wariness yet still slipped him oblique hints about Kuwabara's weaknesses.) But eventually Isumi had come to share Waya and Yang Hai-san's interest about s a i after studying the kifu they'd compiled.

“Yang Hai-san is going to be so excited!” Isumi exclaimed. “He'll want to catch a flight over as soon as possible so he can interview Fujiwara-san for the project, if Fujiwara-san would agree to it.”

“I'm not sure if that's a good idea right now.”

The smile faded from Isumi's face at Waya's serious tone. “There was a reason you didn't tell us about s a i sooner.”

Waya leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “Yeah, well, for starters, Fujiwara-san has never exactly admitted to being s a i. He's secretive. Most people don't notice because he's friendly and a chatterbox, but if you ask him questions about himself – like where he lives or what he does - he doesn't really answer the question. And then there's the question of why he hasn't gone pro; he's good enough to take some titles. He loves go, and he could earn a lot of money playing it. So why not do it unless he wants to stay hidden? Has to stay hidden?”

“Waya!” Isumi scolded. “You're making it sound like he's a criminal. It's hardly fair to assume something like that on pure conjecture when he probably just has other obligations. And he has to be too old to take the pro exam, with as much experience as he has.”

“He's barely older than you! He said he was in his twenties, and he looks it, too.”

Isumi blinked, looking stunned again. “A guy our age outread Touya Meijin? I know you're telling the truth, but it's just hard to believe. Unreal.” Isumi shook his head. “I feel like I need to start working harder now,” he admitted with a small laugh.

Waya grinned. “Well, why don't you come with me to the Iwamoto salon? I'm meeting him on Tuesday morning. You're free then, right?”

“Yes... but do you think it would be okay with Fujiwara-san? I don't want to make him uncomfortable.”

Waya rolled his eyes. “You couldn't scare a kitten if you tried. Anyway, he'll be thrilled to have a new opponent, and he only gets nervous if people ask him a lot of questions.”

“I'd be happy to come along, but why do I get the feeling you've got something up your sleeve?” Isumi eyed the other pro suspiciously.

“ 'Cause I always do!” Waya said cheerfully. “People just love Isumi-san. He'll probably just start chattering his whole life story to you before you reach chuuban. Remember that housewife on the train to Nagano? It's like people meet you and suddenly you're their new best friend or something.”

Isumi's cheeks flushed bright red. “I think she was just lonely, and you're exaggerating. Regardless, I am not going along with you to pump him for information. I respect his rights to his privacy.”

“She shared her homemade cookies with you! And I'm not asking you to pry. Just be yourself and everything will fall into place.”

“You're absolutely shameless, Waya,” Isumi grumbled, trying and failing to sound disapproving.

Waya smirked. It was mostly true.

~ ~ ~

During the train ride to Shinjuku, Waya had warned Isumi that Fujiwara could be a very intimidating opponent. (Well, actually Waya had said “right before he's about to trounce you, his eyes do that psycho cat thing just like Touya!”, his fingers curled into claws as he swiped at the air much to the disconcertment of the other passengers). Isumi had just nodded absently; the younger player had always been prone to a bit of exaggeration.

Now that the mid-game clash had begun, however, Isumi was beginning to think that Waya hadn't been exaggerating at all. With his face half-concealed by a folding fan, eyes sharp with anticipation, Fujiwara-san did rather bear a resemblance to a stalking cat. Definitely a predator, Isumi thought after Fujiwara responded to Isumi's last move almost instantly, as if he'd been coiled for the attack during Isumi's entire turn. Despite the apparent haste of the move, Isumi could see that Black's position was brilliant and well-planned.

Isumi found himself shrinking back mentally. It wasn't that Isumi lacked experience playing strong players, but Fujiwara's strength was... in an entirely different class. Black encircled White all over the goban, like hungry lionesses moving in for the kill. Isumi had thought he'd been responding to Fujiwara's hands fairly well, but perhaps he'd just been deluding himself, thinking that he could face Fujiwara on somewhat equal footing since he had studied Fujiwara's kifu.

Studying s a i's kifu was nothing compared to playing him; now that Isumi was facing him, he could sense the true depth of the other man's go.

Isumi felt like he might drown.

His head suddenly felt too heavy for his neck, and Isumi looked down into his lap, eyes unseeing. He hadn't felt so overwhelmed since he'd been struggling to pass the pro exams. Perhaps he'd just been overestimating himself, to think he actually had a chance against a player of such caliber.

But I did pass. Isumi seized that small, warm thought like an anchor. I did pass. Undefeated. I won my Shin Shodan match. I've played many fine players during my professional career, and I'm proud of those games. I'm proud of myself. Of my go.

Isumi lifted his head to look at the board again. The stones were still in the same positions, but somehow the patterns seemed... different. It wasn't an impending slaughter precipitated by a gross imbalance of skill, but instead a dialogue between Black and White, a wordless exchange laid out in stones, each carefully and precisely chosen like syllables in haiku.

It looks like a dance, Isumi thought, a sensation of wonder spreading through him. Yes, Black was definitely the more skilled and experienced of the two; that was undeniable. But Black wasn't executing a plan to ruthlessly dominate the board; instead, Black was responding to White's moves with a delicate sensitivity. Black's patterns were particularly beautiful in the areas where White had played especially well.

Isumi felt his breath hitch: those exquisite patterns on the board were as much a result of his go as Fujiwara's. He glanced up to meet Fujiwara's eyes. The expression in them was no less sharp than earlier, but now Isumi could see another emotion: satisfaction. A genuine satisfaction at a game well-matched.

A tiny smile tugged at Isumi's lips, and he could tell Fujiwara was returning the smile behind that fan. Then the other man inclined his head towards the board in a wordless query. Shall we continue?

Isumi's smile broadened and he answered with a stone, decisively clacking it into a bold position. Fujiwara's eyebrows arched, and Isumi waited for his response eagerly.

As the game continued, Isumi allowed his stones to flow naturally, trusting in his instincts more than the kifu he'd analyzed. Knowledge gleaned from kifu was valuable, but only to an extent. A real conversation wasn't scripted.

When there was nothing left to say, Isumi dipped his head. “Makemashita,” he said, feeling simultaneously content and eager to play again. To play an even better game.

~ ~ ~

Fujiwara and Isumi were bowing at each other now, so the game was obviously finished. Waya sighed mentally as he glanced at them out of the corner of his eye; he'd really been hoping to watch the entire exchange, blow-by-blow, but some of the customers had waylaid him before the mid-game to ask him for his opinion on their game. It was flattering to be sought out for advice, but he'd been looking forward to watching Isumi play Fujiwara all week. Still, hearing the post-game discussion would be just as enlightening. Fujiwara was particularly good at explaining games, and Isumi had always been like a patient older brother, willing to elaborate on even his own mistakes if it would benefit someone else.

Waya managed to escape in time to hear Isumi deflecting praise. “No, I still have a lot to learn,” Isumi said, his cheeks tinted red.

“You seemed to have reached a decision around the mid-game,” Fujiwara said, gesturing with his fan. “Before that, your hands were sometimes stiff, but afterwards your responses became much more intuitive.”

“I was feeling a little worried at that point, but I managed to regain my focus. You're a very strong player.”

Waya stared at the black and white patterns curling across the goban in astonishment. He'd played Fujiwara many times, but never in a game like this. “You really went all out on Isumi-san, didn't you?” Waya demanded, his voice rising in pitch.

“It's Waya-sensei's fault!” Fujiwara said, raising his floppy jacket sleeve to his mouth to conceal a laugh. “You've been telling me that 'Isumi-san is really strong!' so I couldn't help getting excited. Besides, it was really fun, wasn't it, Isumi-san?”

“Except for the part where I lost,” Isumi said with a grin.

“You never play me like that,” Waya muttered under his breath as he continued to admire the patterns. He couldn't help feeling jealous – of both of them. He wanted to play games of that quality with both Fujiwara and Isumi. But Waya knew his depth of reading just wasn't strong enough to play an entire game at that level yet. Waya grumpily wondered when it would be -- he'd asked Morishita-sensei that very question, and the older man had counseled patience and practice (before smacking him with a fan for being petulant.)

“Is there a way I could have turned the game in my favor after the midpoint?” Isumi asked Fujiwara. “It seems obvious that the gap had already become too wide by that stage, but I can't shake the feeling that there's something I'm overlooking.”

Fujiwara tapped his fan against his lips. “What is your intuition telling you?”

Fujiwara, Waya had found, often preferred to answer questions with questions. It could be annoying when Waya just wanted the answer right away, but on the other hand, Waya had occasionally managed to produce a few surprisingly good solutions while being questioned. Waya supposed it was more or less like shidougo, except nudging the errant student onto the correct path with words instead of stones.

“Here, at 9-12. I feel that there's a way to strengthen my position with a connection,” said Isumi with a frown.

Fujiwara acknowledged Isumi's speculation with a nod. “A kirikomi at 9-15 would have allowed a connection in about six hands, after you had played at 10-16. It's unusual enough play that your opponent likely wouldn't realize in time to cut you off. Unusual - but strong.”

Isumi's eyebrows shot up. “If White makes no other mistakes after this move, then it is possible for White to make up the difference in moku,” he said quickly. “And if White plays Shuusaku's kosumi over here, it can even benefit from the influence of the connection.”

“Exactly!” Fujiwara beamed. “If you keep studying the board, you'll probably discover a few other possibilities. Perhaps the next time we play, you'll tell me what they are?”

“I would be honored to play you again. Please continue to instruct me,” Isumi said, bowing, and Waya rolled his eyes. Isumi was so damned formal, but it was part of his very convenient charm.

“I would enjoy that very much,” Fujiwara said. “I wish I had time to play you again today, and Waya-sensei too, but I'm afraid I should leave soon. I'm meeting a friend.”

“Oh, I hope I didn't detain you too long,” Isumi said, reaching for stones to sort. “If you'd like, Waya and I can clean up here.”

“That's alright,” said Fujiwara, beginning to clear the stones as well. “We're meeting in Shinjuku, so I don't have far to travel. And where are you travelling to from here?”

“I'm going back to Ichigaya since I don't have any games today. It's convenient because it's close to the Go Association, but it's a bit boring.”

“By boring, Isumi-san means he still lives with his parents,” Waya informed Fujiwara with an impish smirk as he made a show of patting Isumi on the shoulder consolingly. “I've been living in my own place for two years.” Waya knew it was childish to tease Isumi in front of Fujiwara, but somehow he couldn't resist... maybe, Waya admitted to himself, he was just a little resentful of always feeling like he was standing in Isumi's shadow.

“Waya! It's not that I don't want to move out, but you know I don't have any siblings.”

Fujiwara nodded quickly. “Ah, it's natural for a mother to keep her only child close. Now if you want to move to an exciting place, Shinjuku is certainly busy, although sometimes it's too crowded. But I usually enjoying walking around and looking at all the buildings and the interesting people. There are many people from other countries; it's quite exciting, especially when they're speaking other languages.”

Isumi smiled at the other man's exuberance. “Oh, so you must have moved to Shinjuku recently, then.”

“Yes, I've only been living here since this summer. It seems I see something new every day!”

“Was the place you lived before so busy?”

Fujiwara's expression clouded. “I don't remember the last place I lived so well. I'm sorry.”

Isumi bowed again. “No, I should be the one to apologize. I didn't mean to pry when we've just been introduced.”

“Oh no, don't apologize!” Fujiwara exclaimed, waving his hands about, looking flustered. “You didn't do anything wrong. I've just had some... memory issues. It seems I suffered a head injury, although I don't recall it exactly.”

“I'm very sorry to hear that. I wish you the best in your recovery,” Isumi said in a low, sincere voice, then when Waya didn't say anything, he nudged Waya urgently with his foot from under the table.

“Uh, me too! Get better soon,” Waya said hastily, and Fujiwara thanked them for their kind wishes.

So he'd been right after all, Waya thought, vindicated: Isumi was the magic key to getting Fujiwara to open up. But Waya wasn't certain how much of it he believed. Certainly not the memory part; that just seemed like an incredibly convenient excuse to get out of answering just about any question. If Fujiwara had really been whacked on the head or hit by a car or something crazy like that, wouldn't he have problems speaking or walking too?

The stones were returned to their goke, and then Isumi and Fujiwara exchanged cell phone information, discussing plans to meet again.

“I look forward to seeing you both!” Fujiwara called cheerfully as he exited the salon with a wave, all traces of his earlier agitation gone.

“What a nice man. I hope he's able to regain his memories,” Isumi said as they picked up their belongings.

“You don't actually believe that, do you?” Waya asked, incredulous. “You're too trusting. It's just a part of his plan to keep people from finding out he's s a i and that he's also like, a chainsaw murderer or something.”

“Waya!”

“Okay, maybe income tax evasion, or embezzling. He's probably smart enough to pull it off,” Waya said, angling his head in consideration. “So of course, he knows the minute his picture starts getting printed in Go Weekly, he's going straight to jail.”

Isumi sighed. “Perhaps you should stop watching so many yakuza movies. It's corrupting your imagination.” Then his voice softened. “Maybe you should just enjoy playing with Fujiwara-san and not worry about his personal life. People all have different motivations for playing go. You can't just make assumptions about why he's not a pro.”

Isumi's quiet rebuke stung Waya more than he wanted to admit. It made Waya feel like he was still a brash, clueless kid who had disappointed his senpai again. “Yeah, okay. It's not like I'm going to do anything to him. I'm just curious. Why are you worried, anyway? You just met him.”

“He seems sensitive,” was all Isumi would say in answer. The older pro fixed his eyes firmly ahead then, as if maneuvering down the busy sidewalk required his full attention.

Waya knew Isumi well enough not to press the issue. By the time they reached the station, Isumi would probably bring up some completely unrelated subject and they'd chat about it lightly as if they hadn't had a disagreement. Isumi enjoyed teasing, but anything remotely resembling arguing made him anxious. Waya, on the other hand, personally relished a good argument, but he could respect Isumi's wishes. He decided not to bring up the subject of Fujiwara's hypothetical secret life to Isumi again.

That didn't mean Waya was going to stop trying to figure out a way to crack the mystery of s a i, though. Not in a million years. The desire to know – the need to know - had gripped him before he'd even made pro, and the desire had only grown stronger since meeting Fujiwara. He had to know, and he was going to figure out a way to get his answers.

~~~

Fujiwara gradually became more open about himself during the following weeks, his initial reserve fading as he played more games with Isumi and Waya. The things Fujiwara chatted about were mostly inconsequential: what his fish had been doing, fascinating things he'd seen around Tokyo, and an old Chinese lady he seemed to adore (but whom Waya thought sounded frankly terrifying). All of these tales were related with a lot of unnecessary detail, but Waya still listened with particular attentiveness, waiting for the inevitable slip-up. In Waya's experience, the bigger the lie, the harder it was for the fibber in question to maintain the lie over time.

Yet the more Waya learned about Fujiwara, the more Fujiwara's claim actually seemed to make sense in a weird way. It wasn't really anything Fujiwara had said, but rather the way he acted around other people. Sometimes the other customers would start chatting about non-go related things, boring crap like mortgages and health insurance and politics, and Fujiwara would become uncharacteristically quiet, mostly just listening and nodding, and only responding with a generic, noncommittal answer if asked for input (“It certainly seems that way,” “I know what you mean,” etc). But Waya didn't get the impression that Fujiwara was bored with the conversations and faking interest – his eyes looked keen, as if he were absorbing the information for later analysis. Like Fujiwara really had lost his memory, and was trying to re-learn as much as possible.

All the observations, however, didn't do Waya much good in the end game. He still didn't know anything about how s a i had come to be, and why he'd mysteriously appeared on the Internet and just as mysteriously disappeared after his crowning achievement of defeating the world's top go player. One would think s a i would have stuck around at least a little after that, if only to bask in the glory of his victory.

It was definitely time to play his trump card, Waya thought, fingering the clear file in his hands. Inside were three kifu he'd recorded himself. The first was a match he had recently played against L-L, China's top amateur. Waya had lost, but only after a fierce struggle that had lasted well into yose. The second was his only game as zelda against s a i. The last - the infamous match of s a i versus touya kouyo. There were no identifying marks on the kifu – no net handles, no dates, nothing except black and red circles with move numbers. By the time Fujiwara realized exactly what he was looking at, it would be too late for him to hide his reaction, and Waya had no doubt he'd be able to read Fujiwara's very expressive face easily. There would be no way for Fujiwara to deny the uncanny resemblance between his playing style and s a i's.

Waya arrived at the Iwamoto Go Salon and glanced around, but Fujiwara wasn't there yet. Waya decided to claim a table near the back, at a safe distance from the rest of the other customers. Then he put the clear file on the table, where Fujiwara couldn't help noticing it.

A few minutes later, Fujiwara arrived and they exchanged greetings as Fujiwara removed his jacket. Waya wrinkled his nose at the sudden acrid smell wafting across the table. Waya's own clothes often smelled after a visit to a go salon, but the jacket smelled like Fujiwara had been chain-smoking. “I didn't think you smoked, Fujiwara-san.”

Fujiwara looked puzzled. “I don't,” he said, sniffing delicately at one of the jacket sleeves. “Ehh, I suppose it does smell smoky. I hadn't noticed.”

“Maybe you're just spending too much time here,” Waya said, grinning.

“Does my hair smell too?” Fujiwara said worriedly, holding a lock up for inspection. “That would be awful! It's not that I mind smoke, but I do mind if my hair is smelly. See, I use this really nice strawberry--oh, what's that?” Fujiwara pointed to the conspicuous clear file eagerly, like he'd just spotted candy.

Hook, line, and sinker. “These are some kifu I've recorded,” Waya said casually, even though his pulse had started to race. “I played in two of the games so I've been reviewing them. Did you want to look?”

“Of course!” Fujiwara cheerfully accepted the file and took the L-L game out, falling silent as his eyes flickered over the kifu rapidly. Waya watched Fujiwara's face anxiously for signs of approval. Although the game had been included only as a part of Waya's pretext, he was proud of the game and eager to hear Fujiwara's opinion.

After a few minutes, Fujiwara looked up with a smile. “You're White in this one. Nice opening. It forced Black to react too strongly here. He's certainly talented, though. Is he a professional also?”

“No, that's Lee Linshin. He's an amateur from China, and he's won the World Amateur Go Cup several times. What do you think about this ko exchange here?” Waya said, pointing to the left quadrant.

“It's very interesting! Although, if White had placed a stone here first, it would have been more efficient.”

They continued discussing the rough spots in the game, and Waya was glad he'd had the foresight to think of all his game-related questions beforehand because he could barely concentrate now, unable to stop thinking about what Fujiwara's reaction would be when he realized Waya was onto him. Would he be angry? Waya had never seen the other man looking even the slightest bit grumpy, but for all Waya knew, that was just a part of Fujiwara's false persona. Surreptitiously, Waya dropped his hands to his lap so he could rub his sweating palms against his blue jeans.

“It's a good, solid game overall, but remember to watch the corners more carefully,” Fujiwara said, pulling out the next kifu quickly, as if he could barely contain his curiosity. “Oh Waya-sensei, you didn't get very far in this one!” he said with a gentle laugh after he glanced at the kifu. “You resigned before mid-game!”

A mid-game resignation? That meant... Fujiwara was reading the zelda - s a i match. Waya felt his heart thudding solidly against his chest. He forced himself to keep a steady voice as he responded to Fujiwara: “Geez, that game was played before I even became a pro. I was comparing it to that match with Lee to see how much I've improved, and what I still need to work on. Take it easy on me, okay?”

“I thought you wanted me to go harder on you so you could catch up to Isumi-san,” Fujiwara said, smiling and looking down at the kifu again. “I could tell immediately that you were Black because your opening style hasn't changed too much. Although of course your play is more refined now; you've become better at calculating risk as your style has matured, and your ability to read ahead has increased.” Fujiwara tapped his fan against his lips in consideration. “Your moves here are solid, but White is a truly superb player. You were out-classed from the start. With such a large difference in skill and no handicap, the outcome--”

Fujiwara's voice broke off, and his eyes went large. “White... White is...”

Waya dug his fingers into his jeans as a wave of adrenaline shot through his body. Now was the moment of truth.

“This doesn't make sense. I don't understand. But...”

“Fujiwara-san, are you okay?” The kifu was shaking in the other man's hands, and his eyes had taken on a glassy sheen.

Fujiwara didn't respond for several long moments, staring off into space as if he'd forgotten about Waya. “Black is... definitely Waya, but not the Waya of now. This is still a child's play. This is an old game. Yet White, there's no question,” Fujiwara murmured to himself.

Waya swallowed thickly. He was starting to feel just a little freaked out. He'd been anticipating a strong reaction from Fujiwara, but he hadn't thought Fujiwara would stage a breakdown in public. What if he isn't lying? That stray thought made Waya shift uncomfortably in his seat.

Fujiwara took a deep, ragged breath then, his vision clearing as he seemingly snapped out of his trance. He set the kifu down carefully on the table and laced his trembling fingers together, staring at the kifu. “We... played this game together. There can be no question of that. And your level of play. This game isn't recent.” Fujiwara's eyes glistened then, and Waya tensed. Please tell me he isn't going to cry.

“Waya-sensei, please. Do you know me from before my accident?” Fujiwara met Waya's gaze then, his expression vulnerable with longing. “It's okay, if you didn't tell me earlier for some reason. I won't ask why,” he said quietly.

Can people fake cry? Waya wondered frantically, suddenly wishing he were anywhere else even though he still really really wanted to find out about s a i.

“I need to know,” Fujiwara continued slowly. “I... didn't go into details when I told you and Isumi-san, but I'm suffering from complete retrograde amnesia. I don't remember anything from before my accident in May. Or anyone. Not my friends. Not my family. No one. Please, I need your help.”

Waya's stomach churned. There was something in the other man's voice, a genuine, quiet desperation in his tone that struck Waya to the core. He's.... telling the truth. Oh god.

“I...” Waya tried to speak, but the words got stuck in his mouth. Waya bit down hard on his lower lip, feeling like an utter shit. Fujiwara sounded so damned desperate, not at all like Waya had been expecting. Isumi-san was right, I shouldn't have meddled. Waya let out a slow, shaky exhalation. “I'm sorry, but I've only met you recently in person. These are all Internet games, played on the NetGo server.”

“NetGo? I don't know what that is,” said Fujiwara, wiping at his eyes with his shirt sleeve.

Waya's jaw fell open. How could the man who had dominated the online go scene not know about NetGo? He really doesn't know anything. “NetGo is an online forum for people to challenge each other at go. It's just like a regular go game, except all you can see are the stones on the computer screen. You – the player – can reveal as much or as little about yourself as you like.”

“You played me online. Did I tell you anything about myself? Anything at all?”

Fujiwara's face fell as Waya shook his head. “No, you never told anyone anything. You wouldn't chat after your games even if someone sent you a message. That's why I didn't ask you about playing online sooner, even though I recognized your style after the first time we played here. I thought—I didn't realize... I thought you were just keeping a secret about your Internet identity.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I dunno, some people are shy and keep their online lives separate from real life. And you were famous – you are famous. So maybe you didn't want too much attention?” Waya conjectured carefully. It was really weird to be trying to guess at the motives of a man he barely knew and had been suspicious of until just a minute ago, but Waya felt he owed it to Fujiwara to give him whatever help he could, as an unspoken apology.

Fujiwara stared at the zelda - s a i kifu listlessly. “Famous? I don't even know who I am. I'm not a professional either. Why would my games be that important?”

“That doesn't matter on the Internet!” Waya blurted out, unable to keep from clenching his fists. Hearing that from s a i was just wrong, especially when so many players had dedicated themselves to learning every possible thing about the man and his games. Like Waya himself. Obviously Fujiwara did have a problem if he didn't understand the value of his games. “Look,” Waya said, trying to keep the frustration out of his tone, “All that really matters is your ability. During your time online, you played a lot of people from all over the world, some of them really strong, some of them professionals too – and you never lost. NEVER. Do you know what that means?”

“No,” said Fujiwara, shrinking back in his chair, looking completely lost.

Waya grabbed the last kifu and thrust it into Fujiwara's hands. “Don't you remember this game? People are still talking about it two years later! Touya Meijin retired after he lost to you! You have to remember,” Waya added, almost pleadingly.

Fujiwara's eyes flickered over the kifu, and he made a small, choked noise of recognition. “This is my game.” He clutched the kifu to his chest like a child, closing his eyes as if in pain. “I've started writing down my games recently. They're the only thing I really remember from... before.” This was said slowly, as if Fujiwara were confessing to a crime. “I have hundreds, but this one is precious to me. I think it's the most beautiful game I've ever played, because of him, my opponent. I wanted to play him again – I want to play him again.” Fujiwara's fingers tightened around the kifu, wrinkling the paper. “I felt so terrible that I couldn't remember his name when he gave me such an exquisite game. But I won't forget it again,” Fujiwara said, opening his eyes to meet Waya's firmly. “ 'Touya Meijin.' ” Fujiwara mouthed the name carefully, like a sacred phrase.

Waya felt a small thrill rush up his spine at Fujiwara's tone. He'd been wondering how s a i could possibly be so cold as to ignore the touya kouyo handle, which had become a familiar sight on the NetGo server after that epic clash. Even if s a i had become bored of NetGo, surely he'd come back for his rival, Waya and Yang Hai-san had reasoned. But it wasn't that s a i didn't care anymore – he just simply didn't remember touya kouyo, which was almost unbelievable. It did explain a lot, however. “Fujiwara-san, do you remember anything about Touya Kouyo-sensei?” Waya asked carefully.

Fujiwara shook his head, and Waya forced himself to take a few calming breaths before he continued. “Many people,” Waya said, “consider Touya-sensei to be the best player alive. Over his career, he won more titles than any other player and defended them for years. He's had some heart problems these past few years, though, and that's probably part of the reason he decided to retire.”

“But there's another reason.” Waya leaned in over the table, lowering his voice. “He's looking for you.”

“For me?” Fujiwara said, blinking in surprise. “Really?” he added, sounding hopeful.

“Yeah, definitely,” Waya said, nodding vigorously. “I mean, it's not like he came out and announced it publicly, but since he's retired, he's always travelling to other countries and entering go tournaments. He says he's 'looking for new talent' but everyone knows he wants a rematch with you really badly. Yang Hai-san's heard him talking about it too.”

“Yang Hai-san?”

“A Chinese pro, Isumi-san's bo—uh, Isumi-san's friend. Hey, he's looking for you too! He's put all the kifu of yours we could find into an online database, and he's got this computer program called GoGhost or something, it seems pretty awesome so far...”

Waya's voice trailed off at the look of dejection on the older man's face. The look of excitement had faded from Fujiwara's expression, and his shoulders were slumped.

Fujiwara smiled sadly at him. “I'm sorry. That's great news you've told me, and I really am happy, as someone who loves go. It would be wonderful to play them. But if these people are 'looking' for me, then they don't actually know who I am. Or if I have... a family. Or friends.”

Waya clenched his fists, feeling disgustingly helpless. “I'm sorry, Fujiwara-san. I know more about s a i than most people – that was your net handle, er, your “Internet name” - but it's not much. You never talked to your opponents. Oh wait, I almost forgot! You did say one thing to me after our game. You said 'I'm pretty strong, aren't I?' I remember because I got mad.”

“I said that?” Fujiwara blushed. “And I was called s a i? Like a rhino?”

“Yeah, I didn't believe you were an adult after that! I actually thought you were this friend of mine for awhile, 'cause he can be a real brat sometimes.” Waya furrowed his brows in deep thought. “There are actually a lot of similarities between your go, though. I even asked him if he knew you, but he said no. Sorry, I guess that's--”

Fujiwara wasn't listening. The other man had started to breathe in short, sharp gasps, and he drew trembling hands up to his face.

Oh god, he really is crying now. Waya really, really wished that Isumi-san was there. “Umm, Fujiwara-san, are you okay?” Waya asked awkwardly, reaching a hand out, then dropping it.

Fujiwara sobbed something incomprehensible about rhinos.

Waya had no idea what he was supposed to do. Fujiwara obviously needed help, but Waya wasn't a doctor or a counselor, and he really didn't know anything important about s a i. So Waya just sat there, trying to stare at the table instead of Fujiwara. At least he'd chosen a table removed from the other customers and Fujiwara wasn't crying loudly enough to draw their attention.

“s a i. Is not. A rhino.” Fujiwara gasped out between sobs. “Sai is not a rhino,” he repeated desperately.

“Hey, I believe you. Of course not,” Waya agreed quickly, working up the courage to give Fujiwara a quick pat on the elbow.

Hearing that seemed to help, because Fujiwara's sobs became less violent then. Eventually his tears subsided, and he fumbled in his pockets for a tissue to dab at his streaked, damp face. “I'm sorry, Sensei,” Fujiwara apologized, his voice thin. “Today has just been a little overwhelming for me.” He took a deep breath. “ 'Sai' is not just a net handle. It's my first name.”

Waya's eyes widened. “Sai” was indeed a name, although it wasn't particularly common, and people did often use all or part of their real names on NetGo. But Fujiwara was saying that... “You didn't remember your name?!” Waya blurted out before he could stop himself.

“I didn't remember my given name. But my full name is Fujiwara-no-Sai. I couldn't remember that until today. It seems... I learned a lot today. My name. His name, this Touya Kouyo-san. And that he's looking for me, and he longs to play me again as well. And there are other people too.” Fujiwara gave a weak smile to Waya. “Even if they don't know who I am, they know about me, and I must matter to them in some way. That makes me feel a little less lost.”

“You matter to a lot of people!” Waya said quickly, eager for some way to console Fujiwara. “Yang Hai-san's crazy about your go. Because of you, he was inspired to create that program, and he was able to get funding because he showed your kifu to the sponsors, and they thought the program had a better chance of success than the previous ones. And Touya-sensei! He's kept playing online ever since your game, and his go has been changing too. You'd better look at his kifu before you play him again. He's gotten really strong, not that he wasn't already super strong before.”

Waya raked his hand through his hair, jittery with excitement at the thought of a re-match between s a i and touya kouyo. “Oh yeah, other pros – a bunch of older ones - have followed Touya-sensei's lead and started playing online too, so players everywhere are getting stronger. Even my sensei logs on sometimes now. He was really jealous when he saw that game between you and Touya-sensei!” Waya was unable to resist the urge to grin at the recollection, despite the seriousness of the situation. “Although Ogata-sensei was pretty pissed too, he'd been wanting to play you for a long time, and you played his sensei instead. It's actually kinda funny.”

Fujiwara's posture stiffened abruptly then. “Ogata-sensei knows s a i?” he said quietly.

Waya wondered at Fujiwara's sudden tenseness; why did he care about Ogata? Maybe Fujiwara had heard someone else in the salon mention him or something. Still, it was definitely a question that Waya could answer for Fujiwara. “Yeah, he's almost as obsessed as Yang Hai-san. He plays Yang Hai-san online a lot, and he's always asking him questions about that program. He's Touya-sensei's top student – he's won titles - so I guess it makes sense that he would want a chance to play the guy who beat his teacher. It's a way to prove his skill as a player.”

“Ah, I suppose that makes sense,” Fujiwara said, his gaze turning inwards.

“Hey, are you okay?” Fujiwara looked pale, and his eyes were still red-rimmed. “I guess this is kind of crazy for you, learning all this.” Waya hoped Fujiwara would be able to handle dealing with everything; Isumi had been right about him being sensitive.

Fujiwara nodded slowly, looking emotionally drained. “I just have a lot to think about now. I'm a little tired, too. But thank you for telling me the truth. I'm going to have to decide what to do from now,” he said, pushing his chair back.

Waya stood up as well. “Look, I'm really sorry about not telling you sooner. It was wrong of me not to, I should have believed you.”

“It's alright. I suppose my situation is a little difficult to accept, especially when we don't know each other that well,” said Fujiwara with a weak smile.

Waya felt a sharp pang of guilt. “Still. Look, if there's anything I can do to help, or if you have more questions, just call me or send me a message. Okay?” Waya said, his voice sincere.

“I'll remember that. Thank you for your kind offer.” Fujiwara bowed. “Take care.”

Waya watched as Fujiwara left the salon. He felt pretty crappy himself. Isumi was going to kill him when he confessed, but there was no point in trying to hide the deed. However, Waya supposed in the long run it had actually been the right thing to do, although his motivations had been less than pure. But he had helped Fujiwara regain some of his memories. Poor guy, Waya thought. He couldn't imagine not even remembering his own first name.

He rubbed at the back of his tense neck, wondering if there was anything he'd forgotten to tell Fujiwara about himself. Waya couldn't shake the niggling feeling that he had forgotten something important, but perhaps it was just paranoia. Being responsible in some way for s a i... that was scary.

With a sigh, Waya decided he might as well text Isumi. Isumi would know what to do.

Chapter Text

~ ~ ~

“Are you sure you don't want one?”

Ogata Hawke Regina arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow at the extended pack of Larks. “No thank you, dear. I'm still quite content with my substitute addiction,” she said, nodding towards the red cell phone that gleamed brightly against the dark polish of their table. “Speaking of which, it'll be interesting to see by what percentage my portfolio outperforms yours by today.”

Ogata took a leisurely pull at his cigarette before returning his mother's teasing smile. “Well, the Singapore Stock Exchange doesn't close for another fifteen minutes. Isn't your gloating just a little premature?”

“Hardly,” Regina replied, amusement glinting in her blue eyes. “To draw an analogy to go, I'd say we're entering yose, and you're too far behind in moku to make up the difference.”

Ever since Ogata had started earning enough as a pro to invest his money, he had been engaged in a friendly rivalry with his mother over portfolio performance, and the advancement of Internet technology on cell phones had escalated their game to an entirely new level. With cell phones, they didn't have to be near Internet-accessible computers any longer in order to check stock updates or text each other snide messages. Ogata's skills in picking “winners” had improved over the years, but his mother still beat him three out of every four quarters, a loss ratio which Ogata did not feel too acutely: Regina was an extremely cunning investment banker.

Ogata faked a scowl. “If you're expecting a victory by resignation, I'll have you know I intend to fight until the bitter end – bloody point by bloody point.”

“Such language, Seiji. The staff are going to think I birthed you on a naval vessel,” Regina chided softly as a suited waiter approached their table, but Ogata could tell she was pleased from the way she was pressing her lips together to suppress a smile before she placed their order. Making an effort to use English (especially British vernacular like “bloody”) around his mother was an easy way to make her happy, although she was functionally fluent in Japanese, enough to meet the demands of her profession.

Regina originally hadn't been sensitive about whether Ogata addressed her in English or Japanese, believing that he would naturally grow up bilingual with a little encouragement and study. Then his father had suggested that perhaps they ought to delay Ogata's further lessons in English until he entered junior high school, so his progress in Japanese wouldn't be “hindered.”

Ogata had been eight. But he still remembered the exact expression of mingled disbelief and betrayal on his mother's face with perfect clarity, and from that day he'd been careful to speak English around her.

“It's a shame I've been so busy with the new department lately,” Regina said after the waiter left. “I wanted to congratulate you sooner on reclaiming the Gosei. How was Okinawa, by the way?”

“Well, the hotel was nice,” Ogata replied dryly. “I had hoped to have more time for sight-seeing after the match finished, but the Association scheduled me for several meetings with its affiliate in the area. I had to play shidougo with the president – who likes to hear himself talk, apparently – which was not nearly as entertaining as sitting on the beach and getting sunburned. The Association always keeps our schedules packed when we're traveling on their dime, though.”

The corners of Regina's lips twitched. “As a mother, I naturally side with my child, but as a banker, I can't help respecting the Association's frugality.”

“You would,” Ogata said, frowning.

“Don't pout, Seiji. At least your opponent was that nice Mr. Serizawa, and you weren't stuck in Okinawa for three days with that... horrible old man,” Regina said, uttering the epithet with some reluctance.

Ogata stifled a laugh. His mother usually refrained from name-calling, but then again, she was possibly the only person who disliked Kuwabara as much as he did, albeit for slightly different reasons. Kuwabara had been quite taken with Regina upon first sight, a sentiment which was definitely not mutual. “That reminds me, 'that horrible old man' asked about you before I left for Okinawa. He probably expected that I wouldn't win the third game, and the fourth and fifth games would have been held at the Association.”

“Oh, and I've attended your title matches in Tokyo before. I hope he wasn't intending to try to coax me into playing golf with him again.” Regina winced at the recollection, fine wrinkles crinkling around her eyes. “Well, thank you for winning and sparing me from the trauma of dealing with Kuwabara-sensei.” She raised her wine glass in a teasing salute.

Ogata raised his own glass to clink against hers. “Naturally protecting you was my real motive in securing an early victory all along.”

“That reminds me, I meant to ask you about your game. Go Weekly had an analysis of the game. I didn't follow that much of it, of course, but it seems the analyst was surprised at some of your moves. He thinks the patterns were unusual compared to your usual style. Is this because you've been studying with a new teacher? Nagiko mentioned him,” Regina added, noticing Ogata's surprised expression.

Exactly what had the doctor told his mother? Ogata wondered, his jaw tensing. Dr. Kiyohara had been known to take a rather relaxed view of patient privacy rights on occasion, at least when it came to his mother. But Regina's question seemed as if it had been asked out of simple curiosity. Ogata doubted she would sound so neutral if the doctor had happened to mention that Ogata had basically picked up an amnesiac stranger and brought him home. “Oh, did she? I hope she had a good impression of Fujiwara-san,” Ogata said blandly. “Yes, I've been studying with him for most of this summer. He's a talented teacher.”

“Nagiko said he was charming, and very polite. And younger than you. Is he really an adequate substitute for Touya-sensei, at your level?” Regina asked, looking faintly concerned, and Ogata recalled that she had been quite displeased when Sensei had retired in order to play overseas. Although Regina hadn't said as much, Ogata suspected Regina viewed the retirement as a betrayal. Touya-sensei, after all, had been the one to convince her that letting Ogata become a professional go player was a viable career option.

When Ogata decided to turn pro at the perfectly respectable age of fourteen, his mother had been... difficult to persuade. Upon hearing of their disagreement, Touya-sensei had invited them the two of them to his house, to discuss the matter over tea.

~ ~ ~

Ogata sipped silently at his drink while his mother complimented Touya-sensei's traditional home and the blend of tea. His mother had even discussed a little Basho after learning that Sensei greatly admired the poet. When the conversation turned towards the subject of the meeting, however, his mother's tone turned distinctly cool. She informed Touya-sensei that Ogata would be permitted to continue his go studies only if he maintained his grades in junior high, and he would earn his high school diploma as planned. Furthermore, Regina stated, if Ogata failed the pro exam, he would immediately begin preparing for the college entrance exams – her son would not be allowed to fruitlessly idle around, waiting for the next chance to take the pro exam.

Touya-sensei had accepted her terms calmly, stating his confidence that Ogata was indeed capable of passing the exam on his first try. His mother thanked Sensei for his reassurance, but expressed concern about Ogata entering such a traditional profession when his heritage was not exactly typical. Touya-sensei shook his head then. “Go is not a Japanese game, nor a Chinese one, nor a Korean one. Nationality, age, gender, upbringing – none of these are relevant on the goban. The game... transcends the limitations of humans,” his sensei had said with utter conviction, then offered to introduce her to some of the Association's foreign-born players.

“Your teacher is an idealist,” Regina told Ogata after the meeting. They were sitting on a park bench, and Ogata admired the way the sun caught in his mother's golden hair as she lit a cigarette. “I'm neither a go player nor a philosopher, so I won't try to address whether or not the game 'transcends' humanity. But keep in mind that, regardless, it's people you'll be playing against, and I know people. No matter what profession, people are just as capable of being cruel and opportunistic, and they'll try to take advantage of you. Just make sure you're choosing something you really love, so it will be still be worth it.”
~ ~ ~

With a smile, Ogata looked at his mother across the dinner table; now he was the one who smoked, and his mother's hair was silvering. But he hadn't forgotten her advice, or that despite her initial misgivings, she had never failed to support his go. “Fujiwara-san is Touya-sensei's equal,” he said simply.

His mother's eyebrows shot up. “At such a young age? He must be very skilled to compensate for his relative lack of experience.”

Ogata shook his head at his mother's reasoning. “He is skilled, but his greatest strength is his experience. I'm at a loss to explain the discrepancy myself, but the depth of his play can only come through his having played thousands of games.”

“I thought that usually a player didn't reach the thousand game mark until late in his or her career,” Regina said, glancing over her shoulder as the waiter arrived with their salads.

“Fujiwara-san's not a professional,” Ogata said, stubbing his cigarette out. “I haven't reached the thousand game mark in my professional matches either, but I've easily played that many if you count my unofficial games. But not all of those were against quality opponents, so they didn't contribute much to my growth. But Fujiwara-san's experience suggests he's played many very strong opponents, and often. I have wondered exactly who he has played to develop such strength. There are some professionals who play online, but only when their schedules permit it.”

Regina finished her bite of salad. “Then why don't you just ask him?”

Ogata chewed slowly to give himself time to compose a decent answer. He really didn't want to tell his mother that Fujiwara was an amnesiac because that could very easily lead to an uncomfortable line of questioning, given his mother's perceptiveness. “Well, everyone's entitled to a few secrets, I suppose,” he offered weakly.

Regina looked amused. “That may have some truth, Seiji, but it's certainly not your credo. Yours is more along the lines of 'I'm entitled to my secrets and yours too.' You've always been very curious.”

“A little curiosity is perfectly healthy. And I'm sure I'll find out some answers, in due time,” Ogata said. If Fujiwara ever regained the rest of his memory, a prospect which Ogata had privately come to suspect was growing more distant as time passed.

“Well then, you seem confident,” his mother remarked, and Ogata merely smiled in response as he finished his salad off. The most complete memory Fujiwara had recalled to date was still the one about his friend dying, the friend Fujiwara couldn't even remember. Ogata had taken Fujiwara back to visit the memory specialist again, but the specialist's advice had basically boiled down to “keep up with your journal” and “take things one day at a time.” At least this time, Fujiwara's expression had been one of resigned acceptance, instead of that vulnerable look he'd worn during the first visit.

If Fujiwara didn't remember -- well, he should stay. Until he figured out what he was going to do.

“You'll have to introduce us sometime. I'm curious to meet him, especially since he sounds like a bit of a mystery. By the way, you never did get around to introducing me to Inoue-san. Are you two still together? You haven't mentioned her in awhile.”

Ogata felt his cheeks heating up at the thought of his mother meeting Fujiwara, which was definitely odd. Perhaps it was because he'd more or less been responsible for Fujiwara's re-education, and was therefore partially responsible for the image Fujiwara presented. “I'll have to arrange something, then,” Ogata said. “And no, Inoue-san got tired of me being too busy during my Juudan preparations. It was an amicable break-up, though.” Inoue was a sharp woman who might have gotten along well with his mother (compared to some of his dates, anyway) but it had seemed pointless to introduce her since their relationship had always been rather casual. Still, Regina had been happy to hear the occasional details he shared about Inoue, and had even taken to reading the Yomiuri Shimbun because Inoue had a column in it.

“Really? I thought she was rather busy herself, working at the paper. One would think she ought to be understanding about a packed schedule,” Regina said crossly as she speared at a stubborn cherry tomato.

“I suppose the travel could have also been a factor. Her position doesn't require travel and mine does,” Ogata said, hoping that his mother wouldn't pry much further. Ogata suspected that his mother feared he was incapable of maintaining a long-term relationship and had been relieved to be provided with evidence to the contrary; he had dated Inoue for almost a year. As logical and calculating as Regina usually was, she was his mother, and Ogata supposed that all mothers liked to fret about that sort of thing. At least she had never been the sort to nag about grandchildren. If she ever did, Ogata planned to present her with some of his guppies' numerous offspring.

By the time their main course had been served, Ogata had successfully steered the conversation away from himself and his last relationship to his mother's new position as vice president of the European department at Barclays' Tokyo branch. Regina had worked for Nomura Securities for over twenty years, but had remained firmly stuck in middle management, despite her obvious talent. The glass ceiling was still rather thick in certain Japanese professions, and bankers and financiers tended to be conservative at best and stagnant at worst. Regina had finally gotten irritated enough at Nomura Securities to allow herself to be lured away by Barclays' promise of her own department at the salary she actually deserved.

Judging from her remarks, the move had been a good one overall. Regina enjoyed having the authority to hack through red tape at her discretion, and she also liked having the authority to hire her own subordinates, instead of simply having to make do with whatever employees were handed to her.

“When you fire employees, do you use a special hand gesture like Sir Alan Sugar?”

Regina cut her eyes at him like she'd been asked that question more than once. “I make good hires, so I haven't needed to let anyone go. And since when do you watch reality shows?”

“I was bored. But I only watched enough episodes to feel pleased that I don't have a boss to report to. Especially one with such ugly hair.”

“Don't be catty, Seiji,” Regina admonished, waving her fork at him. “You have a nice head of hair now, but male pattern baldness is more common than you'd think.”

“Ah, but it doesn't run in your family,” Ogata smirked. “So I just have to worry about Masato's side.”

Regina's eyes dimmed, and Ogata immediately regretted the thoughtless mention of his father. His mother had been the one to leave, but she had never shown any interest in remarrying. Ogata had often wondered why.

His mother noticed his expression and gave him a thin smile. “You didn't upset me, dear. You just reminded me of a bit of unpleasant business we have to attend to. I was putting it off because I didn't want to ruin our time together.”

Ogata felt his blood chill as his mother rummaged through her handbag and fished out an envelope.

“This was addressed to me, but there were two letters inside. This one is for you. Apparently an article about your Gosei win ran in some other paper besides Go Weekly, and your father read it. I suppose he felt obligated to send us a note,” Regina said, looking down and pretending to be preoccupied with her dinner while Ogata looked at the letter in his hand.

Part of Ogata wanted to simply crumple the letter up. Or burn it. Too bad he'd extinguished his cigarette earlier. But it had been well over twenty years since he'd seen his father, and his accursed curiosity got the better of him.

The letter was brief, the sentences short and concise. It felt almost like an impersonal update, except for the “Dear Seiji” at the beginning. His father, ever the practical businessman.

Masato had gotten remarried and had two children, a boy and a girl. He was still working for the same company. He had been surprised to learn that Ogata had become a professional go player, but he had been reassured by his co-workers that a successful go career was financially secure, so he was “pleased” Ogata had done well for himself.

In the last paragraph, his father had written a phone number along with the suggestion to give him a call. Underneath the number: It's been some time. Perhaps it might be beneficial for us to renew our relationship. Hoping this letter finds you well. --Ogata Masato.

Ogata snorted and tossed the letter onto the table. “What an insufferable jackass. 'Renew our relationship' ? We don't have one, and I'm certainly not interested in starting one.”

“Perhaps it wouldn't necessarily be... a bad idea,” his mother suggested quietly.

Ogata looked at her sharply. He'd expected her to be vehemently opposed to the idea. After the separation, Regina had taken care to send his father occasional letters about Ogata, along with a calendar of school activities and the like so that his father could attend. But his father never replied, never called, and never visited. By the time Ogata had entered junior high, Regina had sworn to never waste her time with “that man” again.

“Why would you say that? I fail to see how it could be 'beneficial' in any way.”

Regina pinched at the bridge of her nose. “Please don't misinterpret me. I'm not saying that my feelings towards your father have changed in any way, or that I think he's somehow become a... stronger person. I certainly don't intend to answer his letter, other than to let him know that I received it, and that I gave you yours. He's not my husband anymore. But he's still your father.” She took a deep breath. “I haven't necessarily grown any wiser since then, but I've learned some things along the way. That there is a value in keeping some relationships, even if they're not necessarily 'ideal', and we don't even particularly like the other person. Perhaps this is a chance you've been given for a reason.”

Ah. So that was what this was about. Ogata felt his annoyance fading and he softened his tone. “I know you just want what you think is right for me. But he hurt you. I still haven't forgotten that. I don't need that relationship. I don't need him. I don't want him.”

His mother's eyes were gentle as she reached out to pat at his hand. “It still hurts, doesn't it? There's value in forgiveness, too."

Ogata put his hand gently over hers and smiled wryly. “Now Mother, confess. You're worried that I'm doomed to become a bitter old bachelor just because I don't like my father.”

“Well, you've obviously found me out. But seriously, please think about what I've said. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy. I have my Go, a fast car, a fish tank, and a beautiful mother.”

With a laugh, Regina pulled her hand back. “When did my son become such a lying flatterer?”

“Lying? Our waiter keeps blushing every time he comes to our table, and I rather doubt it's me. Maybe you should slip him your cell phone number.”

Regina gave him a scandalized look. “I think you have a wild imagination, and that waiter is young enough to be my son.”

Ogata arched his eyebrows. “Oh, so you were looking. I've always admired your ambition, have I told you that?”

“You've become very cheeky, Seiji. Obviously I've failed to discipline you properly.”

They finished dinner with similar pleasant, familiar banter, and Ogata was relieved that they did not speak of that man again. But when they got up to leave, his mother wordlessly pressed the abandoned letter into his palm. Out of respect for her, he folded the letter up neatly and slid it into his back pocket.

He could always burn it later.

~ ~ ~

After escorting his mother to her car, Ogata walked back to his Mazda, and he recalled the exact moment he'd decided he hated his father.

~ ~ ~

Ogata is ten. He is ten, and he's come home from school with his second bloody nose in three weeks.

Frankly, Ogata figures he's earned this particular injury for being stupid enough to smart off to a giant-sized wanker. The next time Ogata has a disagreement, he's going to just pretend to give in and secretly wait for the first opportunity to sneak something nasty into the bully's locker. (That bully has pissed off so many students that he'll never be able to figure out which victim has vandalized his locker.)

His mother scolds him as she inspects his injury, but Ogata stubbornly maintains that he just fell down on his bicycle. Anything is better than having her call his homeroom teacher; not even bullied students like a snitch.

When his father returns home, however, he doesn't bother to interrogate Ogata; instead, he heaves a long-suffering sigh at the sight of Ogata's tissue-wadded nose, a sigh that suggests he isn't surprised in the least to find his son bloodied again. Then, his father turns to his mother to propose that they start dyeing Ogata's hair black. “It's natural for other kids to pick on him when he stands out so much. If he blends in more, then he'll have an easier time fitting in,” his father reasons, in the same neutral tones Ogata has heard him using around his business associates to discuss contracts.

Regina's eyes flash, and she even raises her voice. “Hair dye? Why didn't I think of that magic solution? Perhaps you'd prefer if I dyed my hair black too; would it make me a better housewife?”

Slowly, his father blinks, taken aback by the outburst. “This doesn't have to do with you. And if you're still upset about staying at home, then we can see about finding you employment somewhere. But like I said before, it will be difficult to find you a position at the level you want, even with your degree since--”

Regina cuts him off with a soft, bitter laugh. “It has everything to do with me. My son has everything to do with me. I don't want him dyeing his hair any more than I want him pretending he can't speak English. Would you want him to wear color contacts as if he were ashamed to be your son?”

His father hisses air through his teeth as if he is being confronted by a particularly obtuse and stubborn client. “His eye color isn't the problem here. You're blowing this out of proportion.”

His mother doesn't argue. She turns away from his father and buries her face against Ogata's neck. Her face feels damp against his skin, and he glares at his father for making her cry.

Exasperated, his father shakes his head. “I have a headache now. I'm going to get a drink so I can unwind and think this over,” he announces and leaves the room.

Three weeks later, his mother walks out, taking a car packed with boxes and Ogata. Neither of them looks back.

~ ~ ~

Ogata pulled up to a stoplight. He thought it was one of the best decisions she'd ever made. And he still hated his father, silly letter nonetheless. Ogata hated him for being weak. Because his father had been weak, he'd been too concerned with trying to fit in at his company and please his very traditional parents. He'd failed to support his wife properly, and in the end he'd simply seemed relieved when she had walked out, taking their son with her.

There were not many people who Ogata actually gave a damn about. But if Ogata thought he were about to lose one of those people, he certainly wouldn't just sit back and let it happen. Ogata was a go player, and he knew how to fight. He knew what he wanted, and he was never going to let weakness hold him back from it.

He was nothing like his father.

~~ ~

“I'm back,” Ogata called out, slipping his shoes off in the apartment's entranceway. But there was no answer, and Ogata frowned. Was Fujiwara still out? It was already dark. Ogata had discouraged Fujiwara from returning home late, warning him that it wasn't safe in Shinjuku. Fujiwara usually obliged him, but Fujiwara was also prone to losing track of time if he got distracted (the usual culprit was a game of go, of course.)

When Ogata entered the kitchen, he was pleased to see that the light in the living room was on. There was the faint pachi pachi of stones clacking on the goban.

Fujiwara had both goke and a printed kifu beside him on the floor, but he did not glance at the kifu as he smoothly laid out the stones.

Quietly, Ogata padded into the room to get a better look at the partially completed game. He stroked his chin in consideration; there was something very familiar about the flow of the patterns even though only a few hands had been recreated.

“I learned something interesting today.”

Ogata started slightly; he hadn't thought Fujiwara had noticed him entering. Fujiwara could be remarkably absorbed when it came to go.

“But it might not be so interesting to you,” Fujiwara said as he continued laying out the stones.

“Why would you say that?” Ogata said, breaking his attention away from the goban at the odd tone in Fujiwara's statement. He sounded almost... cold. Fujiwara never sounded cold. And it was decidedly strange that Fujiwara hadn't bothered to look up from the goban yet, especially since he was just recreating a game and not playing an actual opponent.

“Because Ogata-sensei already knows, and he hates it when people tell him things he already knows.” Fujiwara's level voice wavered for a moment, and Ogata looked sharply at his bent face. Fujiwara's drawn expression and his reddened eyes didn't match that cool tone.

Ogata felt his stomach twist. He'd seen Fujiwara upset before; the other man was sensitive, but Ogata had never personally made him cry. Ogata mentally reviewed the past few days, but dredged up nothing out the ordinary. He had teased Fujiwara about wearing lip gloss on Sunday, but Fujiwara had beamed and coyly offered to buy Ogata his own favorite flavor. “I apologize if I hurt your feelings somehow, but I assure you, it certainly wasn't intentional.”

Fujiwara did not respond for a long moment, and the only sound in the room was the clacking of go stones. Ogata looked down at the board again, wondering why Fujiwara persisted in replaying a game when he was obviously wasn't enjoying it; what was so special abo—

Abruptly, Ogata froze, harsh recognition dawning on him like an unforgiving sun. That game.

“I want to believe that, but I can't,” Fujiwara said softly, still not meeting his eyes. “When we first met, you said you'd never heard of me. But yet you recognize this game.”

s a i vs. touya kouyo. The black and white stones stared up at him accusingly like silent witnesses. You knew, you knew!

“s a i was my handle on the NetGo server when I played this game. But s a i has a more personal meaning to me. My name is Fujiwara-no-Sai. 'Sai' is my given name.”

Ogata was unable to pull his eyes off the game, his head suddenly feeling oddly heavy. He'd known without a doubt that Fujiwara was s a i since their first game, but somehow he'd let himself completely downplay the significance of Fujiwara's net identity, and what that knowledge might mean to Fujiwara's recovery. He had been wrong. Horribly wrong.

“Did... you really not know I was s a i?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ogata could see Fujiwara looking up at him, his wide eyes vulnerable and hopeful. As if he were perfectly willing to believe that this was all a big misunderstanding or a mistake, if Ogata would just say so.

Ogata wanted to. He wanted to lie so much that he was nearly overcome by the intensity of that desire.

But he couldn't lie to Fujiwara, not when Fujiwara was looking at him like that. “I knew.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth.

Fujiwara visibly crumpled, his shoulders sagging. “Did you have a reason for not telling me?”

Not a good one. Mostly, he hadn't wanted to share Fujiwara with Sensei, a reason which had seemed perfectly valid at the time, but now just seemed damned petty, especially now that he knew Fujiwara as more than an amnesiac stranger with an amazing ability. “It was never my intention to hurt you.”

Fujiwara's face fell. “I don't understand. You've been very kind to me, taking me into your home and trying to help me regain my memory. I know it was our agreement that I could live here in exchange for the teaching, but you've been my teacher too: you taught me about all the important things I've forgotten, like the trains and fire alarms and cell phones and not answering the door for that NHK man. You've been my friend. So I don't understand why...”

I don't understand why you would be so selfish. Ogata knew what Fujiwara had left unspoken out of kindness or politeness. “I didn't think it was... relevant. You were completely anonymous online. I didn't think you would learn any useful information.”

“How could you just decide that by yourself, without discussing it with me?” Fujiwara's fingers tightened around his fan. “When you know nothing, everything is relevant,” he said, his voice low. “Today, I learned my name. I learned the name of your teacher: this game I played with him is the best game I've ever played. I learned that other people know of me, they've played me, and some of them want to play me again. I actually existed before my accident; I'm connected in some way.” Fujiwara made a little pained noise then and turned towards the balcony, facing away from Ogata, but not before Ogata saw his lower lip trembling. “Why was Waya-sensei the one to tell me all this instead of you?”

Waya... that red-headed student of Morishita's. Of course. Against all odds, Fujiwara had bumped into zelda, a fan who would recognize his style immediately. Ogata's fingers itched for a cigarette, something to distract himself from the fact that Fujiwara was crying because he'd been betrayed by the first person he'd met in his new life, a person he'd obviously trusted far more than he ought.

Ogata had no answer for Fujiwara. He had no justification. Just a tight, aching sensation in his chest.

“I've imposed too much on your generosity,” Fujiwara said towards the direction of the balcony, wiping at his face as he took a few deep breaths. “You've done so much for me, and I could only play go with you in return. But you don't need me; you have an excellent teacher and you're already very skilled. I'm certain you will go far in your career.”

Fujiwara was leaving. Of course he was. He couldn't even stand to look at Ogata anymore. It was ending, and it was Ogata's fault again. “What will you do?” Ogata asked numbly.

“Iwamoto-san offered me a job at his salon recently. I would watch the counter and answer the phone, and play games with the customers when I'm not busy. He says I might as well, since I'm there so much anyway and I get along with the regulars. And... there's someone I can live with for awhile, until I get my own apartment.”

It would be difficult for Fujiwara to start out in Tokyo, especially considering the high cost of living and Fujiwara's damaged memory, but Fujiwara wasn't the type to back down out of fear. That very first time they'd met, Fujiwara had been sopping wet and utterly confused, but still indignant enough to try walking off by himself into the night when Ogata had injured his pride. He wouldn't be able to reason Fujiwara out of his decision, and he could provide little incentive for Fujiwara to want to stay with someone who had hurt him badly.

Ogata was a go player, and a professional player knew when to resign. Only an inexperienced player kept bumbling around when his moves had long lost their effectiveness.

But this was a game Ogata couldn't lose. He couldn't just let Fujiwara leave.

“I'm sorry that this is so sudden,” Fujiwara said. His expressive hands were still and folded on top of his knees. “But I've realized that it was unfair for me to simply continue taking advantage of your hospitality until I recover, when I have no idea of when that may be. And I... have to learn to do things for myself instead of being an inconvenience to you, and taking time away from your busy schedule.”

An inconvenience? Ogata thought of Fujiwara's awed expression the first time Ogata had taken him to the station, or his smirk of childish mischief when he'd successfully managed to spam Ogata's cell phone shortly after learning text messaging. Or the way he just simply knew how to listen when Ogata gave an explanation, his eyes completely intent and head tilted to a slight angle as he absorbed every word. No, it hadn't been about go. But teaching Fujiwara – just being with him - hadn't been an inconvenience at all. Ogata didn't regret a single minute.

“Stay.”

Fujiwara's shoulders straightened as if he were steeling himself. “Please, don't ask that. This is better – for both of us.”

Ogata was a go player. He knew how to make sacrifices.

“Stay. You don't have to play go with me anymore.”

“I'm sorry, did you just say...?” Fujiwara was staring at him from over his shoulder now, his expression one of shock.

“You don't have to play go, or teach go, or even discuss it with me if you don't wish to,” Ogata said quietly.

“Why would you want me to stay if I won't play you?”

Fujiwara's tone of utter disbelief felt like a knife twisting in Ogata's gut, especially since Ogata was the one responsible for Fujiwara having the impression that he was only valued for his go. And at first, that had been true. The arrangement had been made out of pragmatism; Ogata had wanted to play s a i, and Fujiwara had needed a place to stay.

But somewhere along the line, it had stopped being a merely useful arrangement. Ogata wished he'd realized that sooner. His throat tightened when he tried to answer Fujiwara's question. “I'm... concerned about you. There's still a lot I haven't taught you. And I... I'm afraid that the fish have become rather attached to you. They'll probably sulk and won't eat if you're gone.”

“That would be unfortunate,” Fujiwara said, smiling sadly as if he knew what Ogata was really trying to say. “It's very kind of you to make such an offer, but I don't know...” He bit at his lip and lowered his eyes.

“You don't have to decide now. But regardless of what you choose, there is something you must know. It's about you from before your accident.”

Fujiwara jerked his head up to stare at Ogata.

Ogata took a deep breath. It was time to come completely clean. “It's all I know about s a i, other than what Waya-kun already told you. I should warn you, it's only something I suspect strongly because the young man in question won't discuss it with me or anyone.”

Fujiwara frowned, looking confused, but he nodded to encourage Ogata to continue.

“A few years ago, a brilliant player appeared out of nowhere - a complete unknown with apparently no sensei or formal training. I'm certain he's the one who arranged the game between you and Touya-sensei, which implies that he was in contact with you. But more than that, when I look at his play, I see your shadow in his moves. There's a pattern to the joseki he uses, the way he reads the board, and how he calculates risk: it reminds me of you. If my instincts are correct, he was your student. And if he was your student, he might know you personally.”

“Really?” Fujiwara whispered.

“It's possible, however, that it was just an anonymous online mentoring. I have no way of knowing,” Ogata cautioned. “But if you wish, I will put you in contact with him.”

“Yes, please,” Fujiwara said, his voice wavering. “I don't recall any students, but obviously I was experienced with shidougo before I met you. I hope he'll talk to me... what is his name?”

“Shindou. Shindou Hikaru.”

Chapter Text

Shindou was snoring.

Akira shook his head before turning towards his laptop, which he'd set up on the vanity. He wasn't particularly surprised at the sight of Shindou passed out on his bed, sweat-darkened bangs already dampening the sheets, despite Shindou's earlier declaration that he would shower first. Akira was relieved he had thought to request that the sponsors book a hotel room with two single beds, instead of a queen. After “The Beijing Incident,” Akira had flatly refused to ever share a bed with Shindou again, especially since Shindou still broke out in hysterical giggles at the mere mention of “Beijing” and “hotel.”

Regardless, Akira had never regretted that Shindou was his rival: he wanted to play Shindou until one of them dropped dead, or at least until Shindou acknowledged that Akira was superior in every single aspect of go. (Akira suspected that the former was more likely). No, Akira didn't regret Shindou as his rival, but he did, however, occasionally regret that his fated rival was quite insane.

Like today. Akira sighed as he opened his e-mail to begin deleting the spam in his inbox. Only an insane man would cheerfully announce “Guess what? It's only 32 degrees Celsius!” and then proceed to drag Akira out of the air-conditioned hotel room into Fukuoka's sweltering August weather for sight-seeing. Usually, Akira enjoyed the opportunity to explore the local sights when he was travelling on go-related business; in particular, he'd always enjoyed museums and historical sites.

But not when the air was so humid that his clothes were sticking to his body after only fifteen minutes outside. Shindou had seemed oblivious to the heat, though, as he exuberantly led Akira to Canal City mall, where he then spent the better part of two hours comparing various sets of “fashionable” clothing, occasionally asking Akira for his opinion. Frankly, Akira couldn't tell them apart – they all looked equally hideously colored and baggy to him -- but Shindou had critiqued the clothing with the level of detail that he usually reserved for the goban. Eventually Shindou had settled on an orange-yellow combination that Akira had insisted should be worn only by persons directing traffic, but Shindou had just grinned and purchased the set anyway.

Shindou next decided they ought to trek to the opposite side of Fukuoka to visit the city's tower. When Akira had protested about the distance and heat, Shindou insisted that the tower was the “tallest seaside tower” in Japan, and therefore it would be horribly wrong not to visit it, surely even a socially stunted idiot could see that. When Shindou's stunningly compelling rationale failed to win Akira over, the other boy had offered to treat Akira to sushi for lunch – and Shindou had played a very dirty hand by coupling the offer with large, pleading eyes.

Stupid Shindou and his stupid puppy dog eyes.

In retrospect, Akira had to admit that the tower did have a nice panoramic view of the cityscape and the bay below. And he'd been able to pick up souvenirs for his parents, Ichikawa-san, Ogata-san, and his favorite regulars at the go salon. Of course, Shindou hadn't remembered to buy souvenirs until Akira had pointedly steered him towards the postcard racks.

Afterwards, they'd stopped for lunch (at a classy sushi restaurant, Akira wasn't about to let Shindou get off cheap with conveyer belt sushi). Shindou had declared in between bites of tuna that their next stop would be the city's aquarium, Umi no Nakamichi. Akira hadn't been opposed to it, even though it was over an hour's train ride from Fukuoka; he'd developed a liking for aquariums early on due to Ogata-san's influence, and fish were peaceful and quiet unlike cats and dogs. But Akira had been surprised Shindou had suggested the trip, since Shindou had never mentioned any interest in fish or aquariums. Somehow, Akira had always imagined Shindou to be more of a “Labrador” person -- loud, energetic, and liable to jump on you in order to slobber on your face.

Akira ducked his head at the thought of Shindou and licking, and he was relieved that Shindou wasn't awake to notice the flush spreading across his face. Not that Shindou had ever done anything to Akira's face, but he had licked Akira's camera in Beijing so it was his own crazy bleached-hair fault that Akira was thinking about Shindou's tongue instead of reading the e-mail his mother had sent him.

Shindou was so unsanitary.

Anyway, it wasn't like Shindou had to tell Akira everything about himself just because they were rivals and saw each other at least four times a week and yelled at each other at least twice a week, but Akira didn't like that his rival knew a lot about him, while Akira remained ignorant to many important details about Shindou. Like that time he'd spotted a copy of Genji Monogatari in Shindou's backpack, and Shindou wouldn't tell him why he was reading it. Shindou had offered some explanation about wanting to continue his education on his own, which would have been a perfectly plausible explanation if it hadn't been coming from the lips of Shindou Hikaru, who considered playing video games with Waya to be “educational.”

Then there was s a i. That other person inside Shindou. The one Shindou had promised to tell Akira about. Someday.

During their first official match, Akira had told Shindou that his go was enough. Shindou was his rival, not s a i. His relationship with Shindou was that of a rival; their go had defined their relationship exclusively. All Shindou was to Akira was the go he played, and all Akira was to Shindou was the go he played. That balance had been perfect, like a beautiful game of go, elegant in its simplicity. And it was enough, because Akira had only been speaking to Shindou as His Rival, the one who inspired him and drove his go to dizzying new heights.

At that time, Akira hadn't known that Shindou had to re-bleach his bangs every two weeks, or that he could devour a bowl of ramen in five minutes, and that he had a scar on his knee from falling out of a tree when he was ten. He'd known that Shindou was incredibly brash and rude and didn't mind his manners at all; anyone who had been in Shindou's acquaintance for more than five minutes knew that. But he hadn't known that Shindou could also be surprisingly thoughtful until that day the salon had been unusually busy, and Shindou had offered to answer the phone for a rather harried Ichikawa-san.

He'd known that Shindou had an arsenal of a thousand bright, brassy smiles which he shared freely with his friends. But Akira hadn't known until today at the aquarium that Shindou possessed another smile. Shindou had been admiring a leafy seahorse, his nose pressed against the tank's glass. “He would have liked that one,” Shindou had whispered to himself, a surprisingly delicate smile crossing his face, and his hand had closed around that ever-present fan.

There was no doubt in Akira's mind who “he” was.

Akira wanted to know about s a i. Not just because s a i was a stunningly insightful go player. Not only because he wanted to play s a i again to see how far he'd progressed. Not because his father's greatest wish was a rematch with s a i. Akira wanted to – needed to --know more about s a i because of the grip s a i still had over Shindou. Akira wondered if Shindou secretly preferred playing s a i over him, then bit at his lip, scolding himself for foolishly comparing himself to someone who obviously wasn't there anymore. It was pointless, and Akira did not like mulling over things he could not change.

All the same, he couldn't help thinking about it. He didn't have many... friends.

His laptop chimed then, and an instant messenger window flashed open. Akira brightened when he saw who the message was from.

gofish: hello akira-kun. how is fukuoka?
goforever: Quite nice, thank you. We didn't have the conference today, so we went sight-seeing. And how are you?
gofish: fine, thanks. a free day? i suppose the accomplice kept you busy, then.

Akira grinned as he typed a reply. Since his mother was out of the country so frequently, travelling with his father, she had asked Ashiwara-san and Ogata-san to check up on him for her. Being monitored had irritated Akira initially (he was seventeen after all, and quite capable of resisting the urge to play with matches) but Ogata and Ashiwara handled the matter casually enough that Akira didn't feel like he was being patronized.

goforever: Yes, he did. We went shopping, and then we visited the Fukuoka Tower. We went to an aquarium, too. I think you would like it – I got you some postcards.
gofish: i look forward to seeing them. by the way, i'll need a detailed summary of everything you've eaten, for my report. you know how your mother obsesses over your health.
goforever: Ramen, C.C. Lemon, and more ramen. Although I did make Shindou buy me sushi today.
gofish: i'm pleased to see you're maintaining a well-balanced diet even while on the lam. and how has the conference been? you've been doing demonstration matches, iirc.
goforever: Very well, thank you for asking. Yes, the organizers want to highlight different playing styles. Shindou and I aren't the only ones doing demonstration matches, of course; many players were invited. But our matches have been well-attended.
gofish: i'm not surprised. you two are always so... passionate when you're playing each other.

Akira's cheeks flamed as he imagined Ogata mouthing the word “passionate” while he typed. Ogata-san had a talent for making any innocent word sound perfectly filthy by emphasizing it just so. Akira straightened his shoulders primly before typing his reply.

goforever: We just take our matches very seriously; that's all. If people happen to find that interesting, then I'm glad they are enjoying watching go.
gofish: now now, akira-kun. no need to get defensive just because i noted that your go has a lot of chemistry. you're fortunate to have a rival that you feel so intensely about.

Ogata-san was definitely having too much fun at his expense. Akira did not bother protesting, however, since he'd learned over the years that the only way to make Ogata stop was to offer him a better diversion. Such as...

goforever: Speaking of rivalry, shall we play a game? It's been awhile since we've played.

An embarrassingly obvious attempt at changing the subject, but Akira knew that Ogata-san really was just as big of a go nerd as he was, despite the cigarettes and the cool demeanor.

gofish: did i embarrass you? but actually, i did want you to look at a kifu. it's a game i played recently with a friend. thought you might find it interesting.
gofish wants to send file C:\DocumentsandSettings\Ogata\kifu\Fujiwara\August13.pdf.
goforever: I have it now. Any handicaps?
gofish: no. just 6.5 komi.

Akira wondered who Ogata's opponent had been. He did not know many people who could play Ogata without a handicap, and of those, Akira did not think Ogata would refer to any of them as “a friend.” Probably someone from NetGo, then.

Akira skimmed quickly over the opening moves. Ogata had definitely been playing Black; Akira had played him more often than anyone other than his father, so Ogata's openings were as familiar to Akira as Ogata's precise handwriting. A grin tugged at the corners of Akira's mouth when he noticed Ogata's keima at 11-6 and 12-4. Ogata had played a very similar move against Akira before, and he'd used it to set up a trap. White hadn't fallen for the trap, though. Instead, White had responded two hands later with a countermove that effectively neutralized Ogata's trap. Akira's pulse quickened as his eyes flickered to the mid-game exchange. White wasn't merely holding his own with Ogata-san, he was forcing Ogata to respond to his moves. Ogata's advantage in playing first had quickly evaporated under White's brilliant, aggressive assault.

Akira frowned; there was something odd about White's fascinating moves. His underlying style indicated a classical approach to the goban. It was as if White had studied primarily kifu from an era when a strong emphasis on early domination required that the player with White also play aggressively from the opening moves. With modern komi, however, logic dictated that White ought merely play conservatively to protect his or her lead, especially against a powerful opponent like Ogata-san.

White hadn't. In fact, Akira saw several daring exchanges on the kifu which made him suspect that White was deliberately challenging Black, forcing Ogata to place brilliant, decisive hands in response. Yet Ogata's hands weren't enough to hold off White: White knew how to use modern joseki as well, and he'd fused it seamlessly with his classical style. The result was play that was simultaneously beautiful and utterly devastating. And very familiar.

A sudden recollection flashed across Akira's mind like an epiphany at the goban, a remark one of his father's students had made at a study group: And what if Shuusaku knew modern joseki?

Shuusaku.

Shindou.

s a i.

s a i, the other person inside of Shindou.

Akira felt his hands trembling as he entered his reply.

goforever: You were playing s a i.
gofish: yes, and he beat me by five and a half moku. he was playing nasty.

Akira swallowed, his mind a jittery rush of questions.

goforever: Where did you find him? What server is he on now? What is his new handle?
gofish: i'm not playing him online. i found him in ichigaya.
goforever: I'm sorry, I don't understand.
gofish: s a i is a man named fujiwara sai. i found him floating in the ichigaya canal.
goforever: In the canal? Ogata-san, please don't make jokes like that.
gofish: i'm quite serious, akira-kun. fujiwara suffers from severe retrograde amnesia. he doesn't remember anything from before the accident.
goforever: The accident? He's hurt?! What happened? Is he okay? Is he in the hospital?
gofish: calm down. the accident – and we don't really know what happened, the doctors can't figure it out – was some time ago. his condition is stable, and he's not in the hospital. fujiwara's perfectly healthy, other than his memory.

Akira exhaled slowly, trying to regain some of his composure. His imagination had automatically jumped to the worst case-scenario, that s a i was somehow so ill that his father would never get a chance to play him again. That Shindou--Akira grimaced, forcing himself to halt that morbid line of thinking. He had to be calm, even though Ogata's explanation was too incredible to be believed.

Akira knew, though, that Ogata would not lie about something so serious. Not to him. Also, White's play in the kifu bore the mark of s a i as surely as any masterpiece bore its maker's name. It was not something that could be forged.

gofish: you still there?
goforever: Yes, I'm sorry. It's just a lot to think about. May I ask more about S—Fujiwara-san's condition?
gofish: i suppose it couldn't hurt. what do you want to know?
goforever: You said you found him in the canal. Did he almost drown?
gofish: it doesn't seem that way. he would have had fluid in his lungs or other physical damage. he was dazed, though. maybe he hit his head and that caused the amnesia, but nothing showed up in the scans.
goforever: I see. I'm glad he isn't suffering from additional injuries. What exactly does “severe retrograde amnesia” mean?
gofish: it means that his memories from before the accident are mostly gone. some things he's completely forgotten, so he has to be re-educated about them, like how to use a cell phone or a ticket machine. other things, he remembers, but he needs a trigger first.
gofish: for example, he didn't remember that he knew how to play go until he saw a goban and just automatically started putting down stones. i had even asked him if he played go before that, and he said no.
goforever: But he played beautifully in this game. How can he play so well if he's suffering from mental injuries?
gofish: he doesn't have any difficulty forming new memories or learning new things. he's not mentally impaired, per se... other than not remembering very much. he doesn't even know how old he is or what he does.
goforever: Can't his family and friends tell him that? They know him, so they can be his “trigger.”
gofish: akira-kun. he doesn't remember them.

Akira blinked at the laptop screen. s a i--Fujiwara-san -- didn't remember his own family? Akira couldn't imagine not remembering his own parents, and he felt a deep surge of sympathy for Fujiwara-san. He wondered what he would do if he were suddenly stripped of his own memories, with no memories of go, his home, his family. Or Shindou.

goforever: But where has he been living, then?
gofish: he's been living with me. it was a convenient arrangement.

Akira's eyebrows shot up. Ogata had lived alone as long as Akira could remember, and Ogata had always seemed rather determined to continue in that manner. Akira squirmed, recalling the particular dinner that his mother had cheerfully offered to introduce Ogata to “a very nice young lady.” Ogata had almost choked on his soup.

So if Ogata was allowing Fujiwara to live with him, Ogata obviously believed that he was indeed s a i.

Yet Ogata had kept silent about Fujiwara. It didn't sound as if the accident had happened last week, either; the way Ogata referred to Fujiwara suggested long familiarity.

goforever: How long has he been living with you? You said he's been like this for a long time.

There was a pause.

gofish: i found him on may 5.

It was August. Fujiwara-san had been living with Ogata almost all summer, and Ogata hadn't mentioned anything to Akira at all. That stung more than Akira liked to admit. Ogata knew how much Akira had wanted to know about s a i. And his father as well. Akira closed his eyes, thinking of his father stubbornly sitting in front of that goban with the bowl of white stones always on the opposite side, and wondered how Ogata could be so cold. If Ogata hadn't told Akira about s a i, then he definitely hadn't told his sensei.

Ogata was more than just his father's oldest and most talented student. He'd held Akira when he was a baby, and had even made stupid faces at Akira when he'd thought no one was looking (Akira wouldn't have believed it if his mother hadn't shown him the photos). Ogata had watched as Akira had placed his first go stone all by himself.

Akira knew Ogata very well. Akira knew how kind and generous Ogata could be -- and Akira also knew exactly how selfish and calculating Ogata could be.

goforever: Ogata-san. Why are you telling me this now? You want something.
gofish: suspicious, aren't we? but i'll get to the point: it's for fujiwara.
the two of us have always suspected that there is a connection between shindou and s a i. i tried to ask shindou about it when you got back from beijing, but he refused to speak to me.
goforever: You want me to ask Shindou about s a i.
gofish: if shindou was fujiwara's student, then he probably knows some personal details about him. shindou trusts you. he'll talk to you.
goforever: I don't want to ask Shindou. I respect his privacy.
gofish: this is bigger than a privacy issue. fujiwara needs help.

Akira bit at his lower lip, hesitating as he cast a wary glance at Shindou. Shindou was still sprawled out on the bed, one of his arms hanging over the bed. His face was relaxed in sleep. Without that confident grin, he seemed... vulnerable.

Part of Akira just wanted to log off and ignore Ogata. But the better part of him couldn't just ignore someone who needed help.

goforever: I'll ask Shindou, for Fujiwara-san's sake. But why you didn't say anything sooner?
gofish: ...later. we can discuss this in person.
i'm sending you a picture of fujiwara to show to shindou. see if he recognizes it.
gofish wants to send file C:\DocumentsandSettings\Ogata\MyDocuments\MyPictures\FujiwaraAquarium2.jpg

Akira downloaded the image to his desktop and then clicked it open. He stared in disbelief. There was no way that could be the right picture. The beaming man in the picture looked like a college student, not a battle-hardened go veteran who could defeat his father.

goforever: I think you sent me the wrong picture. This man is too young.
gofish: it's the correct picture. anyway, i need to log off now. text my phone after you've talked to shindou, please. good night.
gofish signed off at 8:15:05.

Akira sighed in exasperation and turned his attention back to the picture. Fujiwara had unusually long black hair that fell past his hips. He was standing in front of a fish tank, his fingers splayed out in a “V” sign as he posed for the camera. Akira had never paid particular attention to other people's appearances--other than Shindou, only because Shindou dressed very tackily, and was thus extremely hard not to look at in the same way a train crash was hard not to look at--but he couldn't help noticing that Fujiwara was stunningly beautiful.

This man was really his father's rival?

Ever since his first official match with Shindou, Akira had developed a vague, nebulous idea of s a i not being an actual “person” in the strictest sense of the word, although on occasion his mind had conjured up the image of a white-haired man with age-wizened hands, and piercing eyes like his father's. Akira tried to imagine Fujiwara sitting across from his father at the goban. His smiling face just didn't match the fierce, brilliant play in the kifu Ogata had sent him.

Akira knew better than to judge a player by his or her appearance, especially since Akira himself had often been underestimated for that very same reason. Yet s a i's play indicated an experience on par with his father's, an experience gleaned only from years and years of labour and sweat. Even if Fujiwara had been playing since he was a toddler like Akira, he couldn't have possibly accumulated that much experience.

Fujiwara didn't seem old enough to have been Shindou's teacher, either. Usually go players didn't start taking on serious disciples until their thirties, at least. But he did look kind... Akira furrowed his brows together. It was easy to imagine someone like that being Shindou's friend, probably the sort who would laugh at Shindou's jokes and get along easily with all of Shindou's friends. Fujiwara would probably be the exact opposite of Akira, who didn't get the pop-culture references, and often felt like he was only being tolerated by Shindou's friends for Shindou's sake. Fujiwara probably wouldn't fight with Shindou constantly, either.

“Are you still messing around on your computer? I'm hungry. Let's go get some ramen.”

Akira quickly minimized the picture and the kifu as he heard the mattress squeak under Shindou's shifting weight. “We've already eaten ramen every single day, Shindou. Haven't you had enough?” he said, trying to mask his nervousness with feigned grumpiness.

“But Touyaaa!! Kyuushuu is famous for its ramen. This is like, Ramen Mecca. We have to try all the different styles while we're here so we can compare them. Besides, it's fun to eat at the outdoor stalls.” Shindou gestured dramatically with his hands as he argued his point.

“Okay, whatever.”

Shindou's face brightened, and Akira chewed at his lip nervously, dreading the subject he was about to broach with Shindou. Akira had chosen to trust that Shindou would keep his promise to tell him about s a i someday, so he had done his best to respect Shindou's wishes. Akira didn't want to breach Shindou's trust in him, not even for s a i. But Fujiwara-san needs help, Akira chided himself, fighting to push down the queasy premonition in his stomach. This wasn't about his rivalry and sort-of friendship with Shindou.

“Hey, um, before we go, there's something you need to look at.” Akira stood up and gestured for Shindou to take the seat at the laptop.

“Sure,” Shindou said, flopping casually into the chair. “What is it?”

“A kifu Ogata-san just sent me. He wanted you to look at it. He's playing Black,” Akira said, reaching over Shindou to maximize the window.

Shindou scowled. “That guy again? It's creepy how he's always hanging around you and texting you. Doesn't he have friends, like his own age?”

“I told you already! My mother asked him to look out for me. And Ogata-san is not creepy. He's actually very nice. Most of the time, anyway.”

Shindou snorted and turned his attention to the laptop screen. “Nice for a creepy old guy, I'm sure.” His eyes skimmed the kifu, and he leaned in closer. “Hey, this is actually a really good game. Ogata's getting his ass kicked all over the goban.” Shindou grinned rakishly. “But why would he want me to see that? He's always pretty sore about his losses at the Institute, especially if Kuwabara's involved. Still, White's amazing. I'd like to play him myself, it was really cool what he did right--”

Shindou went rigid, his expressive hands suddenly lifeless. He stared at the screen in complete silence, his green eyes glassy.

Akira felt his pulse slow to almost a crawl. He'd been right all along. Shindou knew s a i; he knew Fujiwara, the mysterious man Ogata had found in the canal. “Shindou?” he ventured.

“What is this?” Shindou said, his voice oddly flat.

A shiver worked its way down Akira's spine, but he forced himself to sound calm. “You recognize the style, don't you? It's s a i.”

Shindou gave no indication of having heard Akira but instead moved to maximize the picture. Don't, Akira wanted to say, but instead he watched as Shindou stared at the image for a long, long time, as if Shindou was searching for answers.

Then Shindou's lips started to tremble.

Akira reached out a tentative hand for Shindou's shoulder, but Shindou whirled around suddenly, his face contorted horribly, and Akira recoiled, stepping back several steps.

“What is that bastard up to?!” Shindou hissed, his voice full of venom. “How DARE he screw with Sai's memory like that!”

Shindou's hands were shaking, Akira noted numbly as the other boy continued ranting. He had never seen Shindou in such a state.

“He wanted to get revenge on me for not letting him play Sai, even though I actually did and he was just too wasted to appreciate it! He made this all up just to make me feel guilty. But I already feel guilty enough, you stupid old man.” Shindou let out a dry, ragged sob. “I already feel guilty. Why did he have to remind me?” Shindou buried his face in his hands and hunched over, his crying interspersed with mumbles. “Stupid fucking liar... that picture looks just like him. He was. Really young when he, you know. It wasn't fair. I wasn't fair either. That's why... he left. I deserved it.”

Shindou dissolved completely into tears then, and Akira watched blankly, his hands frozen by his sides.

After what seemed like forever, Shindou looked up with reddened eyes, his face blotchy with tears. “I hope you don't like Ogata too much, because I'm gonna kill him next time I see him. Like Sai would have ever hung out with a jerk like him. Fucking liar.”

Akira blinked at Shindou. He had expected Shindou to have a strong reaction at being confronted again about s a i, but not like this. But Shindou kept speaking of Sai in the past tense. Did he think that Fujiwara had been... dead? “Shindou, what's wrong? Why are you so angry?” Akira asked in what he hoped was a soothing manner. “I'm sorry if you are angry with Ogata and me for asking about Fujiwara-san, but we're trying to help him. He's lost his memory.”

Shindou gave Akira a heated glare and he stood up abruptly. “You don't understand anything.” He started walking quickly for the door as if he couldn't stand to be in the same room any longer.

Hot anger flared in Akira's chest at the sight of Shindou distancing himself. He was only trying to help, so why did Shindou refuse to talk to him clearly? Didn't he even warrant an explanation? If not as Shindou's rival, then as his friend? “It's not my fault that I am obviously the stupidest person in the world and I don't understand anything, Shindou!” Akira heard himself snap as he clenched his fists at his sides.

Shindou stopped in the doorway to look over his shoulder, and his eyes seemed very old and tired. “No, you don't understand at all. Sai was dead, Touya. Sai was always dead. Then he left. I have to go now.”

Then Shindou was gone.

Akira sat down heavily on the bed, digging his fingers into the covers. How could Sai “always” have been dead? How could Shindou possibly know a dead man well enough to care about him like that? Shindou was also furious with Ogata because of the kifu and the picture. What were the odds that Ogata would have found a man who looked and played exactly like a dead man whom Shindou couldn't have possibly known? And who had apparently “left” Shindou?

Akira stared at the empty room, trying to make sense of the night's events, but he kept thinking of when Shindou had stopped coming to his pro games. Akira had gone so far as to track Shindou down in his school's library, but Shindou had just run from him, his face marked with a pain Akira did not understand.

Akira understood now. It had been s a i. Shindou had run from him because of s a i.

Again.

~ ~ ~

The door creaked open several hours later, and Shindou entered, still looking pale but more composed. He held out a plastic bag sheepishly, a peace offering. “Got you some sushi and onigiri at Family Mart, since I figured you haven't eaten yet.”

Akira accepted the bag with a frown. “You didn't take your cell phone.” He had discovered this after trying to text Shindou, only to hear the phone ringing in Shindou's backpack beside the bed.

“I'm sorry.” Shindou sat on the bed next to Akira, clutching his fan tightly. He stared at the fan and did not look at Akira. “Look, I said I would tell you about Sai someday. I guess it's going to have to be now.”

Akira's heart started to knock against his chest.

“I want you to know. He, uh, really liked playing you. You were the first person he played, you know. It's just... kinda hard. I've never told anyone. Why would anyone believe me? It's crazy.” Shindou took a deep, ragged breath then, and Akira wondered if he was going to cry again.

“Shindou.” Akira's own voice sounded foreign to his ears, low and intense. “I think you should know this first. I do trust Ogata-san, and I don't think he would try to deceive you. But I also want you to know that if he's done something wrong to you, I'll stand up for you. And I believe you. No matter what you say, I trust you. I know you better than anyone. You won't lie to me.” And you'll come back to me, just like before.

A tear streaked down Shindou's cheek. “Thanks,” he whispered hoarsely.

Then, as if a flood wall had been breached, the words came pouring out. Akira listened like in a trance as Shindou told his story in broken, disjointed fragments, but Akira hung on every word and the pieces fell into place like patterns coalescing on the goban.

~ ~ ~

“Sai was my best friend for two and a half years. And I still really miss him,” Shindou finished, wiping at his eyes. “After he disappeared, I wished more than anything that he could come back. That's why I quit go, I thought it meant he could come back. But I know now it's not possible, so I have to play for him instead. To find the Hand of God.”

Akira stared at Shindou, amazed. It was an insane, crazy story, but it made sense. Shindou's wildly fluctuating abilities, the lies, the emergence of s a i on NetGo, Shindou quitting go, then his renewed determination to play, Shindou's hatred of Ko Yongha, the fan... it all made sense. “I'm sorry, Shindou. What happened tonight must have hurt you a lot,” Akira said quietly. He didn't understand how Fujiwara fit into all of this yet, but he knew that Shindou's pain at losing a friend was genuine.

“You actually believe me?” Shindou asked, fixating his eyes on his socks as if he were afraid to meet Akira's eyes. Shindou wriggled his toes, and Akira noticed that one of his bright yellow socks had a tiny hole.

“Yes.” Akira said this firmly, as if the possibility of another answer had never even existed.

A small, relieved smile tugged at the corners of Shindou's lips. “I was afraid you wouldn't, or that maybe you would, and you'd be angry and not want to be my rival anymore. Or come to eat ramen with me on lunch break.”

Akira scowled, although he felt a warm sensation spreading in his stomach. Shindou cared a lot about what Akira thought, more than Akira had realized. Shindou valued him. “You're not getting rid of me that easily, you idiot.” Even if this Fujiwara was somehow Shindou's s a i, and a better player and a better all-around person than Akira, Akira was fully prepared to fight for his rival's attention if necessary. Shindou was his.

Shindou smirked, although it seemed weaker than usual. “Lucky me.”

“What about Fujiwara-san? Are you going to meet him?” Akira said. He didn't want to upset Shindou, but the matter had to be resolved.

“I dunno. I'm tired. I'll worry about it in the morning, 'kay? I don't want to talk about it right now,” Shindou mumbled, effectively halting all the questions Akira still desperately wanted to ask. Shindou grabbed at his pillow and buried his face in it. A few minutes later, his breathing evened out and his frame relaxed.

Akira let out a long breath and began to prepare himself for bed. He didn't know what was going to happen tomorrow, but somehow things were going to work out. Shindou trusted him, and that was enough.

Chapter Text

“No freakin' way!” Shindou glared at the cell phone in Akira's hand, as if he were holding it personally responsible for such an obviously distasteful suggestion.

Akira hoped the guests in the adjacent rooms hadn't been awakened by Shindou, and he mentally cringed at the thought.

“Thank you for offering, Ogata-san, but do you have another place in mind? Shindou says that's out of the way for him,” Akira said into the phone while he pointedly moved across the hotel room, away from Shindou and his overly loud, embarrassing voice, and he took the phone off the speaker function. Shindou didn't deserve it if he couldn't behave in a civilized manner.

Shindou snorted and resumed cramming clothes viciously into his backpack.

“So, Shindou doesn't want to come to my apartment? Afraid I'll push him into my oven?” Ogata said wryly.

“Please don't joke right now.” Akira winced, hoping he wasn't going to need to take an aspirin for the massive headache he could feel building. Usually Akira didn't mind a bit of teasing from Ogata, but Shindou had been reluctant to speak at all the entire morning, instead tapping his fan against his hand and staring at the television dully. Which was understandable, but then Shindou had become downright combative during Akira's phone conversation with Ogata -- specifically, when Akira had asked if Fujiwara had recognized Shindou's name.

Akira didn't think he'd ever be able to forget the look on Shindou's face when Ogata had answered.

“Well then,” Ogata said, “if you leave Fukuoka after lunch as planned, you'll arrive at Tokyo Station about 6:00. We could meet for dinner.”

“That sounds like a good idea. Where?”

“How about that Italian place in Ebisu that you like -- Amapola?”

“Wait a moment, please.” Akira covered the receiver. “Do you like Italian?”

Shindou shrugged in a manner that Akira interpreted as acquiescence, or at least not outright disagreement.

“That would be fine,” Akira said into the phone. “I look forward to meeting Fujiwara-san, then.” Akira would have liked to have said “We look forward” but Shindou had refused to consider for even a moment that this Fujiwara could be the same as his Sai. Shindou had agreed to the meeting only to prove Ogata wrong, or so he had claimed.

“Fujiwara looks forward to meeting you both as well. Take care,” Ogata said.

“Thank you. See you later.” Akira hung up and slid the phone into his suit pocket. He cast a guarded glance at Shindou. The other boy had apparently finished his packing: his stuffed backpack was sitting next to the door, and Shindou was slouched on his bed, his back facing Akira. Akira wanted to say “Are you okay?” But it came out as a neutral “If you want, I can tell the organizers that you don't feel well. Since we're not playing any games, it shouldn't be a problem.”

“No, I'm definitely coming,” Shindou said too quickly, sitting up. “Nothing's changed. It's... not him. So I'm fine,” Shindou declared, glancing over his shoulder to give Akira a wavery smile. “Anyway, I'm hungry. Let's go get breakfast already, before it's too late.” He got up from the bed.

Akira frowned at Shindou's statement. He hadn't quite worked out how a ghost could come back from the dead, but until yesterday Akira hadn't even believed in ghosts period. Yet while Akira did not understand ghosts, he did understand go. Especially s a i's. Akira had reviewed his games with s a i so frequently that sometimes he closed his eyes and saw the beautiful patterns of black and white burned into the backs of his eyelids. Akira knew s a i's go, and he knew he had seen it in the brilliant kifu Ogata had sent him. He knew Shindou had seen it too, regardless of his accusations against Ogata.

“Why are you so certain?” Akira asked quietly.

Shindou's back stiffened, and he did not answer. Akira wondered anxiously if he would storm out of the room again.

“He wouldn't forget me. Even if he could have come back, he wouldn't have forgotten me. He would have come back for me. He would never forget me,” Shindou said, his voice tight and low.

Does Fujiwara-san remember Shindou's name?

No, he doesn't, Ogata had answered after a pause. Then: I also showed him a picture of Shindou from Go Weekly, but he didn't recognize it. That doesn't necessarily mean he doesn't know Shindou; sometimes it takes awhile for his memories to register. The picture was low quality black-and-white, too.

Shindou had looked like he'd been slapped in the face.

“I looked everywhere for him when he disappeared. If it had been me who had disappeared, he would have looked for me and he would have never stopped until he found me. He was just that type, you know. Really determined. Kinda obsessive, actually,” Shindou said, his eyes distant. “So no, this isn't him, and nothing's different. I'm not going to skip out on my responsibilities because of some guy I don't know.”

Akira did not know what to say in response, so he just nodded. “Where did you want to eat breakfast?”

~ ~ ~

Akira had been eager to finish his book on Cho Chikun's mid-game strategies for weeks, but now that he finally had the time, he couldn't force himself to focus on the words on the page. Instead, his attention kept straying to Shindou, who had fallen asleep just shortly after they'd boarded the Nozomi Shinkansen. Shindou's face was pressed up against the window, his breath fogging the glass and his head gently swaying with the movements of the train.

It was good that Shindou was finally getting some rest, Akira thought. Of course Shindou hadn't actually mentioned sleeping poorly the night before, but Akira had noticed the dark smudges under his eyes, and the way his smile had been strained at the conference's closing ceremony. Shindou had been so subdued that Akira hadn't needed to glare at him even once during the admittedly boring speeches; he'd just sat in his seat with his fan in his lap, staring blankly ahead. Akira frankly preferred the Shindou who fidgeted and whined whenever he had to sit still more than five minutes. The Shindou who hated being bored so much that he had inked a 9x9 grid onto the underside of his arm, and then extended the pen to Akira with a mischievous smile at the last Annual Go Awards (Akira had deigned to accept the pen only because Shindou's opening hand was just begging to be torn apart).

Akira wished he could reassure Shindou, but he couldn't bring himself to utter something like “it will be alright.” He'd never exactly been the comforting sort, and he felt awkward even when he was trying to cheer up someone he had known for a very long time, like Ishikawa-san or Ashiwara-san. Plus, Akira didn't know if it really would be “alright.” Ogata had answered most of his questions and had promised to answer the others in person. Yet Akira couldn't help wondering if Ogata was still being less than forthcoming about Fujiwara-san and his condition -- Ogata had kept Fujiwara's existence a secret for almost the entire summer, after all. Ogata was also the same person who had once told Akira that he considered evasion and obfuscation as essential for a player off the goban as on it. Akira knew Ogata wasn't likely to be playing mind games in such a serious situation, but he couldn't completely suppress the niggling doubt hovering in his mind.

After a few more minutes of failing to finish one single page of his book, Akira closed it with a sigh and turned his attention towards the window. He watched the landscape rush by in a blur, mountains and valleys and towns and tunnels and power lines and people, the only constant Shindou and his steady breathing.

At some point, Shindou's grip on his fan slackened, and it tumbled to the floor. Akira bent over to carefully pick up the fan, allowing himself the luxury of holding it for just a moment. He ran his fingers reverentially over the polished handle. There was nothing particularly special about the fan's design or materials – Akira recognized it as one of the more modestly-priced fans from the shop on the second floor of the Association – but knowing that Shindou prized it so much made him feel nervous about touching it. He didn't dare open it.

Shindou's hand was still loose, so Akira gently placed the handle of the fan back into Shindou's palm, then curled Shindou's fingers around it. Shindou stirred slightly, then, as if by instinct, drew the fan close to his stomach. A small smile tugged at Akira's lips. At least there was something he could do for Shindou.

Akira relaxed, and began to drift to sleep himself, lulled by Shindou's rhythmic breathing and the gentle humming of the Shinkansen over the tracks.

~ ~ ~

The train was passing through some nondescript town when Akira awoke with a start. Someone was speaking to him. “Shindou?” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes blearily with his free hand.

“What if it really is him?”

Shindou's voice was low and desperate, and Akira's sleep-induced confusion fled almost immediately. Akira licked at his dry lips before answering. “Wouldn't that be a good thing, then? If he's actually the same person as your friend?”

Shindou was gripping his seat arm rest so hard his knuckles were white. He kept staring straight ahead, as if he were holding a conversation with the seat in front of him instead of Akira. “Ogata said Sai doesn't remember anything. So he's gonna want to know about himself. Like where he lives and about his family and his job and if he has a pet and how we met, and he's going to ask a million questions like he always did -- and what exactly am I supposed to tell him?” Shindou's voice cracked on the question.

Shindou was scared, Akira realized with a jolt.

“Touya, I can't tell him he was my ghost because he committed suicide over a thousand years ago!” Shindou shivered visibly.

“Shindou. Look at me,” Akira interrupted, his voice commanding. Then he waited. He waited until Shindou dragged his face away from the seat to hesitantly meet Akira's gaze. Shindou looked like a scared little boy, his eyes large with fear and pleading, nothing like the fierce opponent Akira was used to facing across the goban.

Akira felt inadequacy surge over him. Even though Shindou had trusted Akira enough last night to reveal his most precious secret, Akira still didn't feel prepared to handle this. But Shindou trusted Akira to help him now. Akira took a deep, anchoring breath. “That's not true, what you said about Fujiwara-san not having anyone. Fujiwara-san has you. And you have me.”

“I have you?” Shindou echoed, blinking dazedly.

“I mean you're my friend, idiot. I'll help you talk to Fujiwara-san, if you'd like.”

“You want to help, even though you don't know him?” Shindou hadn't stopped gripping the arm rest, but now his head was tilting to the side, and he stared at Akira with curiosity.

A flush crept over Akira's neck, and he ducked his head in embarrassment. He must have seemed so presumptuous in making such an offer. Offering to mediate between Ogata and Shindou was one thing since he actually knew Ogata and even felt a little responsible for Ogata's actions. But obviously Shindou didn't want him interfering with Fujiwara, especially when the man was so special to Shindou and it wasn't as if Akira was exactly the smoothest talker to begin with. “I'm sorry, I just meant... if you wanted...”

“I'd like that.”

Akira risked looking up, and saw that there was no condemnation or judgment in Shindou's eyes, just gratitude.

“You're my friend, too. And I always wanted you to meet Sai.” Shindou exhaled, finally releasing his grip on the arm rest. “He liked you a lot, you know.”

“Really?” The word tumbled out of Akira's mouth before he could stop it. He'd always had an unfortunate knack for drawing hostility and resentment like an unwitting lightning rod, not affection. “Why?”

“I don't think he ever forgot that you were the first one he got to play a real game with, after being stuck in Grandpa's goban,” Shindou said, rubbing his thumb against his fan with an air of consideration. “And he was always using you to spur me on, stuff like 'I bet Akira's practicing now!' when I wanted to play video games instead of go. Or 'You must face your fears like Akira, who is a brave young dragon on the goban!' when I was having a tough time during the pro exams.”

“Did he really say something like that?” Akira said, hoping that he wasn't blushing again. It was surprising, but still kind of nice to know that his rival's ghost had liked him.

Shindou made a face. “Sai always said lots of weird things,” he said, apparently misunderstanding the cause of Akira's surprise. “It wasn't his fault, I guess, since he was born in the Heian, and they had lots of crazy ideas. You wouldn't believe how long it took me to convince him that people have actually been to the moon. He thought I was just teasing him.” Shindou smiled sadly. “For a dead guy, he was usually pretty happy. Until near the end, when he got scared he would disappear, and angry because I hardly ever let him play. That's why...if it is Sai...”

Akira nodded to encourage Shindou to keep talking.

“He seems happy in that picture. But if I tell him the truth, then he'll remember it was my fault he disappeared, and then he'll hate me for not letting him play.” Shindou lowered his eyes to the fan in his hand. “I wasn't like Mr. Perfect Torajirou. Torajirou let him play all the games, so Sai got to stay with him for like forever. But I was selfish and mean, so Sai had to leave. He didn't get to find the Hand of God or even say goodbye.”

Frankly, Akira thought Fujiwara-san had been rather selfish himself, possessing a middle-school boy forcibly, and then saddling him with the weight of a millennium-old obsession, and actually altering the course of his life. The ghost had caused Shindou so much guilt and suffering and grieving. But Akira was also sharp enough to realize that if Fujiwara hadn't possessed Shindou, then Akira would have never met him. For this reason, Akira could not judge Fujiwara harshly. Fujiwara had brought his rival to him.

“I don't think Fujiwara-san could ever hate you, especially since you did the best you could. It was a difficult situation,” Akira said. Two talented, strong-willed players sharing one body was an arrangement that simply could not work for long, no matter how strong the friendship. “And didn't he give you his fan in your dream? He wanted you to carry on his legacy. His go.”

“But I just wanted him back,” Shindou whispered, a shadow darkening his features. “If he's really back, I don't wanna... you know, make him sad. I don't want him to remember what I did.”

Akira quietly took time to process that. To Shindou, Fujiwara-san was more important than even go. Fujiwara had been his friend on a level that Akira knew he could never fully comprehend, or compete with. Fujiwara had lived in Shindou's very consciousness; for over two years, the two had done everything as one. Then Fujiwara's spirit had been suddenly rent from Shindou's mind. No wonder Shindou was so desperate at the thought that Fujiwara could be back, and terrified about how Fujiwara would react to him, especially upon learning about his own past. It was too much of a burden for one person to bear.

But Fujiwara had Shindou. And Shindou had him.

“You have to tell him the truth. Concealing the truth is not an option,” Akira said finally. Akira had been learning from Ogata for years, and he knew how to learn from Ogata's mistakes just as well as his successes. He was not going to be party to keeping secrets from Fujiwara.

Shindou's breath hitched, and Akira quickly continued. “But you don't have to tell him all at once. It's like...” Akira paused, fumbling for an analogy. “Shidougo. You can't tell a beginner all the mistakes he made in his very first game, or he'll be completely overwhelmed and he'll be afraid to even put a stone down the next time. You have to work it out with him a little at a time, letting him see the patterns emerging for himself. That's better than you just telling him because he'll see the truth on his own.”

Shindou's eyebrows shot up almost all the way to his hairline. “You want me to play shidougo with Sai?”

“Metaphorically speaking, Shindou,” Akira said, doing his very best not to growl at Shindou for his denseness. “Let me put it this way: I don't think you ought to tell Fujiwara-san that he was your ghost at our first meeting.”

“Yeah, I guess not,” Shindou said shakily. “But then how I do explain things? That's kinda important to the whole 'Where did I come from?' bit.”

“You can't lie to him. You don't want to do anything to undermine his trust. You're going to have to hope that he accepts that you can't tell him everything right away, because of the.... particulars of his past.”

Shindou swallowed, looking half-panicked again. “But I'm not good at that sort of thing! I always blurt out what I'm thinking and get in trouble for it.”

With a wince, Akira recalled a few of Shindou's more memorable slip-ups. “Well, we still have about two hours before we arrive in Tokyo. Let's discuss what you should say. Just in case.”

“It's probably just a waste of time anyway. The food at this place better be good, and Ogata's definitely paying,” Shindou muttered, but he leaned in close to Akira, his eyes as intent as during a game.

For the duration of the train ride, Shindou answered all of Akira's questions with little hesitation, and despite the circumstances, Akira couldn't suppress a little thrill at Shindou's openness and willingness to accept Akira's advice. It was a completely new experience for him. Akira was used to his peers regarding him with a certain uneasy wariness, as if they suspected he was actually an alien or an adult masquerading as a child.

But Akira also felt the heaviness of his responsibility keenly. He had no experience in dealing with a situation like this, and there were too many unknown variables. Ogata had been keeping secrets, and Akira's trust in him had been shaken. And Fujiwara-san: Akira had heard so much about him from Shindou, but he still didn't actually know the other man. Akira couldn't predict how Fujiwara-san would react to Shindou, especially with his amnesia. Would Fujiwara even still seem like the same person to Shindou?

If Fujiwara reacted... badly to Shindou, Akira didn't know how Shindou was going to deal with it. Or if Shindou was going to be able to deal with it at all. Fujiwara meant so much to him.

Akira kept his outward appearance calm, but inwardly he felt deeply anxious for his friend.

~ ~ ~

The two hours slipped by too quickly, and the train pulled into its final destination with a gentle hiss of air brakes. Akira and Shindou shouldered their bags and followed the herd of passengers through the ticket gates and up the stairs to the Yamanote line. The platforms were extremely crowded with people clad in business suits, and Akira belatedly realized it was the middle of the evening rush hour. Go players didn't keep normal business hours since their schedules revolved around matches, so it was easy to forget that most people still adhered to a regular workday.

The ride to Ebisu fortunately only took twenty minutes. Akira pushed his way off the train gratefully, relieved to escape the briefcase that had been jutting uncomfortably into his hip for the duration of the ride. Amapola was a few blocks from the station, so he and Shindou stored their bags in a downstairs coin locker before exiting through the gates. As they walked, Akira sneaked a few measuring glances at Shindou. But Shindou's expression was blandly cheerful as he chatted about an upcoming match of Isumi's, reflecting none of the worry and fear from earlier. Nothing's different, Shindou had insisted this morning.

Even though Akira hadn't eaten at the restaurant in several months, he possessed good recall, and the sun still hadn't set, so it wasn't difficult for him to retrace his way down the streets. “There it is,” he said to Shindou when he spotted the conspicuous potted palms that adorned the restaurant's outdoor patio.

“Classy,” Shindou said with a grin, taking in the palms and the tiny string lights dangling from the awning as they approached.

“You have no right to criticize any restaurant's décor, not when your idea of 'fine dining' is a standing-room only ramen stall!” Akira said, whirling around to glare at Shindou.

But Shindou had frozen on the steps, his gaze riveted to a point over Akira's shoulder.

“I'll have the tea, please,” Akira heard a man saying in strikingly melodious voice.

“Sai,” Shindou whispered helplessly.

Akira followed Shindou's line of sight to where two men were seated around one of the patio tables. The one facing Akira was holding a cigarette and reading a menu – Ogata-san. The server walked away from the table, and Ogata looked up from the menu. He spotted them and gave a little half-wave, and his companion turned around.

Sai – Fujiwara-san – Akira corrected mentally, pushed his chair back and stood up quickly. He took a step forward and stopped, his gaze flickering uncertainly between Akira and Shindou. “Shindou-sensei, Touya-sensei,” Fujiwara said, his hands plastered against his legs, as if he was torn between trying to decide whether to bow in introduction. He doesn't recognize Shindou, Akira realized with a sinking certainty.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Shindou said in a small voice, and out of the corner of his eye Akira could see that he was clutching his fan against his hip. “Don't you remember me? We were together for over two years. You're the one who taught me to play go. ”

“I'm very sorry,” Fujiwara said, his expressive eyes full of guilt, and he did bow now, in apology. “I did not mean to cause you distress by forgetting you. I was hoping you could help me, but perhaps it was selfish of me to ask for you to come--”

“Don't apologize to me like I'm some stranger you bumped into! We were friends, we were together all the time, and you made me play go, and you wanted to play Touya's dad and you... you...”

Shindou shuddered and took a deep gulp of air, his chest heaving as if he'd just run a grueling marathon, and Fujiwara lifted a hand as if he wanted to touch Shindou, but he did not step forward.

“The Hand of God. You wanted to find it so badly. That's why I kept playing, to find it for you.” Shindou's head was bowed now. Akira realized that Shindou was crying from the choked tone of his voice, but Akira couldn't bring himself to look at Shindou directly, now that there were other people to witness.

“Don't you remember? Sai?!”

The name hung in the air like a desperate plea.

Akira felt too mortified to glance at either Shindou or Fujiwara then - it was just too personal – and he ended up looking in Ogata's direction. Ogata's eyebrows were raised, undoubtedly because of Shindou's shockingly intimate form of address, but he did not otherwise stir from his seated position, his lit cigarette still smoldering between his fingers. He met Akira's eyes with a carefully neutral expression, and Akira understood that Ogata was counseling him to simply wait, that this really wasn't “about” them. Except Akira knew it was, because it was Shindou.

“I'm so sorry,” Fujiwara said, his own voice husky with emotion. He lowered his eyes. “I... did not wish to hurt you.”

“You just disappeared... and all I had was this...”

The fan, of course.

“I have a fan too,” Fujiwara said, sounding puzzled.

The statement was so incongruous that Akira couldn't help looking at Fujiwara, despite his mortification. Fujiwara was holding a beautiful white fan in his hands now, looking from it to Shindou repeatedly as if the fan were the Rosetta Stone and Shindou a particularly confusing text. “I thought I had given this to someone. I've been wondering why I still had it,” Fujiwara said.

At those words, Shindou went completely still, but Fujiwara apparently did not notice. “We were playing a game, and I think I had to leave. I didn't want to... I didn't want to leave you. So I wanted you to have this, to remember me.” Fujiwara's expression turned inwards as he opened and closed the fan slowly. “But it seems I was the one who forgot you. I'm so sorry. Hikaru.”

Akira watched as Shindou raised his head to see Fujiwara extending the fan towards him, handle-first. Shindou stared at the fan and at Fujiwara, who was smiling gently even though he had started to cry as well.

“I'm afraid this is late, but please accept it,” Fujiwara said, his beautiful eyes soft with apology.

Shindou made a small strangled noise, and then his fan clattered to the ground as he rushed towards Fujiwara, grabbing him around the waist with enough force that Fujiwara stumbled backwards a step.

“It's about time you big dork,” Akira heard Shindou sob into Fujiwara's chest. Fujiwara ruffled his hair affectionately.

Chapter Text

Shindou and Fujiwara clung to each other openly, completely caught up in their own private world. They didn't notice the open stares they were receiving from some other patrons who were crossing the patio to enter the restaurant.

Akira regarded the other patrons with a cool look until they turned their heads. No need to stare; just my rival and his ghost, Akira thought, feeling oddly detached. Even though he had tried to prepare himself mentally for the meeting, just like he would a match, Akira couldn't quite wrap his mind around the situation. It was... unreal.

"Looked for you everywhere," Shindou said between sobs and hiccups. "Couldn't find you anywhere in Tokyo so I went to Innoshima but you weren't there, so I came back to Tokyo to look at that guy's grave but you weren't there either. I kept hoping I would find you somehow, or you would just show up and I waited and stopped playing go but you never did. I thought you were gone forever."

Fujiwara made some comforting noises as he rubbed Shindou's back. "It's all right. It's all right. I'm here now."

"Promise you won't leave again?" Shindou mumbled into Fujiwara's shirt.

"I promise."

Hearing this seemed to calm Shindou. His sobs tapered off. He messily wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his suit jacket, still clutching at Fujiwara's arm with his other hand. Shindou tilted his head back to fix Fujiwara with a demanding stare. "Really?"

"Really," Fujiwara said solemnly, not looking cross in the least at Shindou's petulance. "I don't want to miss any more of your life. It seems that you've changed a lot while I was gone."

"I have?" Shindou said, visibly calmer now that he'd extracted the promise from Fujiwara.

He seems so gentle. Tension that Akira hadn't been aware of began to ease out of his shoulders. Perhaps his worry over Fujiwara's reaction had been misplaced. It was obvious that Fujiwara cared for Shindou deeply, even if he didn't quite remember the nature of their relationship.

"Yes, for one thing, you've gotten so tall," Fujiwara said, pulling back slightly to regard Shindou with a proud smile. "I remember when you were just this high." He made a gesture near his waistline.

"I was NOT ever that short," Shindou said indignantly. "You're just an abnormally tall freak of nature!" Shindou's lower lip jutted out in a pout as he disentangled himself from Fujiwara.

"Is Hikaru sensitive about his height?" Fujiwara questioned innocently, his eyes twinkling with laughter as he squeezed Shindou's shoulder.

“No!”

Akira felt an irrational spark of jealousy at how easily the other man touched Shindou. Shindou had always seemed rather standoffish about physical contact, only begrudgingly allowing people to touch him. But of course Shindou would act differently with his ex-ghost. Shindou and Sai had been closer than brothers.

Shindou hiccuped loudly, and Fujiwara pursed his lips in concern. "Shall we get some water for you? And maybe we ought to sit? You must be tired after such a long train ride." Suddenly Fujiwara's eyes flashed in alarm, and he turned towards Akira. "I'm so sorry! I've been terribly inconsiderate, making you stand this whole time. Please, you should sit as well, Touya-sensei."

Akira waved his hands as Fujiwara bowed apologetically. "Please, don't worry about it. And… 'Akira' is fine. 'Touya-sensei' makes me think of my father." Akira actually preferred to be called by his family name -- most people hadn't earned enough familiarity to call him “Akira” -- but somehow, it seemed wrong for his father's rival to refer to him as “Touya.”

Akira didn't miss the way that Fujiwara's eyes sharpened at the mention of his father. He said nothing; now was neither the time nor place.

"Akira-sensei, then. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I apologize for not properly introducing myself earlier," Fujiwara said with a warm sincerity that went straight to Akira's toes.

"It's fine. I hope we'll be able to get know each other well," Akira said quietly, hoping his nervousness didn't show in his voice. He wanted Fujiwara to like him.

Shindou retrieved the fan he'd dropped, but then abruptly halted instead of walking towards the table. He shot a glare of open distrust towards Ogata, who merely arched an eyebrow nonchalantly.

"Is something wrong?" Fujiwara said, glancing between Ogata and Shindou.

Yes, Shindou's still upset, Akira thought. "It seems you and Shindou have a lot to talk about," he said instead. "Maybe you would like to sit at a separate table so you can catch up? Ogata-san and I also have things to discuss, so it wouldn't be a problem, and the restaurant shouldn't mind because there's plenty of space." Which was true; they were the only patrons outside since the air was still muggy. Ogata had probably chosen to sit outside in order to smoke.

Fujiwara looked at Ogata uncertainly, but Ogata nodded and gestured towards a nearby table. "That's a good idea. Why don't you go ahead?"

Fujiwara flashed Ogata a grateful smile, and turned towards Shindou, who shrugged and followed him towards the table. Akira settled into the chair across from Ogata, angling his body slightly so he could hear Fujiwara and Shindou's conversation better.

“I trust you're doing well?” Ogata said, his features as composed and unreadable as during a match, like he had decided to pretend there were absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about the events of the evening.

If that's the hand you want to play. Akira kept his own face bland. “Yes, thank you. And you?”

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, inquiring after each other's parents and their upcoming matches. Akira did his best to not lose track of the conversation with Ogata: he could hear a large part of Shindou and Fujiwara's discussion. Shindou had never been particularly good at modulating his volume, and Fujiwara's resonant voice carried.

“What about your friend Akari-chan? Is she still playing go?”

“Geez, why do you wanna know about her? Don't make that face, she's fine! She got into a really good high school... started a go club....”

“So, Shindou knew s a i after all,” Ogata finally said, apparently having tired of the small talk. “It seems they know each other quite well.” He took a long, leisurely drag on his cigarette, a not-so- subtle cue for Akira to start talking.

“...working in a go salon? That's cool! I should drop by. Hey, I'm a 3-dan now! I outrank you!”

Akira had known Ogata long enough to have learned the art of holding a conversation in which absolutely no vital information was imparted. “Yes, it does,” Akira said casually while Shindou yelped in the background, apparently being punished for his impudence with a hair-mussing. “I guess you were right after all.”

Ogata sighed almost imperceptibly, and leaned in closer, a sign Akira knew to interpret as partial surrender. “How long has Shindou been training with Fujiwara-san?”

“Hikaru, why did you ask me about Innoshima? And why would you look for me at a grave?”

Akira was not inclined to be generous, so he put on his best prim face. “Perhaps it would better for you to ask Fujiwara-san? I'm not sure if it would be proper for me to discuss what was told to me in confidence.”

“Akira. Don't be ridiculous. You know that Fujiwara-san is an amnesiac.”

“...because I'm a history buff? Well, I suppose that's not a bad hobby at all.”

Akira fixed Ogata with a steely look. “I know. I'm resolved to help him, by telling him whatever useful information I may possess.” Like you ought to have done from the very beginning.

Ogata's cool expression faltered for a moment, Akira's barb not missing its target. “That's very generous of you. Fujiwara-san is fortunate.”

“You, uh, don't have a family. They... died a long time ago.”

“Why didn't you? Why didn't you tell him what you knew about s a i?”

The corners of Ogata's mouth curled up slightly. “Going straight for the jugular as usual, I see. Well, it's a little complicated.”

“I'm good at listening,” Akira said tersely. Don't patronize me to try to cover up your mistakes. I'm too old to fall for that anymore.

“--no, besides me, you didn't have friends. You sorta had this condition, so, you know, you couldn't really be around people. No no, you're fine now!”

Ogata pushed at the bridge of his glasses. “Sometimes people... do not always act in the most logical manner. It was a miscalculation, one which I'm trying to rectify.”

Akira bit back a snappy remark. Fujiwara was probably angry with Ogata, so Ogata was trying to make amends. Yes, Ogata would consider ticking s a i off to be a “miscalculation.”

“I didn't have a job either?”

“I know I was wrong,” Ogata said softly.

Akira blinked in surprise. Had Ogata just...?

“...I'm alone, and I have no responsibilities or family? I must admit... that doesn't sound very... pleasant.”

“I apologized to Fujiwara-san,” Ogata said. “It was not my intention to... cause him difficulties. Or you.”

“No, it's not like that at all, Sai! Don't say things like that! It totally wasn't your fault! You're misunderstanding. Some horrible things happened to you, and, and... just promise me you won't do anything stupid, okay?!”

Shindou's exclamation drew Ogata and Akira's attention to the other table, where Shindou was clutching Fujiwara by the hand. Fujiwara looked like he was on the verge of tears again. “I swear, it wasn't anything wrong you did. I just... I'm sorry, I just can't tell you everything now because it will make you really sad, and I don't want you to be sad. Please, is it okay to wait? Just for a little while?” Shindou begged.

“I won't,” Fujiwara said in a small voice. He patted Shindou's hand. “I can wait, Hikaru. I'm just happy to have you with me again. I know you'll tell me the details when the time is right,” he said with a sad smile.

Akira's chest tightened. He's so trusting. Fujiwara was not angry that Shindou was asking for time, even though Shindou knew more about Fujiwara than Fujiwara did. He was not resentful. He simply trusted Shindou to have his best interests at heart.

Then Akira caught a glimpse of Ogata's expression out of the corner of his eye and froze. Ogata was staring at Shindou with an emotion Akira recognized as jealousy -- he'd seen it on Ogata's face before. Akira wasn't particularly surprised since Ogata had gone out of his way to conceal his knowledge of s a i's existence. But there was some other emotion on Ogata's face that gave Akira pause. Could it be... regret? Had Ogata really meant it when he had admitted wrongdoing? What exactly did Fujiwara-san mean to Ogata?

The situation was complicated.

“Was that you, Hikaru?” Fujiwara said, tilting his head inquiringly at Shindou.

“I haven't eaten since that bento on the train,” Shindou said with a sheepish face, placing a hand over his stomach.

“Well, that's not acceptable! We ought to place an order.” Fujiwara glanced over meaningfully towards Akira and Ogata, and Akira thought Fujiwara looked rather relived for the diversion. “Shall we all eat together?” Fujiwara said.

Shindou nodded hesitatingly. He caught Akira's eye with an expression that Akira knew to read as It's going to be all right.

Akira gave a slight nod and waited for Shindou to take the seat next to him -- where he belonged.

~ ~ ~

“How long have you been playing go?” Fujiwara asked Akira during the salad course, his eyes bright with curiosity.

“Since I was two years old,” Akira said. “I can't really remember a time when I didn't play.” Fujiwara had already asked him a lot of questions, yet Akira didn't feel uncomfortable in the least, even though he'd technically never met the other man before. Usually, he had problems relating to people close to his own age; they always seemed to be playing in accordance with some social rulebook that Akira had never been privy to, and judging Akira for his unwitting blunders. Akira sensed no such judgment from Fujiwara, just an openness and a genuine delight; he simply liked Akira for who he was. “I believe Father set me in front of the board as soon as I could sit up by myself for long enough,” Akira added, and Fujiwara's face brightened.

“I remember that,” Ogata said. Akira braced himself for the forthcoming recollection, which -- judging from Ogata's smirk -- promised to be embarrassing. “At first Touya-san -- his mother -- wasn't too thrilled because Akira-kun was so young, but she agreed on the stipulation she would monitor the first session. If Akira tried to eat any of the stones, Touya-sensei would have to wait another year before trying to teach him.”

In unison, Shindou and Fujiwara leaned forward eagerly. “Did he?” Shindou demanded.

“No, and he didn't squirm or cry either,” Ogata continued with a wry grin. “He just watched Touya-sensei and let him guide his hands to the correct positions. When the lesson was finished, though, Akira looked at me with a very serious face, and held one of the black stones up to my mouth while he repeated 'Good good!' over and over. We think he was trying to get me to eat it. Perhaps he wanted to get rid of his competition at an early age.”

Akira wished vainly for a hole to open up directly below his chair so he would be spared further humiliation in front of his rival and his rival's mentor. Or Ogata's chair. Akira wasn't going to be picky.

Shindou grinned sharply, thoroughly approving of that interpretation. Fujiwara, however, made a scandalized face and batted at Ogata's elbow. “How awful! He probably just thought you were hungry. Akira-sensei is a very nice young man.”

Immediately, Shindou's grin disappeared, and he glowered at Ogata with a look that Akira suspected could cause a goban to burst into flame. “You've never played Akira-kun in an official match. He's utterly vicious,” Ogata said, but Akira was too preoccupied with trying to surreptitiously nudge Shindou under the table to pay any attention to the back-handed compliment.

Akira's foot connected with Shindou's ankle harder than intended, and Shindou yelped quietly, shooting him a betrayed glare. Akira shook his head, mouthing “behave” at him. Shindou was being overprotective, which Akira could actually understand. Considering Shindou's past relationship with Fujiwara, it was natural for him to be sensitive about Fujiwara, but Shindou could hardly hold Ogata responsible if Fujiwara chose to touch Ogata, especially since Fujiwara seemed to be the physically affectionate type.

Neither Ogata nor Fujiwara had noticed the foot scuffle, fortunately. “I have played Akira-sensei, though,” Fujiwara was saying, tapping at his lips with a finger, his expression unfocused with reminiscence.

A thrill tingled down Akira's back. What exactly was Fujiwara trying to remember?

“Yes, on the NetGo server. We discussed that game earlier,” Ogata said, but Fujiwara shook his head.

“No, it wasn't only then...”

Suddenly, Fujiwara turned to stare at Akira. “We've played three times. You were very young the first time we played... Even before we started the game, I was excited because you were still a child, but already so passionate about go. I remember telling Hikaru later that you would soon mature into a lion or a dragon.”

“Thank you for your kind compliments,” Akira said, his cheeks growing hot from the praise even as his mind started racing. If Fujiwara remembered that he had played against Akira three times, that meant that Fujiwara remembered all the games he'd played with Akira as Shindou's ghost. What if Fujiwara started wondering about the oddities of those first two games, like how Akira had never addressed him directly but instead had spoken only to Shindou?

Fujiwara frowned then, his eyes distant again as he mentally reviewed the game. “My strategy was rather odd... I was playing you without regard for komi even though I had black.” Akira could feel Shindou tensing beside him. Fujiwara's first game against Akira had been Fujiwara's first game in modern times; he hadn't known about the komi rule yet.

“That was because you were playing shidougo with me,” Akira said quickly, wanting to divert Fujiwara away from that dangerous line of reasoning. Fujiwara had almost burst into tears earlier; he definitely wasn't ready to learn about the actual circumstances surrounding the game.

“Shidougo?” Ogata echoed.

Akira had flatly refused to ever show those initial two games to Ogata and his father, despite their deep interest. But Akira had confided in his father that the first game with Shindou had felt like shidougo to him, and his father had shared that information with Ogata. Obviously, Ogata had not forgotten.

“Oh, a shidougo handicap?” Fujiwara pondered Akira's answer. “Of course, it would have only been fair. But the second time we played, I recall being... a little more aggressive than I would have liked. You were playing all-out, so I had no choice but to be harsh,” he added, sounding slightly regretful.

Ogata's eyes narrowed.

“You weren't too harsh. I've learned a lot from that game. Thank you for your instruction,” Akira replied. Although at the time he'd felt utterly crushed because of Shindou's age and flippant attitude towards go, knowing the truth behind the game -- that he'd actually been playing a very old, experienced ghost -- had helped Akira get over his lingering insecurities rather quickly.

“I'm glad to hear that. I like to win,” Fujiwara added with an impish smile before taking a sip of his tea.

“You certainly do. You show about the same amount of mercy that Akira does on the board, which is to say, absolutely none.” Ogata said. He raised an eyebrow in a show of good humor, but the lines around his mouth were taut, and his eyes flickered from Fujiwara to Shindou and finally Akira.

Akira caught Shindou's gaze with a side-long glance. Shindou looked strained; obviously, he was also worried that Ogata would start probing about their past with Fujiwara. Not that Shindou possessed many qualms at this point about telling Ogata to mind his own business, but that would seem suspicious and risk Fujiwara's trust.

Yet Ogata simply continued to banter with Fujiwara. “You claim to be merciful because you allow games to continue for a long time even when you have the clear advantage, but isn't that akin to a cat toying with a mouse?” he asked.

“I wouldn't consider any of my opponents to be 'mice',” Fujiwara said, amused. “I choose to play my games out to their natural ends; if a game ends too quickly, it is neither aesthetically pleasing, nor enlightening for the weaker player.”

Shindou made a face of utter disbelief. “Wait a second, since when did you start playing nice long games? Some of our games didn't even go into chuuban! You're no cat, you're like a...” Shindou's nose wrinkled as he searched for the right word. “...a velociraptor!” he finished triumphantly.

“A velociraptor? What's that? It doesn't sound very nice.” Fujiwara frowned, eyeing Shindou warily as Shindou arched his fingers into claws.

“You're being compared to a dinosaur that used its speed and talons to disembowel its prey,” Ogata answered. “I wouldn't mind such a characterization of my go myself.”

“Hikaruuu!!! How horrible, comparing me to a nasty beast! I'm a very kind and thoughtful teacher, and obviously I knew you would benefit from strict instruction. Adversity builds strength.” Fujiwara turned to Akira with a pout. “At least Akira-sensei appreciates my thoughtful instruction.”

“I've always been a good student,” Akira said with pride.

“Yeah, if by 'good student,' you mean a teacher's pet,” Shindou said with relish.

Fujiwara hid a laugh behind his sleeve. “I don't think you ought to be making such criticisms considering your scores, Hikaru. Or that you regularly slept through more classes than you were actually awake for.”

“That was totally your fault because you always kept me up playing games!”

“Don't pretend that I wasn't concerned with your education! I recall helping you with your homework on numerous occasions.”

Shindou grinned. “Yeah, you were pretty good with history and classical Japanese, but my English teacher almost cried when she saw that essay we wrote together.”

“I told you that I had never studied English, but you insisted,” Fujiwara said, indignant. “Now if you had been studying Chinese – and I frankly have my concerns about the quality of a school that doesn't offer Chinese – then we would have certainly passed.”

Akira widened his eyes in disbelief. “You had your go teacher help you with your homework?” Shindou had neglected to mention that. But Akira supposed he shouldn't be surprised that his rival had cajoled his ghost into that -- and probably more -- in exchange for go games. Shindou was a bit of a brat.

Ogata was amused. “Don't look so shocked, Akira. It isn't as if you never used my help for your English classes.”

“The difference is that I actually wrote my own essays by myself.” Akira thought it was important to make this distinction.

“Like I said, total teacher's pet.”

“Shindou!”

~ ~ ~

The rest of the dinner passed in similar conversation. Shindou gradually relaxed despite Ogata's presence, apparently just happy being with Fujiwara again, if Akira were to judge from the way Shindou would almost beam whenever he and Fujiwara spoke, even if Fujiwara lectured him, like now.

“You ought to learn better self-control,” Fujiwara was scolding Shindou. “Remember that time you got kicked out of the children's go tournament for kibitzing?”

“That was your fault for making the comment about the shape in the first place!” Shindou said automatically.

“I was trying to teach you; you weren't supposed to repeat it loudly!” Fujiwara wailed.

Ogata's eyes sharpened behind his glasses, the same way they did whenever his opponent had made a miscalculation on the goban. Akira winced, remembering that Ogata had been one of the judges at that tournament and had been responsible for cleaning up in the aftermath of Shindou's kibitzing. It was because of the insight in that unsolicited comment that Ogata had initially become fascinated with Shindou. But now Shindou had just unwittingly revealed that the insight had been Fujiwara's, and that Fujiwara had also been at the tournament. Ogata was surely wondering why he hadn't seen Fujiwara at the tournament. If Ogata asked about it, and Fujiwara then asked Shindou about it...

But Ogata merely continued eating.

Akira took a bite of his pasta, wondering if Ogata did actually feel guilty about his deception; it wasn't like Ogata to ignore a perfect opening like that. Or perhaps he was just waiting to ambush Akira about Shindou's slip-up later in privacy.

Regardless of Ogata's intentions, Akira couldn't help enjoying the companionship, and he finally got an opportunity to speak to Fujiwara one-on-one when Ogata started a conversation with Hikaru about Isumi's chances in the Honinbou League. Ogata would be playing Isumi if the younger pro continued to advance through the preliminaries.

“You must be a very talented teacher to have advanced Shindou's go so quickly,” Akira said, trying to pick a relatively safe topic.

Fujiwara beamed. “Well, to be honest, I think you had far more to do with Hikaru's interest in go than I ever did. He was so excited to see you sitting there in the go salon! Before that, he was always complaining that I'd dragged him into 'an old man's game.' He preferred playing soccer and dodgeball.”

“I didn't know Shindou played sports. I played sports in my physical education classes, although I didn't particularly enjoy it,” Akira said, feeling a warm glow spreading in his body. Sai had just said that he was important to Shindou's go. Shindou glanced at them, apparently hearing his name, but he didn't break off his conversation with Ogata to interrupt.

“Hikaru had trouble sitting still when he was young. I suppose that's why he never learned go before he met me, even though his grandfather is quite a dedicated player. He was very happy when Hikaru started playing seriously. I believe he bought Hikaru his first real goban with legs.” Fujiwara smiled, apparently delighted at the recollection. “Have you met Shindou-san?”

“No, I haven't had the pleasure,” Akira said, thinking quickly. Shindou's grandfather was the same grandfather who owned the shed with the cursed Shuusaku goban, the very one that Fujiwara had possessed – had lived in for centuries. Fujiwara seemed to be remembering quite a lot. What if Fujiwara remembered his connection to the cursed goban right now? Akira's stomach twisted in anxiety.

Fujiwara frowned, cocking his head at an angle to regard Akira. “Is something wrong?”

Akira winced mentally; he must have let his worry show on his face. “No, nothing! It's just... umm....” Akira found himself suddenly tongue-tied and he dropped his eyes from Fujiwara's face to the table, flustered.

“Oh, am I holding it wrong?” Fujiwara said, embarrassed. He set his fork down and picked it up again carefully. “I only learned – remembered – recently, so please excuse me if my table manners are a little odd. I don't have such problems with chopsticks, though.”

Akira understood then that Fujiwara thought he had been staring at the way Fujiwara was holding his fork. “No, you're doing it perfectly,” Akira said quickly. “I didn't mean to stare. It must be difficult for you to... have to relearn so many things.” Akira actually wanted to say that Fujiwara seemed to be coping quite well for someone learning so much for the first time, but he knew that wouldn't be wise.

Fujiwara nodded. “Sometimes, although it's not so bad since Ogata-sensei is a very patient teacher. I suppose it's a little insignificant, but I do worry about things like my likes and dislikes.” He gestured towards his gnocchi. “I like Italian now, but did I before I lost my memory? Perhaps I had hated it.”

No, you'd never eaten it before you lost your memory, Akira thought, and he couldn't help feeling a twinge of guilt over the fact that he probably understood Fujiwara better in some ways than Fujiwara himself.

Like Fujiwara's unique quirks, which seemed embarrassingly obvious since Akira knew what to look for; he'd studied The Tale of Genji at Kaio, and that had included an overview of Heian customs. Akira had noticed that Fujiwara was wearing a spring coat even though it was summer and so humid that both Akira and Shindou had shed their suit jackets and stored them in the locker at the station. But during Fujiwara's natural lifetime, courtiers commonly wore layers and layers even when it was sweltering outside, so Fujiwara might still actually feel under-dressed. Then there was the way Fujiwara instinctively covered his mouth when he was laughing; he would have been taught it was rude to show such an emotion openly. Fujiwara also took care to be graceful in even the simplest of movements, like picking up his utensils. In modern times, people usually had no practical reason to bother cultivating such grace unless they were stage actors or models.

Had Fujiwara noticed these differences? Had he noticed how he was slightly out of synch with other people? Akira wondered if Fujiwara had simply assumed it was related to his memory loss.

“Likes and dislikes aren't insignificant at all,” Akira said. “It's a part of who you are.” A man living outside of his own time.

Fujiwara seemed reassured by Akira's statement. “Good, I shouldn't like to fret over something trivial. I look forward to remembering more, but I do already remember the most important things.” He glanced towards Shindou proudly. “I have my student and my go. It might sound strange, but even though I didn't remember Hikaru after my accident, I still missed him.” Fujiwara's fingers brushed absently against the fan on the table, and Akira noticed the distinctive tassel on the end.

The fan was Shindou's. That meant Shindou had Fujiwara's now.

A spark of jealousy flared in Akira's chest, yet Fujiwara smiled at Akira with a gentle understanding that suggested he recognized Akira's feelings but did not judge him. “Although I was not able to stay with Hikaru, you were by his side – you are by his side. I hope Hikaru realizes how fortunate he is to have found his rival. And you as well. A rival is a person to be cherished. Some people never find theirs,” Fujiwara said, his eyes suddenly serious and deep and ancient and just slightly otherworldly enough to make Akira's pulse quicken a notch, even though Akira hadn't even believed in spirits and ghosts and the unseen world until Shindou's story last night.

Akira's father had believed. Since Akira knew the truth about Shindou and Fujiwara, he now understood how his father could wait patiently in front of his goban in the study, peering intently into the depths of his own mind while one single black stone waited for an answer. Akira had chalked it up to his father's legendary stubbornness and perhaps just a hint of denial – a refusal to admit that his rival was lost to him forever – now, Akira realized that his father had grasped the truth of s a i's nature. It was, Akira supposed, hardly irrational to hope to call a spirit obsessed with go to one's own goban with an open challenge.

His father didn't need to rely on insubstantial hopes any longer. “You also have a rival,” Akira stated. “My father would like a rematch with you.” Akira could not bring himself to say: It is his greatest desire.

Fujiwara's face lit up like the sun. “So it is true,” he said. “A friend had told me that earlier, but I was worried that perhaps I had misunderstood him, or that perhaps your father had already found another rival since he's been travelling so much and playing the very best all over the world, and we did only play that one game, so maybe he had forgotten me since he didn't know my name, although I was the one who beat him, even if it was only by half a moku, and—oh! Excuse me!” Fujiwara reddened. “I'm rambling.”

Akira let out a small breath of relief. Obviously a rematch meant as much to Fujiwara as it did his father, although Fujiwara did not remember that he'd actually played two games against Touya Kouyo. “So you would like to play him again,” Akira said.

Fujiwara nodded. “I should like very much to play him again! I don't know if Ogata-sensei told you, but I've been recording all the games I can remember. I have quite a lot so far, but the game I played with your father is... very special to me. I was so happy when Waya-sensei recognized my playing style and told me your father's name.”

“Waya-sensei?” Shindou's ex-insei friend with the temper knew Fujiwara? Now that was a surprise.

“Oh, I suppose you must know him since he's also a pro? I met him at the go salon where I'm starting work. Do you know Isumi-san too? Waya brought him to play me! Isumi-san won't let me call him 'sensei.' He's very modest.”

Akira was rather stunned that two of Shindou's close friends had met Fujiwara but hadn't mentioned him to Shindou. But perhaps they simply didn't know of the connection – Shindou had vigorously denied it, after all. In any case, it was really none of Akira's business.

“But...” Fujiwara's expression clouded. “I'm still a little... unclear on the circumstances of the game. I know the game was played over the NetGo server so we didn't meet, but your father is very well-known. He won't be offended if I don't know him or if I behave a little... differently?”

Akira harbored suspicions that his father would not care if s a i turned out to be a go-playing cat, as long as he could have his rematch and few dozen after that. “No, please don't worry about your memory,” Akira said. “My father is understanding, and besides, he knows nothing about you either. You'll be on an even playing field in that regard.”

“Then, I would be honored to play him again. Would you introduce me to him?” Fujiwara asked softly. He sounded almost bashful compared to his earlier exuberant outburst, and Akira realized that Fujiwara had grown anxious about the very real prospect of finally meeting his rival. Hadn't Shindou said Fujiwara had been obsessed with his father from the very beginning? According to Shindou, Fujiwara had seen one of Touya Kouyo's televised matches, and Fujiwara had become completely convinced that Touya Kouyo could find the Hand of God. More than anything, Shindou had said, Fujiwara had wanted to find it with Touya Kouyo.

“I would be more than happy to,” Akira said, unable to stop a smile from breaking out over his face. “He's scheduled for matches with his Beijing team this week, but he should have next week open. I can arrange a meeting. Do you have a cell phone?”

“Yes, I just got one recently!” Fujiwara dipped a hand into one of his coat pockets, proudly fishing out a bright pink phone with far too many charms dangling off one end.

“Do you actually know how to use that thing?” Shindou said as Fujiwara started pressing buttons. “And don't believe Touya; his dad is even scarier than he is.”

Akira glared at Shindou for rudely intruding into his conversation, but Shindou ignored him in favor of reaching across the table to poke a finger at Fujiwara's phone charms.

Fujiwara huffed indignantly, turning his nose up slightly. “You may not believe it, Hikaru, but I'm actually very smart. I read the entire manual and yes, I do know how to use it, probably better than you do yours. And I'm certain Touya-sensei must be very nice since he raised such a polite son – ready, Akira-sensei?” Fujiwara held up the cell phone to transmit his infrared signal to Akira's phone.

Fujiwara's opinion aside, Akira was not polite enough to resist the urge to smirk at Shindou, especially since Shindou's mouth was hanging open in apparent amazement that his ex-ghost had managed to master at least one area of technology.

“You think Touya's polite?!”

Oh. So that was why Shindou was flabbergasted. “I am VERY polite,” Akira growled. Politely.

“Of course. You should try to follow his example: good manners are always becoming,” Fujiwara said, one eyebrow arched admonishingly. “Now let's exchange contact information too; where's your cell phone?”

Shindou whipped out his atrocious yellow cell phone with a speed that suggested he was about to challenge Fujiwara to a duel. “You're completely wrong, you know. I'm way better; I even know how to play go on mine!”

“Well I'm going to learn how to, and then I'm going to give you the worst defeat in cell phone go history, Hikaru!”

Shindou eloquently stuck out his tongue in response.

“One would think they were related and not merely student and teacher,” Ogata remarked dryly to Akira, taking a leisurely drag on his customary after-dinner cigarette.

Ogata's affected air of disinterest didn't fool Akira in the least. Akira had noticed Ogata watching the cell phone transfers with a wary expression, like he had just witnessed his opponent placing a stone that severely weakened his formation. Akira did not feel particularly sorry for him. Fujiwara was hardly Ogata's favorite toy that Ogata could keep stashed away in his apartment; nor was Akira about to have to rely on Ogata to communicate with Fujiwara, even though Ogata had seemed genuinely regretful about concealing Fujiwara's existence. Maybe Ogata actually was, but that didn't mean Akira was ready to trust him again.

Akira resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose when Ogata's smoke drifted over to his side of the table. Akira was hardly a stranger to cigarette smoke, having practically grown up in a go salon, but he'd never liked the sensation of inhaling smoke on a full stomach.

“It's good for him.”

The comment was said so faintly that Akira wondered if Ogata had meant it to be heard. He looked at Shindou and Fujiwara's radiant expressions as they taunted each other, and he did not ask which “him” Ogata had been referring to.

~ ~ ~

Shindou and Fujiwara both wanted dessert, so Akira and Ogata decided to order tea and coffee respectively. After they finished, Ogata left the table to take care of the bill, brushing off Akira and Shindou's attempts to pay.

As soon as Ogata was out of earshot, Shindou turned to Fujiwara, the set of his shoulders suddenly stiff. “Look, Sai, it's really great of him and all to let you stay with him and I'm sure he's actually a nice guy sometimes -- but you know, you don't have to keep living with him... well, remember before? You stayed with me all the time.”

Akira froze when he realized what Shindou was asking Fujiwara. This wasn't part of the plan. It was completely stupid. Of course Fujiwara had stayed with Shindou before; he'd been Shindou's ghost. Shindou's mother could have hardly objected to an uninvited guest that she couldn't see, one who took up no space and consumed no resources. Shindou was being a complete idiot if he thought he could just bring home a young man his parents had never met, and install him there as a permanent house guest (unless Shindou's parents were far more lax parents than any Akira had ever met). Taking in a stranger with a memory impairment wasn't something most people would even consider doing; Ogata was obviously an exception because he was both well-off and had something to gain from it.

Fujiwara blinked at Shindou. “Really? I don't quite remember, but I do recall that you always kept your bedroom quite neat.”

“Come stay with me again. It'll be fun. We can stay up late playing games just like before,” Shindou wheedled, his bright green eyes wide and irresistible.

“That's very kind of you, but I... don't remember your parents. Surely they would be offended.” Fujiwara lowered his head.

Akira was not surprised that Fujiwara did not remember the Shindous. Almost every person or event he had mentioned so far was go-related. Akira knew Shindou's parents didn't play go. He'd never even seen them at Shindou's most important matches.

Shindou rolled his eyes. “Don't feel bad about that. I hardly know my dad either; he's never home.” He waved a hand dismissively. “And Mom's kinda boring, but she's really nice. She pretty much lets me do whatever I want as long as I don't get into trouble or make a mess. I bet I could talk her into it.”

Fujiwara shook his head firmly. “I couldn't impose on their hospitality again. I have nothing to offer in return.”

“You'd rather stay with Ogata?” Shindou said, his pitch rising and his fingers curling into his palms. “You shouldn't have to stay with someone who hurt you. You do realize that he's been lying to you all this time?”

“I know, Hikaru.” Fujiwara's voice was quiet with anguish, and Shindou flinched. “That is a matter between Ogata-sensei and myself.” Then Fujiwara reached out and gently touched Shindou's cheek. “I do want to spend time with you, but I don't want to be a burden again.”

“You weren't a burden!” Shindou said.

Fujiwara smiled wistfully. He dropped his hand. “You're being too kind. I don't remember exactly what happened between us during our time together, but I know... I was selfish. My selfishness caused you a lot of pain.”

Fujiwara had hurt Shindou, more than he could possibly understand. He was hurting Shindou now, even if Akira knew Fujiwara was right to refuse Shindou's offer. Shindou made a large sigh of exasperation that didn't quite match his expression. “Oh geez. I did some stupid stuff too. Look, stay with Ogata for now if you feel that you have to, but don't do it because of whatever happened in the past. Let's just call it even.”

“All right, Hikaru. Even,” Fujiwara said with a small laugh. “You always were resilient, weren't you?”

“You're one to talk. Hey, what time do you finish work tomorrow? I wanna play you!”

“At six.” Fujiwara clasped his hands together. “I'm so excited to test you and see how far your skills have progressed!”

“You mean you're excited at the chance to try and crush me into little itty-bitty pieces again,” Shindou said, holding his index finger and thumb together to demonstrate the exact size of the pieces -- apparently, microscopic.

“That's not true, and don't mention that horrible velociraptor thing again either!”

Ogata returned to the table then, and they picked up their belongings. As they walked away from the patio, Fujiwara asked, “Do you know how to get to the salon?”

“No, but I'm going to make that big jerk Waya take me. He owes me now,” Shindou announced, looking smug.

They stopped in the parking lot where Ogata had parked his Mazda. “I would offer you and Shindou and a ride, but I'm afraid you wouldn't fit in the front, and your mother expressly forbade me from ever putting you into the boot,” Ogata said, the parking lot lights glinting off his glasses in an appropriately sinister fashion. Akira was amused, but Shindou shifted nervously on his feet. Akira wondered if Shindou honestly couldn't tell when Ogata was joking; Ogata was good at keeping a straight face.

Fujiwara smiled at Akira. “Are you also free at six tomorrow? I'd like to see how your go has developed too.”

“Yeah, you should come too! Maybe if you play Sai first, you can wear him down for me,” Shindou said with complete earnestness.

“I'm hardly cannon fodder, Shindou!” Akira said, though he felt pleased to be included. “I'll check my schedule,” he added, although Akira was already reasonably certain that there was nothing on it that he couldn't reschedule for a game with Fujiwara. They said their goodbyes, then he and Shindou began walking back to the station. At the station, they retrieved their backpacks and headed for the ticket gates, from where they would get on separate trains.

“Hey Touya,” Shindou said abruptly, suddenly looking awkward. He shifted his shoulders under his unwieldy backpack.

Akira tugged his wallet with his Suica card out of his pocket. “Yes?”

“Thanks. For, you know.”

“I'm glad I was able to help,” Akira said, touched by his rival's gratitude.

“You're going to come tomorrow, right?” Shindou asked, a slight note of uncertainty in his tone. Like Shindou was actually... worried about him.

“I will.”

Shindou grinned then, looking like the cheeky middle-school brat who'd barged into his father's go salon to demand a game. “Great, 'cause I want Sai to watch me crush you.”

“Shindou!!” Akira snapped as his rival laughed and dodged through the gates ahead of him. Akira followed, close on Shindou's heels.

Just like always.
~~~

Chapter Text

* * *

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Sat, 30 Aug 2003 11:43 p.m.
Re: Phone call

Sensei,

I have a matter I need to discuss with you as soon as possible. When would be a convenient time for me to call?

Respectfully yours,

Ogata Seiji

* * *

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Sun, 31 Aug 2003 10:23 a.m.
Re: kifu

Sensei,

As per our phone conversation, I have attached a zip file of my games with Fujiwara-san. Please call me if you have any trouble opening the file.

Also, I have attached a photograph.

Respectfully yours,

Ogata Seiji

Attachments:
FujiwaraAquarium2.jpg
FujiwaraKifu.zip

* * *

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Mon, 01 Sep 2003 3:45 p.m.
Re: Good Afternoon

Dear Father,

I hope you and Mother have been doing well. Here in Tokyo, the weather has finally started to cool off. Is the temperature also dropping in Beijing?

We reviewed your match with So Chan Wan-san during the young pros study session last week. It was a brilliant game, particularly the kata-tsuki at 5-5. I feel that I learned a lot from it.

The reason I'm writing to you is because of a man I met this weekend. His name is Fujiwara Sai, and Shindou has confirmed that he is indeed the same s a i that both of us played online two years ago. Fujiwara-san is eager to play you again, and has asked me to introduce him to you upon your return. Please let me know when you would like to meet with him.

I have attached a kifu of a game I played with Fujiwara-san yesterday. (If you would like more kifu, perhaps you should ask Ogata-san, since he has been playing with him since May.)

I ought to mention that Fujiwara-san has suffered from some memory loss, although I do not feel at liberty to disclose any particulars. I apologize.

Please take care of yourself, and give Mother my regards.

--Akira

Attachments:
Aug30kifu.pdf

* * *

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Tue, 02 Sep 2003 7:38 p.m.
Re: Re: Good Afternoon

Both your mother and I are doing well. Your mother insists that I remind you to take a coat with you when you go out in the evenings.

Our plane will arrive at Narita Wednesday the 10th in the afternoon, so please ask Fujiwara-san if Thursday is convenient. I must confess to finding myself rather impatient for my team matches to finish.

I looked at the kifu. Your ability to read ahead has improved since your last match with Fujiwara-san, although your response at 12-7 remains too soft.

I spoke to Ogata-kun on the phone yesterday. He explained Fujiwara-san's situation to me.

Thank you for your compliments on the game. I would have preferred to have won, though.

Touya Kouyou

* * *

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Fri, 05 Sep 2003 1:25 p.m.
Re: Re: kifu

Ogata-kun,

Thank you for sending me the attachment. I did not have any problems opening it. I haven't had the opportunity to replay all the kifu yet (Akiko has warned me that I am not allowed to spend all my free time in the hotel room when I have promised to take her shopping and to the opera) but it is obvious that Fujiwara-san's abilities have advanced remarkably. However, I too have learned a few new tricks since our last match, so please kindly warn him not to expect an easy victory.

I'm happy that you've had the opportunity to play against such an opponent regularly. This is what your go has been lacking: someone to spur you onto the next level.

Do you have Wednesday evening free? It's been too long since we last played a proper match. I look forward to seeing how your game has grown.

Warmest regards,

Touya Kouyou

* * *

Ogata hit the “send” button on his reply, then leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. What motive could Sensei possibly have for wanting to play him first instead of Fujiwara? Touya Kouyou had been playing Ogata since Ogata was a mere twelve years old, so Touya-sensei was already intimately familiar with his playing style – his weaknesses, his strengths, his quirks. Even though Ogata's style had evolved because of Fujiwara, Ogata couldn't think of why Touya-sensei would be that interested in discovering the differences. They were no longer opponents since Touya-sensei had retired from the Japanese Go Association, and Ogata had yet to participate internationally, which was the only venue where he could face Sensei officially.

No, they were no longer opponents – unless Touya-sensei viewed Ogata as an opponent for Fujiwara's rivalry. Ogata's eyes narrowed. Perhaps that was Sensei's aim: to defeat Ogata so thoroughly that Ogata would be forced to acknowledge that Touya-sensei was a more worthy rival.

But defeating Ogata would be an utterly pointless gesture: Fujiwara already viewed Touya Kouyou as his true rival. Fujiwara hadn't made such a statement, at least not to Ogata's knowledge, but Ogata didn't need a statement to notice how still Fujiwara grew at the mere mention of Touya Kouyou, or how Fujiwara pored over the ex-Meijin's kifu with the gravity of a general preparing for battle. Whereas when Fujiwara played Ogata, there was often a playfulness lurking in Fujiwara's patterns and at the corners of his mouth. More than once during their games, Ogata had suspected that Fujiwara was smiling at him from behind that fan he snapped open on occasion.

Ogata tried and failed to conjure up the image of Fujiwara smiling teasingly at Touya Kouyou during a game. Sensei's go wouldn't give Fujiwara the chance to relax for even a second. After all, Sensei had been the one capable of limiting Fujiwara to a mere half-moku lead in his first and only match against s a i. Ogata, on the other hand, had been playing Fujiwara regularly for months and still hadn't managed such a close game yet.

To make matters worse, Ogata didn't know when he'd get a chance to play Fujiwara again. Ogata didn't intend to renege on his promise that Fujiwara didn't have to play him, so he'd been careful to avoid even mentioning their games to Fujiwara, while still maintaining the hope that eventually Fujiwara would be the one to ask to resume their games. But Fujiwara could hardly be desperate for opponents now that he'd started his job at the Iwamoto Go Salon, had been reunited with Shindou, and was about to meet Touya Kouyou.

The thought of Fujiwara indefinitely playing many people who were not him was rather vexing to say the least, especially since Ogata had grown accustomed to an abundance of challenging, brilliant games... and to the companionship. Ogata hadn't realized how much time he had been regularly spending with Fujiwara until the past few days. Now Fujiwara was either busy working, or spending time with Shindou whenever he wasn't working. Shindou – judging from Fujiwara's chatter -- had no qualms about simply showing up early to the go salon and playing shidougo with the customers until Fujiwara's shift ended, and then he would drag Fujiwara off to some silly place (so far, Shindou had taken Fujiwara to a ramen stand, a baseball game, his old middle school's go club, and oddly enough, an antique store).

Logically, Ogata realized that Shindou knew Fujiwara intimately, and the places Shindou was bringing Fujiwara were undoubtedly significant to Fujiwara's recovery (if Shindou possessed any sense, that was). But accepting that he was no longer the center of Fujiwara's attention was more difficult than Ogata had expected, especially since Ogata didn't think there was anything that outstanding about his replacement, other than the shock of bleached bangs and the boy's remarkable ability to put his foot in his mouth at the most amusingly awkward moments. Shindou seemed the polar opposite of Fujiwara: whereas Fujiwara spoke with a refined sensitivity and bore himself with dignity, Shindou had to be smacked on the head occasionally by his own peers to be reminded of even the most basic manners, and he slouched, and messily sprawled his limbs out on whatever unfortunate piece of furniture he was occupying.

Shindou was, of course, an exceptionally talented player; Ogata had recognized this and supported Shindou's go even in its most nascent stages. Regardless, Shindou still needed experience to sharpen his skills and mental presence. Shindou hadn't made it into any of the later semi-finals for the titles, and he wasn't capable yet of presenting a serious challenge to Ogata, much less Fujiwara.

A... challenger? Ogata wondered if he were being utterly ridiculous for comparing himself to a teenage boy, especially one whom he could still easily fluster with a well-aimed remark. So what if Shindou had managed to effortlessly seize Fujiwara's attention? This was to be expected; of course Fujiwara would gravitate to anyone connected to his previous life, especially a precious student. Fujiwara's absorption with Shindou might gradually fade as Fujiwara remembered more, and grew less dependent on Shindou for information about himself. On the other hand, Fujiwara would eventually outgrow his need of Ogata as well. Hadn't that been one of Fujiwara's reasons for accepting the salon job? He didn't want to be dependent on Ogata. Fujiwara had also said he didn't want to take time away from Ogata's schedule, so perhaps that was why he was allowing Shindou to take up all his free time instead.

Or it could be that Fujiwara simply preferred Shindou's company to his.

Scowling, Ogata tugged his glasses off so he could pinch at the bridge of his nose. That his reasoning had descended to such infantile depths was ample proof that he definitely needed a distraction. He got up abruptly from his computer chair and went into the kitchen, where he prepared himself a light meal and pointedly tried to not figure out where Shindou had dragged Fujiwara to today.

Ogata was on his second cup of after-dinner tea when Fujiwara returned.

“Good evening!” Fujiwara said, slipping his shoes off in the entranceway.

“Hello. Did you have a nice time?” Ogata said with a carefully neutral tone, noting the damp tendrils of hair clinging to Fujiwara's face.

“Yes!” Fujiwara sat down at the table, accepting a cup of Ceylon with a smile. “Hikaru and Waya took me to this place called 'Akiba' because Waya wanted a new game for his Nintendo DS, and we played taiko drums, and we also saw these people wearing pretty dresses because they were pretending to be this person named 'Sweet Lolita.' Waya said they were 'cosplayers.' ”

Well, Ogata could think of better diversions than playing video games, but perhaps that was the height of sophistication for teenagers who bleached their hair.

“Hikaru bet Waya that I would be 'horrible' at the drums,” Fujiwara said with an indignant huff. “But I have a better sense of rhythm than he does since he never learned to play an instrument. He really shouldn't have been shocked that I beat him three times in a row.”

“I'm glad you were able to teach him some respect for his elders,” Ogata said, wryly noting that Shindou had a knack for bringing out Fujiwara's competitive streak -- rather like a brat egging on his older brother. “And does that mean that you do play an instrument?”

Nodding, Fujiwara pulled out a piece of folded paper from his shirt pocket and handed it Ogata. “Hikaru said I play the flute and the guitar, but not modern ones. He couldn't remember the names of them so he drew me pictures.”

Ogata studied the pencil sketches intently. Ogata hadn't studied classical Japanese history since high school, but the guitar was instantly recognizable as a four-stringed biwa. Shindou had also sketched the biwa's distinctive plectrum out to the side. Ogata wasn't certain about the flute, though, but the design was definitely dated. Unlike a modern flute, this flute was made of wood and had deep recesses around the mouthpiece and each of its seven holes.

“This is a biwa,” Ogata said, writing the kanji over the sketch of the guitar before returning the paper. “It was a part of the Japanese court's ensemble centuries ago. I don't know the name of the flute, but perhaps it's like the ones they use in Noh performances. I can check online, if you'd like.”

“Yes, please do. I'm really excited about this. It seems I've been learning a lot about myself recently,” Fujiwara said with another smile.

The smile was large and bright, and Ogata found it entirely unconvincing. He'd been been observing Fujiwara long enough to recognize the nuances of Fujiwara's expressions: when Fujiwara was smiling out of consideration rather than genuine emotion, he tended to lower his gaze, as if he were afraid the other person would be able to pluck his secrets right out of his eyes. Perhaps that was a downside to having such expressive eyes, Ogata thought, and wondered if Fujiwara had had a disagreement with Shindou. Or did Fujiwara simply did not feel comfortable around him any longer?

Ogata said nothing, however, regulating himself to sipping at his tea as Fujiwara fiddled with the paper, smoothing out the creases with restless hands. He was on his third cup of tea when Fujiwara finally said: “I don't remember playing any instruments. I don't even remember what these are supposed to sound like.”

“Remember how you didn't recognize my goban at first, not until you started laying stones on it?” At Fujiwara's nod, Ogata continued: “Well, some of your memories are linked to physical triggers. You need to try holding an instrument.”

“That's true. I certainly hope so.” Fujiwara nudged the paper with a fingernail. “I... didn't want to tell Hikaru that I didn't remember. I didn't want to worry him, especially not since he was having such a good time.”

Ogata narrowed his eyes in consideration. Was Fujiwara asking him for advice about Shindou?

“He's just so young. I don't want to bother him: a teacher is supposed to take care of his student, not the other way around.”

“Shindou doesn't seem the type to get worried easily,” Ogata said, careful to avoid phrasing the statement in a way that appeared critical of the boy. “Besides, I don't think you need to be concerned about bothering him, not since he's so eager to spend time with you.”

“Hikaru has a sensitive side,” Fujiwara said quietly, his gaze turned inwards as if he were recalling an incident, but he did not elaborate.

The tearful reunion in the restaurant sprang to Ogata's mind. Although Fujiwara hadn't explained the details, it was clear that Fujiwara had disappeared abruptly from Shindou's life for several years, and that disappearance had caused Shindou a lot of distress. Perhaps Fujiwara's disappearance was even linked to Shindou's temporarily refusing to play shortly after turning pro. Regardless, Fujiwara probably still felt guilty about the incident, and it was hindering his ability to be frank with Shindou.

“I've been wondering why both of the instruments I play are old,” Fujiwara said, apparently steering the subject away from Shindou. “What would have interested me in playing them? Wouldn't it make more sense for me to choose a modern instrument?”

Ogata considered the question carefully. “To keep the tradition alive, I suppose,” he replied. “There is an attraction in preserving the past, especially when it's beautiful. Like go, for example.”

Fujiwara nodded emphatically. “Yes, that's right. I'm happy to have met so many people who still love go, like you and Hikaru and Akira and Waya and Isumi. But it's just... well... don't you think I'm... a little...”

Fujiwara trailed off, his face flushing red as he fumbled for words, and Ogata leaned forward to encourage him. “A little what?” he prompted.

“...odd,” Fujiwara finished. “Everything about me – everything that I've remembered so far -- it doesn't fit in. It's all old..”

Ogata frowned. Had Shindou said something that had upset Fujiwara? Fujiwara had never displayed any concern about “fitting in” before; he'd just been focused on regaining his ability to function in daily life. Although Fujiwara was one of the most unusual people Ogata had ever met: that Fujiwara apparently played classical instruments was just as exceptional as everything else about him, like the heavy robes Fujiwara had been wearing when Ogata had found him half-drowned in the canal. Or his skill in calligraphy and knowledge of ancient Chinese and Edo teacups. Or his ever-present politeness, his odd but charming mannerisms, and delicacy of movement: Fujiwara was correct, none of it quite “fit” with how ordinary people acted. Even Fujiwara's extremely long hair was an outdated style for both men and women (although it did suit his features).

None of these factors was that strange in and of itself, but the combination of all of them was... improbable. Yet there was certainly nothing inherently wrong with a person choosing to live in the style of the past, and Ogata did not like to think that Fujiwara had somehow been made to feel awkward over his choices. “You do have a lot of unique hobbies, and an interesting outlook. Isn't that something to be proud of?” Ogata said.

“Oh, I'm not embarrassed!” Fujiwara said, waving his hands in front of himself. “I was just hoping – I thought that meeting someone who knew me would help me understand everything about myself better, since friends are usually similar in a lot of ways, like shared interests and that sort of thing. But Hikaru and I are very different people, although of course we both like go, and that's the most important thing.” Fujiwara smiled wistfully. “I suppose I was being unfair to expect all my concerns to be cleared up by just one person. Hikaru's doing his best to answer my questions.”

For Fujiwara's sake, Ogata nodded sympathetically, although frankly he'd had doubts about Shindou's honesty ever since the dinner reunion. Shindou had said at the dinner that he couldn't tell Fujiwara everything yet, and he'd asked Fujiwara to wait. That had been about one week ago, and apparently, he was still keeping Fujiwara waiting. Then there was Shindou's assertion that Fujiwara didn't have any other friends or family. It was possible that Fujiwara had no family – although unusual, it wasn't unheard of – but for Fujiwara to have no friends or even acquaintances seemed very implausible, especially since Fujiwara was outgoing and likable. Plus, Fujiwara had a lot of hobbies: people did not usually pursue hobbies in complete isolation, and the more eccentric the hobby, the stronger the bonds between the participants tended to be – like the go community. Ancient Chinese, Heian era cosplay, classical music, and of course his go.... Fujiwara's skills and interests couldn't have just developed in a vacuum. Surely, as well as Shindou knew Fujiwara, he ought to know someone else connected to Fujiwara – just like Ogata had.

Was Shindou making the exact same mistake that he had?

Ogata had never intended to hurt Fujiwara, but those few small omissions he'd rationalized as inconsequential had turned out to be a cornerstone of Fujiwara's memory. The selective bits of information Ogata had hoarded from Fujiwara had strained their relationship – almost to the breaking point. Whether he'd made the omissions out of simple jealousy, misguided protectiveness, or blind ignorance, it was ultimately irrelevant: by compromising Fujiwara's trust in him, Ogata knew he'd lost most of the sway he'd held as Fujiwara's anchor.

That also meant Ogata had absolutely no ground to question Shindou's motives or cast any doubt on his actions in front of Fujiwara. Especially not since Shindou was precious to Fujiwara -- Fujiwara loved Shindou with all the indiscriminate affection of a doting brother. He wouldn't take it well at all if he thought Ogata were accusing Shindou of lying.

"I've been waiting for my answers for a long time already. Waiting a little longer won't hurt anything," Fujiwara said absent-mindedly, as if he were counseling himself to be patient.

Fujiwara was hardly being "unfair" to Shindou by needing answers, but Ogata restrained himself. "I've noticed that Shindou can be easily... distracted," Ogata said instead. "If he's not answering your questions, you should ask him again, but more directly. And use a serious tone, so he pays attentions." Ogata omitted the part about grabbing Shindou and holding him against a wall if he tried to escape (it was effective for getting Shindou's attention, but Ogata rather doubted that Fujiwara would appreciate the advice).

The corners of Fujiwara's mouth quirked up. "You sound as if you're discussing training a puppy, Ogata-sensei."

Definitely a deflection, but far too tantalizing to pass up. "Training puppies is easier. And they don't make as much of a mess as a teenage boy."

"Says the man who keeps fish," Fujiwara said with a laugh that sent a spiral of warmth curling through Ogata, and he felt the set of his shoulders relaxing.

"I've never been accused of being sentimental," Ogata answered, pleased to hear Fujiwara laugh again. It was infinitely preferable to that awkward politeness Fujiwara had shown him too frequently lately, even though Ogata had told Fujiwara repeatedly that he wasn't "imposing."

"But you were the one who gave Kuwabara-kun his name." Fujiwara sounded smug.

Ogata raised his eyebrows, conceding the point. He wasn't about to tell Fujiwara that particular naming had been more of a private insult to the real Kuwabara than any actual affection for the fish in question. (Ogata tried to keep the true extent of his loathing for the old man a secret; he didn't want anyone to realize exactly how much Kuwabara got under his skin.)

They talked for awhile longer about nothing in particular, then Ogata casually brought up his upcoming game on Touya Kouyou. "Sensei e-mailed me earlier to ask me to play him when he returns on Wednesday. Perhaps he's hoping to gain an edge for his game against you. I though I should warn you that I'll be obliged to reveal all your weaknesses to him if he asks. Teacher's privilege."

Ogata had said it with a joking tone, but Fujiwara tilted his head thoughtfully. "He's been overseas for a long time, hasn't he?"

"He goes whever the action is. China and Korea have more tournaments and conferences than Japan, and there are more players." Touya Kouyou had started travelling regularly ever since his retirement, although perhaps travelling wasn't the right term; he spent more time outside of Japan than inside. He maintained a modest apartment in Beijing, and his close friend So Chan Wan also kept a spare room available for Kouyou and Akiko's use whenever there were tournaments or matches of interests within Korea. Kouyou returned to Japan sporadically, but rarely for more than a week-long stretch, although he usually found the time to hold a study session for his old students (even for those who had taken to studying under other masters in his absences).

"He must be happy to play you again, then. It's difficult to be separated from your students, even with e-mail and texting," Fujiwara said.

Fujiwara's features softened with fondness, and Ogata knew he was thinking of his own relationship with Hikaru. It was somewhat cute, despite being a completely inaccurate basis for comparison with Ogata's relationship with Touya-sensei. "I sincerely doubt he wastes time fretting about me. I already have two titles, after all," Ogata clarified, omitting to mention that he'd taken one of those titles from his teachers.

Fujiwara smiled knowingly. "But weren't you his first student? He's always going to feel like your mentor, whether or not you surpass him."

"I'm hardly privy to what he's thinking," Ogata muttered. It wasn't really true -- he did know Touya Kouyou far better than most -- but Ogata hated sentimental drivel. It was too fuzzy-edged and... sticky. Go was far superior with its precise, sharp grids.

"Do you think he'll like me?"

Ogata glanced up, taken aback by the question. "As I'm certain Akira has already told you, Sensei has been preparing for a rematch with you ever since your first game. He's quite eager to meet you."

Fujiwara shifted in his chair. "I'm eager to meet him too, of course, but what I meant is, 'Do you think he'll like me personally?' If you don't mind my asking?" he added quickly, his cheeks coloring.

For a long moment, Ogata stared at the other man blankly. He honestly hadn't considered such a question; it seemed insignificant compared to the go. As long as your opponent wasn't completely disagreeable off the board (like a certain old geezer), what did his compatibility with yours matter? Ogata rarely saw his opponents outside of matches or conferences, so he couldn't be bothered to spend much time thinking about any of them in particular, unless he had an upcoming match with them.

s a i had been the notable exception to that, and Shindou as well, although Ogata's interest in the boy had waned when he'd found s a i for himself. Manipulating Shindou to rile Akira still held its full entertainment value, though. Those two were as obsessed with each other as the day they'd met. Eternal rivals and all that jazz.

Then it clicked.

Of course Fujiwara would care if Touya-sensei "liked" him. Sensei was his rival, not a mere opponent. Opponents could be easily found by walking into a go salon or logging onto NetGo, and could be just as easily discarded. Not so a rival. Regardless, Sensei wasn't a difficult person to get along with. "Touya-sensei can be reserved, but he's not unkind," Ogata said.

"I've heard that he's very serious. I know sometimes I seem a little excitable and... young. I don't want him to think..." Fujiwara's voice trailed off, and he stared at his hands helplessly.

Ogata frowned. The other man usually enjoyed, even relished meeting new people, especially in relation to go. "You've gotten along well with all the other pros you've met so far. Why should this be any different?" Ogata asked gently.

Fujiwara looked at him from under his eyelashes. "I'm probably not being very 'logical' about this -- but it's easy for me to feel comfortable with Hikaru's friends. They're open to ideas, and trying new approaches in go. They've never seemed threatened by me, and they don't judge me for being different."

"You've had a problem with an older pro before?"

"Yes." Fujiwara's expression was pensive. "I just began to remember this week, and I don't remember it very well. It's like when I had that nightmare that Hikaru had... left. I don't know the context, only that there was another go player who was ranked above me. He was angry that I wanted to try out new methods. I believe he was jealous, and he was afraid that I would surpass him even though I had less experience. He considered my age to be a personal insult to him." Fujiwara's lips tightened into a thin line. "He did something horrible to me."

A cold thrill ran down Ogata's spine. This jealous rival -- had he been the one responsible for Fujiwara's amnesia? Perhaps he'd drugged Fujiwara and dumped him into the canal, in order to stage a drowning that would be written off as "accidental." Fujiwara was too trusting. He would have never seen it coming.

Ogata forced himself to speak slowly and calmly, despite the blood pounding in his ears. "What did he do?"

Fujiwara shook his head, tugging at his shirt cuff absently. "I don't remember, and I think that's what scares me the most, not knowing exactly. But maybe it's better that I don't. I just want to enjoy the game with Touya-sensei, and not think about this other person. It's unfair to both of us."

"I want you to enjoy the game too," Ogata said vehemently. "Both of you deserve it."

Fujiwara's eyes rounded in surprise. Frankly, Ogata was surprised at himself too. He'd been jealous; hell, he was still a little jealous. But there were more pressing issues than his own personal hangups to deal with now.

"You've both been waiting for a long time," Ogata said. "Sensei is stubborn: he never stopped believing that he would get a rematch, even when s a i disappeared from the Internet completely. He doesn't care about your nationality or gender or status, and he's certainly not perturbed by something as trivial as your age." Unlike some established pros, Kouyou had never been the sort of man to engage in petty mind games with young players, or the type to play harsh, crushing go to warn up-and-comers that he was a force to be respected. Yes, there was the aspect of him that showed no mercy to opponents, but that was born out of his love and respect for the game, not out of insecurity or pride. Sensei was nothing like this shadowy monster from Fujiwara's past, the one who'd cast Fujiwara aside as an obstacle rather than treasuring him as a rival, and Ogata needed to help Fujiwara to see that. "When Sensei finds talented players, he isn't threatened -- he believes he is closer to finding the Hand of God."

"I feel the same way," Fujiwara said.

Ogata could hear the hesitation in the other man's voice, and he could read the doubt in the way Fujiwara held his hands together, near the edge of the table, as if he were pulling into himself. Ogata felt a dull ache in his stomach. That someone had been able to wound Fujiwara so deeply about the thing he loved most was wrong, but perhaps it wasn't all that different from what Ogata had done himself. "I've known Sensei for a long time. He would never do anything to hurt you. He's one of the most honorable men I know." Honorable. The word felt old-fashioned and unfamiliar in Ogata's mouth, but it suited Touya Kouyou perfectly.

"You must think very highly of Touya-sensei," Fujiwara said.

"Yes." Ogata didn't hesitate. They didn't always agree, but Ogata had always respected his teacher's wisdom and integrity. "I trust him."

"You aren't the sort of person who says that lightly." Fujiwara smiled slightly. "Thank you for telling me about Touya-sensei. I just wish I hadn't remembered this other... person."

"You don't want to ask Shindou about him?" Ogata asked, even though he already suspected the answer.

Fujiwara shook his head. "If Hikaru knew him, I'm sure he would have already mentioned it. So I don't want him to worry needlessly about a man whose name and face I can't even remember." Fujiwara wrinkled his nose. "Maybe I've gotten the memory confused. I've been mistaken before... I ought to have waited to tell you, until I was more certain. I apologize for up--"

"Don't apologize," Ogata interrupted sharply, angry that Fujiwara was trivializing his own memories out of misguided consideration. "Telling me was exactly the right thing to to do, even if you don't recall all the details, or you are confused. What matters is that you're safe, and that you can play go without having to glance over your shoulder."

Fujiwara bowed his head low as if he were ashamed, his chin almost touching his chest. "That's very kind of you, but I feel uncomfortable about involving others in this personal business, especially since I don't know what exactly it entails."

Ogata felt his jaw muscles tensing. Didn't Fujiwara realize how vulnerable he was? "That is precisely why you shouldn't keep this information to yourself," Ogata heard himself almost growl, his voice low and harsh. "You don't know what to expect, so how can you possibly hope to protect yourself?"

"Ogata-sensei," Fujiwara said, his eyes very large.

Then Ogata noticed that he was out of his chair and leaning halfway across the table. He was practically looming over Fujiwara -- he was close enough to see the quickened pulse in Fujiwara's throat. His skin looked very pale and soft.

Ogata took a deep breath to focus himself, mentally scolding himself for berating Fujiwara; the man had already been through enough. "I'm serious," Ogata said, careful to soften his tone. "I want you to promise that you'll tell me immediately if you remember anything else about this man."

"I..." Fujiwara's voice trailed off.

The idea of Fujiwara trying to confront some ill-intentioned stranger by himself made Ogata's skin prickle. Fujiwara was a gentle-natured man, and Ogata had yet to see any sign that Fujiwara was capable of violence, even for self-protection. He didn't have the mindset necessary for it. Not like Ogata. "Let me look after you," Ogata murmured.

Fujiwara's face flushed a brilliant red, and Ogata realized exactly what he had just said and how it could be interpreted. No wonder Fujiwara was flustered.

He had meant it, though.

Ogata withdrew to his chair, not breaking eye contact with Fujiwara. Fujiwara seemed to relax, enough to manage a wobbly smile. "You know, you can be very intense."

"You'll tell me, right?" Ogata was unwilling to let the matter drop.

Fujiwara frowned at him, but there was no heat behind it. "I will tell you if you will act reasonably, Ogata-sensei."

"I will," Ogata said, although he was rather certain that his definition of "reasonable" was not quite the same as Fujiwara's.

Fujiwara pursed his lips, but he nodded as if he were satisfied. "Then I agree. Also... I was wondering if you would go with me when I meet Touya-sensei on Thursday."

Ogata blinked, taken aback by the sudden request, but gratified nonetheless. He had assumed that Fujiwara would want to keep his games with Sensei a private matter. "I'd be happy to," Ogata said. To be a part of the games between the two -- even as an observer -- would be a great privilege.

"Thank you," Fujiwara said. "And thank you for... 'looking after me'," he said calmly, his cheeks coloring only faintly.

"You're welcome," Ogata said, feeling a sense of deep relief. Perhaps he still had a few moves left to play after all.

Chapter Text

Wednesday couldn't have come quickly enough.

Ogata pulled the Mazda into the Touyas' driveway, navigating the narrow space with the ease of experience. He'd gone through all his usual pre-match routines: replaying his opponent's latest games (to look for their weaknesses), replaying his own latest games (to look for his own weaknesses), and playing a little NetGo (to look for the weaknesses of complete strangers before crushing them efficiently). None of these familiar routines, however, had relaxed his mind properly; Ogata still felt as tense as he'd been ever since Sensei had suggested the match.

He scowled at himself as he strode towards the door; he was hardly a jittery, over-eager insei any longer. He was a seasoned title-holder... a seasoned title-holder who probably needed to cut back on the coffee.

Akiko greeted him in the entranceway with a warm smile. “Ogata-san, it's been too long,” she said, taking his suit jacket from him.

“It certainly has,” Ogata replied, returning her smile easily despite his nerves. Akiko had always been kind to him, even when he'd been an awkward, standoffish teenager. “I'd scold Sensei for dragging you all over Asia and depriving us of your company, but Akira-kun has informed me that you've been enjoying yourself thoroughly.”

“Let's pretend I haven't. I should like to see the look on Kouyou-san's face when you scold him. He isn't scolded nearly enough, you know,” Akiko said as she led Ogata to the study, her guileless expression not slipping one iota. Ogata stifled an inappropriate snort of laughter before Akiko slid the study door open.

Sensei was seated in front of his goban, clad in his favorite haori and hakama. Only a handful of stones had been laid on the surface. Ogata took in the pattern quickly, but he did not recognize it.

“Ogata-kun.” Touya-sensei glanced up and smiled, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “It's good to see you.”

Ogata gave a small bow. “I'm also happy to see you,” he said, and then he knelt on the tatami so he wouldn't be towering over his teacher.

“It's hot outside. Ogata-san must be thirsty. I'll bring some more tea,” Akiko said.

“Thank you,” Touya-sensei said, smiling again as his wife disappeared into the hallway. Ogata noticed how white his teeth seemed against his skin.

Had Sensei been spending more time outside? He was more relaxed than Ogata remembered; there was something looser about the set of his shoulders, and Touya-sensei had definitely never smiled this frequently before. Perhaps Akiko had finally managed to infect her husband with her perpetual good cheer. Or perhaps Sensei was giddy at the prospect of meeting his opponent. Fujiwara certainly was, ever since Ogata had convinced Fujiwara that Touya-sensei was not, in fact, in the habit of devouring his young competition alive.

Touya-sensei began to remove the white stones from the goban. “How is your mother finding her new position?”

“Very good,” Ogata said, leaning over to pick the black stones off. He was only mildly surprised that Touya-sensei knew about his mother's promotion. Although Sensei spoke little, he was an excellent listener, and had sharp recall. “Management suits her abilities.”

Touya-sensei nodded as if satisfied. “And your next Kisei League game?”

“Next week. Serizawa 9-Dan is a strong opponent.”

Sensei nodded again as they scooped the last of the stones into the goke, and Ogata was certain the next question would be about Fujiwara. Sensei had already asked after Ogata's mother and the games, so he had nothing else to inquire about.

“Shall we nigiri then?”

“Um, yes,” Ogata said, hiding his surprise as he took his place on the opposite side of the goban. So then, Sensei was simply saving the Fujiwara questions for later.

Ogata won black, and immediately played at 3-4. He planned to gradually establish a framework in the upper left quadrant, although he knew that he'd have to approach the framework obliquely. Touya Kouyou was very, very good at perceiving his opponent's intentions, and even pretending to play right into those intentions, seemingly as gullible as a lamb. Right up until the last moment when he sprang his own trap.

Ogata watched intently as Touya-sensei's white stones began to speckle the board. Most of the moves were familiar to Ogata, almost as familiar as the faces of the most senior students in Touya-sensei's class. These were strong moves, hands that Touya-sensei knew how to use to maximum efficiency because he'd refined them over the years during countless games with his students and opponents. These were not the moves that worried Ogata. He knew what to expect from such moves – what the area of the influence could be, the relative strength of each, and how to counter them. Some of the techniques were ones that Ogata himself used on a regular basis with an equally cutting efficiency.

But here, at the 10 - 4 coordinates, and there, at the 9 - 3 coordinates... Ogata pushed his glasses further up his nose and leaned in, his attention captured by the unusual arrangement. It wasn't a threat yet, but Ogata couldn't discern the purpose of the arrangement, not at this early stage. What was Sensei planning?

A quick glance at his opponent confirmed nothing: Sensei's expression remained as impenetrable as a stone wall, his hands tucked into his haori sleeves as he gazed at the goban, waiting for his turn. Ogata frowned. His instinct was warning him of Very Bad Things in store for Black, but he also knew that making a response before he understood the purpose would possibly play into Sensei's plans and make matters worse.

After another moment's mulling, Ogata chose to focus his play on securing territory in upper left and lower right quadrants, while keeping one wary eye on the developments at the upper right. Even in the worst-case scenario of White gaining control of that area due to the mysterious arrangements, he could strengthen his holdings elsewhere and cut off White's ability to expand.

The exchanges flowed at their usual pace as the game progressed into the mid-stages. Touya-sensei responded with his characteristic rapid speed to Black's moves, sometimes with familiar hands, sometimes with curious moves that could have originated anywhere, now that Sensei no longer confined himself to Japan: perhaps in some smoky go salon in Korea, or at a conference in Taiwan, or even on an online go server. Ogata narrowed his eyes at the unfamiliar moves, resisting the urge to obsess over the moves. Analysis was one of his greatest strengths, but the flip-side of that was his weakness: hesitation. Of course, hesitation wasn't an issue when Ogata was playing weaker opponents; even if he made mistakes by forging boldly ahead, he still had an acceptable margin of error. It was the masters who gave Ogata reason to pause -- especially Sensei. Each year, as Ogata's own ability increased, he became more and more acutely aware of the depth of Touya Kouyou's talent. It was both inspiring and intimidating to realize how much he still had to learn from his teacher, even though he'd managed to attain titles of his own.

Again, Ogata glanced across the goban, and this time Touya-sensei met his gaze. The other man's expression seemed completely emotionless, but Ogata recognized the glimmer in his dark eyes – that hint of challenge and confidence and even a little... joy. Yes, there was no doubt of it; Sensei was enjoying himself.

Ogata felt a muscle in his hand twitch in irritation. So, did Sensei consider this game a mere amusing prelude to his real game? Perhaps it was time to ratchet the intensity up a few notches. Ogata set his jaw, evaluating Sensei's strong formations that were stretching from the upper right to the fringes of the lower left. Attacking them would be risky. The path to a successful invasion was complicated and would leave him exposed if he made a mistake; if he failed, White could split his stones down the middle.

But then, hadn't he spent the entire summer facing Fujiwara? He'd had to battle against brilliant play by taking risks he'd never entertained before, dredging the very edges of his mind to keep pace with Fujiwara's innovation.

He'd fought, and he'd lost. And he'd grown.

Decision made, Ogata spear-headed his assault against the formation. Holding back when he should have pushed forward had cost Ogata the victory against Touya Kouyou before, but that wouldn't happen this time. If Ogata lost, it would be because he'd crashed and burned spectacularly.

Touya-sensei looked at the invading black stones. His eyebrow arched, as if he were puzzled or surprised. Then the corners of his mouth quirked ever-so slightly. Rather than responding to Ogata's invasion, Touya-sensei laid another white stone at 9 - 2, and in a flash of epiphany, Ogata realized exactly what his teacher was planning.

It was an elegant plan, Ogata thought, approving of the sheer cunning behind the formation. White could easily erase Black's influence there with an additional stone or two to tip the balance, and it would be difficult for Black to cut off White at this late stage.

White was in a similar predicament in the upper left, however. Black had remained unchecked long enough for Ogata to establish a satisfactory outline, one which Touya-sensei wouldn't be able to break easily, although he'd obviously caught onto Ogata's plan since he'd belatedly placed several blocking moves.

Ogata allowed himself the indulgence of a tight smile. Whatever the outcome of the game, it certainly wasn't going to be dull.

* * *

Black and white stones sprawled across the board like tangled ropes of pearl, the outlines thick and complex. A few moves remained, but Ogata already knew the inevitable result. With komi factored in, he would lose by three and a half moku. It had been some time since Ogata had lost by such a margin, but the usual sting of failure felt dulled in the light of such an exquisite, intense game. Touya-sensei's play reminded Ogata of the tantalizing glimpses he'd seen during Game 5 of the Juudan Finals– the game in which he'd finally managed to wrest a title from his teacher.

Ogata hadn't been deluded enough to believe that he'd won the title match because he had played particularly brilliantly, or that Touya-sensei had lost because he'd played uncharacteristically poorly. No, Ogata had won because Touya-sensei's uncanny sense of balance had been off. Usually, Touya-sensei instinctively knew when to strike, and when to hold; he could sense the ebb and flow of the stones to a degree that was unsurpassed in the go world. In the aftermath of losing to s a i, however, Touya-sensei's moves had been brimming with surprising twists and ideas -- beautiful, refreshing go -- but it was still too raw, too full of unrefined kinetic energy to be wielded like a scalpel, even in a master's hands. Perhaps against a lesser player, or even simply a player who was not so familiar with his style, Touya Kouyou might have succeeded regardless. Not, however, against his oldest pupil, a pupil who was already able to go toe-to-toe with him on his best days. Ogata knew Touya-sensei's play intimately enough to realize precisely where to push when he'd spotted the tiny openings and rough edges, and that knowledge had been enough to tip the game in his favor.

There had been no such rough edges today, Ogata thought as he reviewed the entire game mentally, his eyes skimming the board. In the two years since playing s a i, Touya-sensei had refined and advanced his game to a level that Ogata had scarcely imagined possible. Ogata had followed Sensei's matches in the Beijing leagues, of course, but playing with Sensei himself, in person -- the experience wasn't comparable. In this game, there was a peculiar beauty to the shape of the stones. Even in the middle of the most violent clashes, the stones flowed together in harmony, the push of Black balanced perfectly by the pull of White, or White's offensive here echoed exactly by Black's defense there. Usually, one would expect to see some unnecessary overlap or excessive responses, even in a game between top players. It was natural: a player could hardly anticipate his opponent's thoughts to such a degree, even a familiar opponent. Or so Ogata had believed. The beautiful game before him was a testament to the contrary.

When had he become capable of such an exchange with with his teacher?

Ogata bowed low over the goban, feeling oddly humbled. “Makemashita.”

“Do you want to discuss the game?”

Ogata already knew where the critical mistakes had been made. “Not right now, thank you. I'm a little tired,” Ogata said, pulling off his glasses so he could rub at the tension at the bridge of his nose and his temples. He felt like he'd just played a title match game.

“I'm glad that you've been able to keep pace with me, Ogata-kun.”

Ogata opened his eyes to stare disbelievingly at Touya-sensei. Had he just...?

“Even though my go has changed, you were able to play very evenly against me. Your ability to adapt has grown stronger.”

Mutely, Ogata nodded. Sensei was complimenting him. Praise was rare from Sensei, although always sincere. Ogata replaced his glasses, and Touya-sensei's face sharpened back into focus. He was still studying the board, a thoughtful set to his features.

Ogata watched his teacher silently, waiting for him to finish his contemplation. Ogata had learned long ago that if he were patient, he had a far better chance of being privy to Sensei's insight.

After several minutes had passed, Touya-sensei stirred. “There is a certain type of game you can play only with an opponent who knows you very well. I had wondered if I would still be able to play this kind of game in Japan.”

Although Sensei had never directly said so, Ogata knew he'd been disappointed that none of his peers had managed to keep stride with him during his professional career. There was a certain traditionalism in the uppermost ranks of Japanese pros which – at its worst – led to complacency and stagnation. But for the past two years, Touya Kouyou had been continuously matching wits with the fiercely competitive pros in Korea, China, and Taiwan, constantly advancing his game.

“My early retirement caused many people difficulties, including my students,” Sensei stated evenly, without a hint of regret. His eyes grew distant. “It's been two years and six months.”

Two years and six months since he'd played s a i. Sensei had never explained that he was searching for s a i, but he hadn't needed to. Ogata had figured out Sensei's aim rather quickly – it was blatantly obvious, the way Sensei flitted from country to country whenever he received word of intriguing talent.

Touya-sensei looked up from the board suddenly, fixing Ogata with a sharp look. “When my Internet match with s a i was arranged, it was on the stipulation that I would not discuss it with others.”

“I see,” Ogata replied flatly. Obviously, Ogata couldn't blame his teacher for honoring a secret. Ogata supposed that this made him the guilty party, as he had had no promise barring him from speaking freely about s a i. Was this what Sensei was driving at? Ogata already knew he was in the wrong for keeping Fujiwara hidden. He didn't need a lecture.

“However, I also thought that if you had the opportunity to play him, it would inspire your go as well.” Touya-sensei's expression gentled. “And I thought that s a i would enjoy having another strong opponent, since Shindou-kun was so passionate about my playing him.”

Ogata blinked, taken completely aback by the turn of the conversation. “You... really thought that?” he asked, realizing only belatedly that he probably sounded like a middle school boy. He was lucky his mouth wasn't hanging open.

Touya-sensei gestured at Ogata's assault into White's territory. “Before, you would have not made this move against me with the outcome uncertain. Playing Fujiwara-san has made you bolder.”

A “Thank you,” was all Ogata could manage to string together, his mind swirling with the revelation that Sensei had wanted him to play s a i. Sensei had been thinking of Ogata and Fujiwara, whereas Ogata had only been thinking of his resentment about being left out of the loop about s a i.

For the second time that day, Ogata felt humbled -- this time, because of the generosity of his teacher's spirit.

Touya-sensei tucked his arms back into his haori sleeves with a grave air. “You already know that I disagree with how you handled finding Fujiwara-san, when you realized his identity. You shouldn't have kept him apart from Shindou-kun.”

Ogata willed himself not to shift his gaze away. He wasn't in the habit of shirking responsibility for his mistakes, although explaining the situation had been much easier over the phone with the blessed absence of Touya-sensei's penetrating stare.

“Excepting that, it was fortunate that you were the one to find him. You've prepared him for a normal life again, and you helped him remember his go. I'm certain that must have been a great comfort to him.”

Ogata tipped his head in acknowledgment. He supposed the go had been a comfort. That he hadn't played Fujiwara for almost two weeks – ever since their confrontation – wasn't a matter he was inclined to mention to anyone, especially Touya-sensei. Go meant so much to Fujiwara, so being excluded from that aspect of his life (even voluntarily) was... disconcerting to say the least.

Regardless, Fujiwara had asked Ogata to attend his game tomorrow, a game that held great significance for him.

“Does he really have no family?” The lines around Touya-sensei's mouth deepened into a frown.

“According to Shindou, no.” And the lack of any missing person reports filed, and the fact that Fujiwara's picture had been circulated throughout the entire Japanese police network, yet failed to generate even a single inquiry. If Fujiwara did actually have a family, they weren't trying to find him.

Sympathy flashed in Touya-sensei's dark eyes. “That is a shame. Family is important.”

Ogata thought of his mother, and the father he hated. “Yes, it is.”

Touya-sensei looked at him carefully, then returned his attention to the goban, his expression shifting to one of deep absorption.

From their long acquaintance, Ogata knew the session was over. “Thank you for your instruction,” he said, bowing before he stood up.

Touya-sensei made no answer until Ogata was mid-step through the shouji sliding door. “Ogata-kun. Thank you for looking after Fujiwara-san.”

Ogata's hand tightened around the door frame. Sensei sounded genuinely grateful, despite his knowledge that Ogata's motives had been far from altruistic. Ogata didn't know how to respond.

“You should come tomorrow. Observing the game will be of benefit to you.”

They both wanted him there. “Yes, I will,” Ogata said, his throat suddenly constricting, and he was relieved that his back was facing the room. He didn't want Sensei to see the expression on his face.

When Ogata got into his car, he shook his head in disbelief at himself. After all these years... Sensei was still able to affect him like very few people could. Ogata snorted, lighting a cigarette to relax himself for driving.

That didn't really matter, though. What mattered was the game he was going to witness tomorrow.

* * *

Chapter Text

The next morning, Ogata took an early shower, then walked into the living room to find that Fujiwara was already awake and seated in front of the goban.

Fujiwara wasn't playing a game, though; the board was bare, and his eyes were closed. He was completely still, his face as serene and empty as a Buddha's. Shindou's ever-present fan was nestled between his motionless hands.

Meditating, Ogata realized. He'd done meditation himself before high-stakes games to relax his nerves, although he'd never practiced it regularly like Touya-sensei.

Ogata didn't like to socialize before his important matches either, even with well-wishers. He found it disruptive to his concentration. Perhaps Fujiwara felt the same way, so Ogata decided not to disturb him until it was time to leave. Fujiwara looked like he'd gotten ready anyway; he was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt with a pair of crisply ironed slacks, and his hair had been neatly pulled back from his face.

Fujiwara remained silent during the car ride, forgoing his usual chatter about the passing traffic. He simply stared ahead -- as if he weren't seeing anything or anyone other than Sensei before him, waiting.

Ogata felt a distinct pang of jealousy in his chest. He scowled at himself. Well, naturally Fujiwara was intent on the game. That... feeling was simply irritation because he wanted to be the one playing Fujiwara. Watching was a poor substitute for playing, even watching a game between two masters.

When they arrived at the Touyas', Ogata took Fujiwara around to the proper entranceway, rather than his regular shortcut through the carport sidedoor.

Fujiwara's face lit up as soon as they passed through the gates into the Touyas' large, traditional Japanese garden. “What a lovely garden!” he said.

“This garden is one of Touya-san's hobbies. Touya Akiko,” Ogata clarified. He'd known that Fujiwara would appreciate the garden. Even though Fujiwara's schedule had become quite cluttered because of his job and Shindou, he still found the time to frequent the condominium's garden, often choosing to read or study go there instead of in the apartment.

Fujiwara paused on the stone path to admire a grouping of bushes. “This is an exceptionally beautiful garden. Touya-san has put a lot of thought into it,” he said, turning and gesturing towards a large tree that grew close to the path.

Ogata tilted his head quizzically at the tree. It seemed healthy. It was a pine. He didn't see what made it more special than any other tree. Ogata liked tasteful gardens, but he'd never bothered to learn about them himself, figuring that if he ever got a hankering to buy a house, he'd just hire a landscape architect to design a garden for him. “It's obviously well-cared for, but how can you tell that it's exceptional? Is choosing pine trees for your garden a mark of refinement?”

Fujiwara pressed his lips together as if he were trying very hard not to laugh. “Not quite. What I meant was that Touya-san chose a variety of pine that doesn't put out branches close to the ground, so it wouldn't interfere with the pathway as it matured. You could just cut off all the low branches, but that leaves unsightly scars.”

Ogata thought he ought to be annoyed at being the source of Fujiwara's amusement, but it was nice to see Fujiwara smiling. “So, in addition to go, you're also a garden expert? Then enlighten me,” he said, arching his eyebrow in challenge.

“I'm hardly an expert! I've just visited a lot of gardens... I think,” Fujiwara said. He tapped the fan against his chin, then said, “Why do you think the path winds instead of taking a direct route to the doorway?”

That one was easy. “It's more aesthetic to put down a winding path than a straight one. A straight one is too artificial.”

Fujiwara nodded. “Whereas a winding one invokes nature, like a river. Also, the bends in the path provide the perfect opportunity to highlight particular plants or objects, like this lantern. Lanterns are popular because they symbolize contemplation and inspiration in Buddhism.”

“There's also one outside of the go study,” Ogata said. He wondered if Touya-sensei had appreciated that particular gesture of Akiko's.

Fujiwara smiled. “That's a good place for it. I've always thought that a beautiful garden was rather similar to a well-played game of go myself.”

Ogata mulled over the parallels, but they reached the front door before he could discuss them with Fujiwara.

Akiko was waiting in the entranceway. “Good morning, Ogata-san, Fujiwara-san. I heard Ogata-san's car pull up a few minutes ago, but I see you decided to take the long route today instead,” she said, looking pleased.

“Fujiwara-san is a garden enthusiast, so I knew he would appreciate yours. Touya-san, this is Fujiwara-san. Fujiwara-san, this is Touya-san.”

Fujiwara and Akiko bowed deeply to each other.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” Akiko said with a warm smile. “Please, come in.”

“The pleasure is mine. Thank you for inviting me into your lovely home. It's nothing much, but please accept this,” Fujiwara said, proffering the small bouquet of sunflowers he'd purchased earlier on Ogata's advice.

Akiko's smile widened as she took the flowers. “Thank you, they look so cheerful. Sunflowers are my favorite: if I had a Western-style garden, I would definitely plant some.”

“Ogata-san told me you designed the garden,” Fujiwara said as they followed Akiko into the room used for entertaining guests.

Akiko pursed her lips in thought as she laid seat cushions out for them. “I believe I started planning it when Akira-kun was still just a baby. So almost eighteen years ago.”

Fujiwara's eyebrows raised in surprise. “Then you planted the trees when they were just saplings. It was surely a lot of work to grow them into the proper shapes. You must have a green thumb.”

“Oh my,” Akiko said, covering her mouth with a hand to conceal a pleased laugh. “I'm afraid I've misled you; I have relied on professional help at some points. I still have a lot to learn about gardening, but thank you for being gracious enough to overlook my flaws.”

“If there were any flaws, Touya-san, they were so minor that I couldn't perceive them. All I saw was an appealing garden,” Fujiwara said with a gentle smile.

Akiko's eyes sparkled. “Fujiwara-san is too kind,” she said, evidently unable to find any way to deflect such a compliment.

Ogata smirked appreciatively at Fujiwara's cleverly-phrased wording. Akiko and Fujiwara continued discussing gardening, and Ogata observed them attentively, more interested in the participants than in the particulars of their discussion. He was mildly surprised to realize that Akiko and Fujiwara had quite a few characteristics in common. Of course there was the politeness and formal speech, which some might call excessive, but Ogata knew it wasn't indicative of a haughty aloofness. Rather, Akiko and Fujiwara were simply showing their respect and consideration for others in the way they'd been raised -- through proper etiquette.

There was also something about the refinement of their mannerisms that suggested a very specific kind of background. Ogata knew that Akiko had come from an old, respected Tokyo family, and that as a child she had studied traditional arts like the koto and calligraphy, and had later furthered these studies at an exclusive women's college. From the very beginning, Ogata had suspected that Fujiwara had also come from such stock, but now that he could see Fujiwara alongside Akiko, it was glaringly obvious how similar they really were.

The only puzzle Ogata still couldn't figure out is why Fujiwara's family had failed to locate him, or why they apparently hadn't even deigned to try. You didn't pour all that education and care into a child and then just passively accept his disappearance as if he were unwanted.

“I would enjoy speaking about gardens with you at further length, but I think I ought to let Touya-san know you've arrived,” Akiko said after she and Fujiwara had been chatting for a few minutes. “I doubt he would appreciate my monopolizing your company when you have a game arranged,” she said, rising from her cushion, her voice colored with a wry note that suggested a certain bemusement with her husband's go obsession.

“You made a good impression on her,” Ogata said after Akiko had left the room.

Fujiwara smiled. “She's a very kind lady. It's obvious that Akira takes after her in many ways.”

“In some ways, yes. But he's also very much Touya-sensei's son,” Ogata said. Akira had inherited his mother's beauty and sensitivity, and had soaked up her instruction in propriety like a sponge. But Akira lacked Akiko's natural ease with people, and this social awkwardness was further exacerbated because he had inherited every single ounce of his father's obsessive intensity and pride. Not that Ogata was complaining. Akira was one of the most fascinating people Ogata knew, and certainly one of the most entertaining to needle.

Akiko returned then. “Would you come this way, please? Kouyou-san is waiting for you in his study,” she said, an apologetic set to her shoulders, but Ogata didn't find anything amiss about his teacher's behavior – it was only natural that Touya-sensei wanted his first meeting with s a i to take place in the go study.

They followed Akiko down the corridor past Akira's bedroom, the guest room, and one of the bathrooms. Akiko stopped outside the study. “Please have a good game,” she said with a slight bow, and slid the door open for them.

Ogata squinted immediately upon entering the study, temporarily blinded by the flood of sunlight. All the windows on the opposite wall had been uncovered, their shouji screens pushed back far in order to take advantage of the fine weather. Touya-sensei sat in front of his favorite goban in his usual crossed-arm stance, his attention still fixed on the board as if he hadn't heard them enter the room. Extra cushions had already been set out – one across from Sensei, of course – and one on the side, directly between the two players.

That one was for him.

Then Ogata realized Fujiwara hadn't stepped forward yet, his impeccable manners apparently failing him for once. Instead, Fujiwara was standing hesitantly just inside the doorway, hands stiff by his sides as he stared at Sensei's back, as if he couldn't quite believe this was finally happening. Ogata felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. He didn't want Fujiwara to look at someone else like that, awestruck as if he were meeting an idol. Not even if that someone else was Ogata's sensei.

But the game was more important, the game Ogata was going to watch himself in person.

Nothing was more important than that, Ogata reminded himself, steeling his resolve. He reached out, touching Fujiwara on the elbow. Fujiwara blinked at the contact, but then he smiled, and allowed Ogata to guide him forward, hand still cupping his elbow.

Touya-sensei rose to his feet as they approached, turning around to face them. His expression was inscrutable as usual, but Ogata suspected that he'd been aware of their presence the entire time. The older man had always been uncannily perceptive.

“Sensei, this is Fujiwara Sai. Fujiwara-san, this is my teacher, Touya Kouyou,” Ogata said, releasing Fujiwara's arm unobtrusively, but he knew that Sensei could have hardly failed to notice. Ogata could not bring himself to particularly care, though.

“I'm honored to meet you. Please treat me kindly,” Fujiwara said, bowing gracefully.

“And I also.” Touya-sensei returned the bow with gravity. “I hope you have been doing well,” he said, looking Fujiwara over intently from head to toe, his brows furrowed as if he half-expected to see some physical manifestation of the amnesia.

“Yes, thank you. I'm getting better every day. I apologize for worrying you,” Fujiwara said, dipping his head shyly.

“I understand you are continuing to receive medical care?”

“Yes, I am,” Fujiwara replied, his cheeks flushing bright red, but Touya-sensei simply nodded in apparent satisfaction, as if he hadn't registered Fujiwara's embarrassment.

Ogata resisted the urge to wince on Fujiwara's behalf. He'd already provided Touya-sensei with a fairly thorough report on Fujiwara's health over the phone (with Fujiwara's permission), but Ogata knew his teacher far too well to be surprised at his inspection. Even though Touya-sensei had started using e-mail and the Internet with regularity, he still preferred to confirm things with his own eyes, as if he didn't quite accept things as real until he did.

“Please, sit,” Touya-sensei said, gesturing towards the cushions.

Fujiwara took the cushion opposite of where Touya-sensei had been sitting, and Ogata took the side cushion, noticing a single black stone resting on the goban. Apparently Sensei hadn't gotten very far in recreating whatever game he'd been playing, which wasn't unusual: he was prone to pausing for long intervals as he replayed games that intrigued him. Yet it was unusual that he would put the white goke across the goban from where he was sitting, rather than keeping it next to his side alongside the black goke.

Black at the 16-16 star. A sudden epiphany struck Ogata. That had been Sensei's first move against s a i. That Sensei had left the black stone on the board, and the white goke where Fujiwara would be sitting -- was sitting – was no mere coincidence.

Fujiwara's eyebrows raised in surprised recognition, but Touya-sensei provided no explanation, and made no movement to retrieve the black stone or white goke. He simply sat, arms tucked into his haori sleeves, with an air of expectancy.

Ogata saw Fujiwara curl his fingers around his fan, his eyes flickering between the stone and Touya-sensei as if he were unsure of what was expected of him.

Touya-sensei, Ogata knew, was habitually silent around the goban, believing that it was better to allow other players to voice their own questions and posit theories without being overly influenced by his own ideas. He was particularly inclined to be quiet around players who intrigued him, because he wished to encourage them to speak.

But for Fujiwara, conversation was a validation, a way to show people that he liked them, and vice versa. Fujiwara was exactly the type to interpret Touya-sensei's continued silence as disapproval rather than respect, especially since he had been anxious about his memory of that older, jealous player.

Ogata was about to break the silence when Touya-sensei spoke:

“I've been waiting.”

Fujiwara's mouth fell open a little, and he stared openly at Touya-sensei, bashfulness forgotten. They locked eyes, and Ogata saw an understanding pass between them.

“I've been waiting, too. For a very long time,” Fujiwara said. His tone was soft, but his expression was as sharp and dangerous as Ogata had ever seen it across the board.

Touya-sensei said nothing, but there was a smile in his eyes as he glanced at the white goke.

Fujiwara arched an eyebrow. Then, with a sudden fluid movement, he dipped into his goke, and laid a stone at the 14-16 star.

The exact same move White had made during the first game. Entranced, Ogata watched as Touya-sensei replayed his second move, and Fujiwara again answered with his previous play.

They hadn't done nigiri. They hadn't bowed to each other – and as far as Ogata could tell, they hadn't even had an actual discussion about replaying their only game – but they were racing through the opening with the level of vehemence usually reserved for title matches. Ogata was far too intrigued to bother feeling shocked at the breach of protocol.

At the seventeenth hand, however, Touya-sensei did not play at 16-3 as before. Instead, he laid a stone at 15-8, a connection to his earlier 16-8 stone.

Fujiwara's eyes widened, stilling his right hand beside his goke.

Of course, Fujiwara had noticed Touya-sensei's deviation immediately. Ogata shifted on his cushion eagerly, wondering what move Fujiwara would choose to respond with, and wondering how many times Fujiwara had replayed the game in his head. Ogata had lost count of the number of times he'd reviewed the game himself, and he had only been an observer.

Fujiwara placed a stone at 17-8 – a direct attempt to limit Touya-sensei's expansion in that quadrant.

A distinct challenge.

Touya-sensei wasted no time answering the challenge, playing at 17-9 to put a ceiling on White's upward mobility.

Fujiwara snapped down a stone at 15-7, blocking Black from forming connections at the bottom.

Touya-sensei responded with an extension at 14-8, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across his lips, and Ogata realized that his teacher must have been positively spoiling for a good fight. This early in the game, there were plenty of strategic points to claim elsewhere on the board, but obviously neither Fujiwara nor Touya-sensei wanted to give each other a psychological victory by temporarily retreating.

The clash continued for a few more hands, then Black started a boundary battle around the right center star. That battle quickly spread to the edges of the top center, next the lower right, Black and White hot on each other's heels. Neither player could place a hand that remained unchallenged for long.

As the game unfolded, Ogata found himself marveling at the sheer energy he could feel radiating off the board. A strong fighting spirit, of course, was essential to victory at this level. You couldn't win against a strong opponent if you doubted yourself, if he wanted the win more than you did – and both Touya-sensei and Fujiwara possessed incredibly powerful wills. Yet the game was already past its middle stages, and their play was only growing more intense as they played.

In the later stages, play usually became more conservative and restrained because each new hand was more critical, and mistakes more costly. Now a calculated risk here and there was necessary, especially if one player was distinctly behind and wanted to close the gap before yose. But in this game, any differences in Black and White's odds were so razor-thin that such risks seemed excessive, especially since any error would be noticed and exploited.

The battle grew intense in the upper right quadrant. Fujiwara and Touya-sensei played tightly, their stones shadowing one another as they continued to react to each other's hands almost instantly.

In half-disbelief, Ogata tugged off his glasses to rub at his eyes. The speed they were responding with meant they were both relying very heavily on instinct, but Ogata could see no weaknesses or sloppiness in their play. On the contrary, the patterns were intricate and precise. The reading was deep: they were playing as if they could discern each other's intentions.

Like they'd been playing each other for years.

Like rivals.

Rivals. With a grimace, Ogata replaced his glasses. That description was a bit too pedestrian for Ogata's tastes; it recalled memories of Akira-kun and Shindou chasing each other around with flushed cheeks, uttering grandiose statements that only a middle school student could deliver with complete sincerity. (Ogata had provided fuel for Shindou and Akira's “rivalry” simply because it had been useful to motivate Akira -- and it had been highly amusing.) Ogata was a professional: he had opponents, not “rivals.” There were no cosmic forces at work; it was simply that certain players were more talented than others, and thus tended to meet each other more frequently across the board as they competed for scarce titles.

Of course, a certain understanding and rapport sometimes developed between players who were equally-matched and had played together frequently. Ogata could often read Fujiwara and Touya-sensei well because he'd played hundreds of games with Fujiwara, and thousands with Touya-sensei. His understanding of their go had developed over time, in conjunction with their personal relationships.

Perhaps that was why the term “rival” was rankling him regarding Touya-sensei and Fujiwara. Ogata knew that if he'd been watching this game as an outsider – unconnected to either man – he would have guessed that Fujiwara and Touya-sensei were opponents with a long history together. Not players who'd had the luxury of only one previous match, and “an unofficial Internet match” at that.

With a begrudging admiration, Ogata surveyed the patterns before him. The moves were exquisite, for all the brutal intent behind them, executed with perfect timing and taste.

That game he'd played yesterday with Touya-sensei had been beautiful, too. Ogata knew it was the best game he'd ever shared with his teacher. But that game was the result of years of striving and struggle, one gem amongst many, many games that were barely worth mentioning.

Sensei and Fujiwara had just met. Somehow, it seemed unfair that they could produce such a beautiful game together already. As if they had been destined to be opponents.

Unfair? Destiny?, Ogata thought, incredulous at himself for allowing his attention to be distracted from the game with such ridiculous thoughts. He was a professional. His job was to judge this game on its technical merits, and to use his ability as a detached third party to provide an outside perspective on the game. His inane emotions had no place in such a situation.

Ogata snapped his focus back to the board. Black had just played an ogeima, and now White was preparing a cut, a challenging move to play successfully, considering Black's surrounding stones.

On the 113th hand, Black cut into the unclaimed center of the board.

A shiver of anticipation raced down Ogata's spine as he processed the consequences of the move. Up until this point, the two players had avoided the center in favor of playing along the boundaries. Touya-sensei's move into the center was bold – but not unnecessarily so. Black already had stones scattered along the inside edges in all quadrants, whereas White was on the outer edges. If Black could keep White sealed out long enough to strengthen its lines, then Black could seize the majority of the center territory.

The play was brilliant, the sort that made Ogata marvel at Touya-sensei's cunning and wonder why he hadn't seen it coming earlier. In retrospect, it was obvious that Touya-sensei had been planning for this move almost the entire game, subtly aligning his black stones into position while answering other, unrelated plays. To play on two levels like that, and so convincingly – that was indeed the mark of a master. Fujiwara had done the same to Ogata on more than one occasion.

But Fujiwara was staring at the board, his face obscured behind his fan.

He hadn't seen it coming, either.

Ogata watched as Fujiwara studied the stones for a long, long time. His expression was like a mask, but the lines in his neck had stiffened. It was rare for Fujiwara to hesitate so long. Even at critical moments, he never deliberated excessively, choosing instead to play with a certain rhythm and fluidity. That Fujiwara was pausing for so long meant that Touya-sensei had indeed boxed him into a corner.

Ogata pressed his knuckles to his chin, wondering what strategy he would employ in Fujiwara's shoes. It seemed the best option left to Fujiwara was to cut his losses and cede that territory to Touya-sensei, and focus his moves on the left quadrant, where White had more influence. But that wouldn't be enough to win the game.

Abruptly, Fujiwara looked up at Touya-sensei, staring sharply as if he were trying to scry Touya-sensei's face for hidden intentions.

Touya-sensei met Fujiwara's gaze with an expression like a monolith, his arms crossed. He was overwhelming in his stillness, deafening in that profound silence that radiated from his very being.

Ogata had faced his teacher often enough to be acutely aware of how heavily that presence could weigh on one's mind, especially during a critical moment, when that silent presence seemed to increase in intensity, as if it were reflecting its master's desire to win.

Ogata found himself slowing his breath, caught up in the drama as the two stared each other down. More than one well-matched opponent had lost to Touya-sensei simply due to becoming unnerved at a juncture when every edge of mental sharpness was demanded.

In talent and skill, Fujiwara was as equally gifted as Touya-sensei, probably more, considering his youth. But Touya-sensei's lined, weathered face was a physical testament to the countless battles he'd waged across the goban, battles he'd been losing and winning before Fujiwara was even born. He possessed a serenity and a rock-solid confidence that came only with experience. Fujiwara had beaten Touya-sensei before, but that game had been fought over the Internet, a comparatively cool, impersonal environment in which talent and skill counted for everything, status and presence for little.

In person, Sensei might have the advantage -- if he could get under Fujiwara's skin. Even a slight lapse in Fujiwara's judgment could give Touya-sensei the needed points to win. Touya-sensei also had the advantage of having the stronger position; the move he'd played was enough to make almost any opponent lose the will to fight. It seemed like the perfect move.

Without breaking the gaze, Fujiwara reached for his goke. He placed a stone effortlessly, not even glancing at the goban briefly.

Ogata's pulse quickened. White had just effectively cut Black off from the upper quadrants. If Black tried to interfere, it would be pincered between White on top and the bottom. Black still had strength in the center, but White had halved its potential territory.

If Sensei had played the perfect move, then Fujiwara had played the perfect response.

Instinctively, Ogata glanced at Touya-sensei.

Touya-sensei's eyes were wide open, his face slack. The expression was so strange on his teacher that it took Ogata a moment to register that Touya-sensei was actually shocked. But Touya-sensei wasn't even looking at the goban. He was still looking at Fujiwara, leaning back slightly as if he'd been knocked off his perfect balance.

Ogata followed Touya-sensei's gaze back to Fujiwara, and then he understood. It wasn't the move at all.

Fujiwara was staring at Touya-sensei with those disturbingly ancient eyes, those eyes that blazed with a single-minded focus as if blinded to all but the goban and their opponent. I've been waiting, too. For a very long time, Fujiwara had said. But his eyes said that he'd been playing for an eternity and that it was the only thing that really mattered, and in a sudden rush of empathy, Ogata could sense how much Fujiwara wanted this, how much he needed it, existed for it, and that he was never ever ever going to stop --

Slowly, Ogata drew a slow breath of air, then exhaled, willing calmness to his mind. It had been a long time since that incongruous facet of Fujiwara's personality had surfaced, since Ogata had last faced the intensity of that desire across the goban. Apparently, even though Ogata was not Fujiwara's opponent today, he was not immune to the influence -- to the sheer pull -- of Fujiwara's will.

Touya-sensei thinned his lips in resolve, and he sent Fujiwara a grave, challenging look before placing his answer deftly, as if he'd regained his stoic composure.

But Ogata noticed that Touya-sensei's right hand was grasping his left arm tightly, and he knew that his teacher had been shaken by what he'd seen. Had Sensei also sensed Fujiwara's overwhelming desire?

Regardless, the rapid pace of the game soon resumed as Black and White waged their savage battle for the center. Ogata found himself marveling at White's ruthless efficiency as it cut into Black's gains hand after hand, limiting its territory. But Black was also impressive in its clever evasions, muffling the effectiveness of White's attacks.

The battle in the center continued until the middle had almost been completely littered with tiny circles of black stones hemmed in by white. Then the battle around the goban's boundaries reignited, both players making a grab for as much unclaimed territory as possible, no matter how small.

Ogata did some quick mental calculations as the game passed the two-hundred hand mark. The difference between Black and White was extremely close – even counting komi, not more than a moku or two. With such a narrow gap, the game would continue until the very end.

At move 257, Black laid the final hand at 1-6. There were no more moves to be placed.

There was a brief pause as the players committed the board to memory.

A game worth remembering, Ogata thought, awed by the unusual patterns of Black and White that spiraled across almost every centimeter of the board. There was very little in the game that Ogata could have predicted from either man, and that was invigorating and exciting. Nothing was worse in go than complacency and stagnation.

Sensei and Fujiwara began to silently shift their stones around as they counted territory, but Ogata knew they were merely confirming what they had already calculated. With komi, Black had won by a mere half a moku. It was the exact reverse of the first game – well, what the result would have been if Sensei had not chosen to resign.

“Makemashita,” Fujiwara said when they'd finished counting, bowing to Sensei, his tone gracious and untainted with disappointment. Ogata wasn't disappointed either: that Fujiwara had managed to bring the game to such a close finish -- despite Touya-sensei's powerful, surprising move -- was a tribute to Fujiwara's genius.

“It was a pleasure to finally play you in person,” Touya-sensei replied, his voice resonating with warmth and pride. His posture was as perfect as always – shoulders squared, back straight – although Ogata knew that Touya-sensei had to be weary after the draining exchange. He'd been playing very intense go for almost two hours, and holding seiza grew more difficult as one's body aged.

A beatific smile spread across Fujiwara's face. “I feel the same. I enjoyed playing you over the Internet, of course, but there are some aspects of go's beauty that must be experienced in person.”

Sensei nodded, although Ogata noticed the long, measured look he was giving Fujiwara.

There was no hint of that presence that Fujiwara had exhibited for the last half of the game. Just Fujiwara, his eyes young and bright with exhilaration. He was rocking back and forth a little, probably restraining the urge to bounce on his cushion because he was a guest (he had no qualms about bouncing in Ogata's apartment).

Ogata had suspected before that Fujiwara was unaware of his... other side... but now Ogata was certain of it. Fujiwara didn't even realize that he'd unsettled both of them. But there was nothing to be gained from mentioning it to Fujiwara; likely, it was only some weird side effect from his brain injury combined with his passion for go. Fujiwara would fret uselessly, and he had more important issues to deal with. Besides, it was patently ridiculous to think that Fujiwara was any older than his appearance – and the doctor – had suggested. That Fujiwara's go felt so old and polished was due to his natural talent and remarkable ability to absorb various playing styles. Ogata had already known all this intellectually; he'd merely let his imagination get away from him during the heat of the game.

They finished clearing the goban and put it to the side, and now Touya-sensei was reaching for a teapot that Ogata hadn't noticed earlier – Akiko must have brought it in.

Fujiwara praised the green tea, identifying it as gyokuro grade. Touya-sensei seemed pleased, and started a small discussion about which regions grew the best teas. Fujiwara insisted that Uji's climate and rainfall was superior for tea growing, which Ogata found interesting. Fujiwara had never demonstrated knowledge of any other area besides Tokyo, so Ogata had assumed that Fujiwara had probably been born and raised in Tokyo. Uji was near Kyoto, however, and several hours away even by the Shinkansen. Ogata made a mental note to question Fujiwara about it later.

Excepting that revelation, however, the tea discussion was unsurprisingly boring. Ogata preferred beer to tea, and would have preferred to be discussing the game to discussing rainfall averages. But perhaps Touya-sensei and Fujiwara simply wanted to engage in small talk before the real discussion; it was their first meeting, after all. Compared to his initial behavior, Fujiwara was relaxed now, smiling freely at both of them, and looking around the room with open interest.

The go study had always been Touya-sensei's domain, and it reflected his tastes: simple and bare, except for a single wall scroll hanging in the alcove. The most interesting thing about the room was the garden outside. As a boy, Ogata had found the room boring, but he'd come to realize that a more elaborately decorated room would distract weaker students from their studies.

Fujiwara's gaze slid over the wall scroll before alighting on a glass case below it. “Oh, it looks like me!” Fujiwara exclaimed, then flushed, covering his mouth with his sleeve.

Ogata squinted: inside was a collector's doll. The doll was clad in white robes and a long black hat. Ogata arched an eyebrow in surprise, realizing it was dressed like a Heian nobleman. Odd how he'd never noticed the doll before. “Fujiwara-san was wearing an outfit like that when I fou—when we first met,” Ogata explained, feeling vaguely guilty that he hadn't mentioned that detail to his teacher over the phone. It hadn't seemed relevant, since Ogata knew Fujiwara had no connections to acting.

Touya-sensei nodded calmly, as if wandering around in an ancient costume was not at all strange behavior. “I'd like to see it sometime,” he said to Fujiwara.

“Of course, although please understand that it's not in the best condition. I lost my eboshi, and the silk stained a little.” Fujiwara tilted his head, taking in Touya-sensei's hakama and haori as if he'd just realized noticed the traditional dress. “Are you also a historical re-enacter?”

The skin around Touya-sensei's eyes crinkled in amusement, although he did not smile. “Not quite, although part of my reason for wearing this clothing is to remind myself of go's past – and my connection to it. This clothing is from the Edo period.” At Fujiwara's blank look, Touya-sensei continued: “Most consider it to be the Golden Age of Go in Japan. Your own playing style is heavily influenced by a player from that time – Honinbou Shuusaku.”

“Honinbou Shuusaku?” Fujiwara echoed, turning the name over slowly in his mouth.

“Yes. Although perhaps it is an understatement to say that your style is merely influenced by Shuusaku.”

Ogata recognized that tone: this was no longer casual small talk. A vague recollection stirred in Ogata's memory – some study session discussion about a fitting opponent for Sensei, a fantasy about Shuusaku playing modern joseki. Ogata tensed. Where exactly what his teacher going with this?

“What do you mean?” Fujiwara said.

Touya-sensei met Fujiwara's eyes evenly. “When we played today, I saw a little of Shindou-kun in your style. I also saw Ogata-kun's influence. No doubt, the more we play together, I will see my influence in your style as well – and yours in mine. But the essence of your go remains Shuusaku.”

“I think someone had mentioned this to me before. I must have studied him a lot, before my amnesia,” Fujiwara said agreeably.

Touya-sensei shook his head as if Fujiwara were missing the point entirely. “A student can only absorb so much from his teacher, or his texts, no matter how eager or talented the student. Your play, your experience... embody Shuusaku.”

Embody? Touya-sensei wasn't seriously suggesting that Fujiwara was somehow channeling Shuusaku? Granted, possession would explain Fujiwara's particular style and that strange presence rather nicely, except for the fact that it was completely absurd.

“I don't understand,” Fujiwara said quietly, his eyes turning inward.

Fujiwara was withdrawing. Irritation flared in Ogata. Sensei was upsetting Fujiwara with his odd line of questioning, and to no avail. “Sensei, I think that Fujiwara-san doesn't remember enough to answer your questions accurately,” Ogata said, managing a respectful tone, hoping that his teacher would pick up on his concern. “He seems--”

“I didn't call him Shuusaku... I called him Torajirou, because he was a friend of mine,” Fujiwara said fondly, as if recalling a pleasant dream.

Ogata winced. Touya-sensei had confused Fujiwara completely. Ogata turned to Fujiwara in an effort to ameliorate the situation. “Maybe you feel that way because his works were very influential to you, so it's like he was your friend, teaching you?” he asked gently.

Fujiwara shook his head. “No, Torajirou is like Hikaru to me,” he stated with absolute conviction.

Honinbou Shuusaku was a long-dead go icon, a Go Saint. Hikaru was Fujiwara's student, and a brat. The similarities between Hikaru and Shuusaku were non-existent, except on the most superficial level: they were both go players, and Fujiwara had strong feelings about both of them. Obviously, Fujiwara was getting them mixed up in his mind. Ogata knew Fujiwara too well to correct him right now, though, not when Fujiwara had started pressing his lips together like that.

“Who is Shindou-kun to you?” Touya-sensei said.

Ogata relaxed. This was safer—saner-- territory, as Shindou was definitely alive.

“He was my friend when I couldn't be around other people. I taught him to play go, and he placed my stones for me,” Fujiwara said, his expression tender.

Touya-sensei smiled softly. “A kind boy. He visited me in the hospital. Do you remember his Shin Shodan match?”

“Yes, it was awful and wonderful at the same time. That fifteen-stone handicap,” Fujiwara said with a sigh. Then he blinked hard, as if doing a double take. “We... we've only played once before today, right?”

Touya-sensei's smile sharpened, but he did not answer.

* * *

“Did I do something wrong?” Fujiwara ventured cautiously.

Ogata glanced at him in the passenger's side seat. Fujiwara's face was guileless as ever. Clueless. Ogata returned his attention to the road. “No, I just have a lot to think about.” Like how open and frank Fujiwara had been with Touya-sensei. True, Ogata had reassured Fujiwara that his teacher was a trustworthy person, but that was so that Fujiwara could relax and enjoy a proper match – not become instant best friends with his teacher. Fujiwara had shared things with Touya-sensei that he hadn't even told Ogata yet, like Shindou placing his stones for him. Fujiwara had been vague about the circumstances under which he'd met Shindou – only stating something about how he couldn't be around people because of his “condition,” which Ogata had thought meant that Fujiwara's immune system had been compromised, or that he'd had no stamina. But if Fujiwara had even been too weak to place his own stones, he'd been far more gravely ill than Ogata realized.

Why hadn't Fujiwara told him that? And then there was that weird conversation about Shuusaku – Torajirou, as Fujiwara referred to him – and non-existent Shin Shodan handicaps, and embodiments. Ogata had felt as if the two of them were holding a conversation on a completely different plane, a conversation that made sense to only them. At least that conversation had been mercifully short, and they'd started discussing the game after that.

“Thank you for taking me to the game.”

“You're welcome.” It was difficult, Ogata thought, to maintain irritation with a man who was so sincere. “You certainly got along well with him.”

Fujiwara shifted in his seat, and Ogata knew he was blushing. “After I played him, I knew that I could trust him.”

Apparently, Touya-sensei had felt the same way about Fujiwara. Touya-sensei had been studying Zen thought and the metaphysical for as long as Ogata had known him, but it was rare for him to discuss it, and he only did so with old friends. Personally, Ogata had little interest in that particular hobby of his teacher's, although the meditation could be useful for clearing one's mind. But Ogata did find it inappropriate that Touya-sensei had brought up such a complex topic to Fujiwara when Touya-sensei was fully aware of Fujiwara's condition, especially since Fujiwara clearly idolized Touya-sensei. Fujiwara still didn't have the capacity required to judge and weigh the merits of such ideas.

“Listen, regarding Touya-sensei's ideas, don't read too much into it. Sensei is a very deep thinker, and he can be difficult to understand,” Ogata said delicately.

Fujiwara only hummed noncommittally, but Ogata knew he should let the matter drop. If Fujiwara wanted to believe that he had some mysterious connection to Shuusaku, then Ogata could hardly convince him otherwise. Fujiwara would come to realize on his own that it was silly, and that he had enough real connections to real people that he didn't need to have imaginary ones.

After a few minutes of silence, Fujiwara spoke. “Are you busy later today?”

“No, why?”

“I was wondering if you wanted to play a game,” Fujiwara said quietly.

“Are you sure?” Ogata asked casually, although his heart had started to hammer in his ribcage. It had been weeks since their last game.

“I've missed playing you. I saw some of your moves when Touya-sensei was playing me, and it made me a little jealous because I knew that he had just played you yesterday,” Fujiwara admitted.

Fujiwara was the one who had been jealous? Ogata wanted to laugh. “I would be happy to play you, then,” he said instead.

Strangeness aside, things were definitely looking up.

* * *

Chapter Text

* * *

The stones flowed across the goban as Fujiwara wordlessly replayed his game against Touya Kouyou for Shindou and Akira.

Akira was mildly surprised that none of the other customers had wandered over to the table to observe Fujiwara. He'd noticed a few pairs of old men scattered across the little salon's worn tables, but they had seemed engrossed in their own games, barely giving Shindou and Akira more than a cursory glance when they'd entered the salon earlier and greeted Fujiwara at the reception desk. Perhaps the other customers simply hadn't realized what an opportunity they were missing, Akira decided.

The Iwamoto salon was quiet except for the faint pachi pachi of the stones, and an occasional fit of a smoker's coughing. According to Shindou, Saturday evenings were usually slow, and Fujiwara didn't have many requests for shidougo then.

Hearing that had relieved Akira. He loved the competitive aspect of go, of course, but just being able to relax and discuss go in a place where people didn't seem to particularly care who he was... it was a nice change from the professional world he usually moved in, even his father's own salon. It wasn't that Akira didn't appreciate the support he received, but sometimes, being the focus of so much attention could be overwhelming. That attention had only intensified when his father had retired, as if people were expecting him to pick up Touyou Kouyou's mantle.

But Touya Akira was not his father, and the path he'd chosen was not the same.

Beautiful, complex exchanges flowed into shape under Fujiwara's hands. Akira marveled, and wondered how much more time would elapse before Fujiwara himself would be hard-pressed to enjoy an intimate moment of go. Even though Fujiwara hadn't entered the professional world, that kind of talent had a way of drawing attention to itself like a lightning rod. Akira had already had a taste of what it was like to live under that amount of scrutiny, but he suspected it was nothing compared to what Fujiwara would be subjected to if he were exposed as s a i. Akira didn't know how well Fujiwara would be able to cope, especially since Shindou still hadn't told Fujiwara the complete truth about Fujiwara's past.

Akira sneaked a glance at Shindou from the corner of his eye. Shindou wasn't watching the board as much as watching Fujiwara, his eyes anxiously flickering back and forth from the board to Fujiwara's face. Whatever had been bothering Shindou earlier was still upsetting him, Akira realized.

The game claimed Akira's attention again, and he shifted eagerly in his chair. It was almost at the point where Black had cut into the center of the board, a seemingly reckless move that had turned the entire game in Black's favor. Akira was terribly curious about the motives behind the hands that White had played after that: why had he chosen to respond with that move there? Why had he sacrificed territory at this particular moment? Why hadn't he played an atekomi here, and had he realized Black's trap at this hand? But interrupting Fujiwara now would be distasteful, especially when Fujiwara was wearing that fond, tender smile, as if he were retelling a favorite memory with the go stones.

So Akira forced himself to sip on his barley tea in lieu of peppering Fujiwara with questions. He'd been waiting ever since his father had replayed the game for him on Thursday night; he could surely wait a little longer. The commentary from the vanquished was no less enlightening than that of the victor, especially at such a high level, and learning the why behind the moves was the next best thing to actually getting to play those games himself. Akira's only regret was that he hadn't been able watch his father play Fujiwara in person; even the best commentary couldn't capture the heat and pressure of the battle.

Unfortunately, Akira had already had a game scheduled for that same Thursday, one that he had needed to win to qualify for the Kisei League. (He'd won, which had made missing the match slightly more bearable.) Shindou hadn't attended either, claiming he also had an official game scheduled.

But Akira hadn't seen Shindou at the Go Association on Thursday. Thinking that perhaps Shindou's match had been held earlier, Akira had glanced at the dry-erase board where all the day's matches were written down. Shindou's name hadn't been on the board.

Shindou had lied.

When Akira had confronted Shindou about his lie, Shindou's face had gone pale, and all he would say was, “Things can't be the same.”

Something was definitely wrong, and Akira suspected it involved Fujiwara, with the way that Shindou kept squirming and glancing at Fujiwara.

Fujiwara finished the game, and looked up at them cheerfully, apparently oblivious to Shindou's discomfort. “Now as you can see, Black won this game by half a moku, with the critical move in Black's favor being played at 113. I did my best to narrow the gap, but in the end, it proved to be too big of a difference to be overcome. I've been reconsidering my hand at 148. Perhaps attaching here instead might have been a better choice.”

Akira pushed his concern about Shindou aside for the moment, eager for the discussion. “Actually, Fujiwara-sensei, I have been curious about why you chose to not play an atekomi here, since you were trying to weaken Black as much as possible. Wouldn't the atekomi have forced a premature response from Black?”

Fujiwara beamed, as if he'd been hoping for that question, and Akira's cheeks went warm.

“I considered it, actually, but I suspected that Touya-sensei would recognize my motives. He would have probably ignored a direct response in favor of reinforcing his stones around here, which would have resulted in the opposite effect desired. By choosing to play a softer move, I was able to gain some territory, as opposed to no territory.”

Akira nodded. That certainly made sense; his father had an uncanny knack for figuring out when someone was trying to trick him into a less than optimal response. “When you played the pincer here, was Black's response the one you had hoped for?”

“Partially,” Fujiwara said, launching into an explanation of the possible outcomes.

Entranced, Akira listened attentively, only speaking occasionally. Fujiwara's perspective on go was exceptional, but he managed to keep his explanations concise despite the complicated topic. It wasn't common to see such talent paired with teaching ability. No wonder Fujiwara had been chosen to be one of the Emperor's tutors, Akira thought.

“Hikaru, did you have any questions?” Fujiwara asked suddenly.

Akira started. Caught up in the lengthy discussion and his own thoughts, he'd forgotten about Shindou.

“Errm, not really. I was just listening, about the uh, pincer. That was really interesting,” Shindou said.

“You aren't sick, are you?” Fujiwara said, reaching out a hand to touch Shindou's forehead. “It's not like you to be so quiet.”

“No, I'm fine!” Shindou protested, wriggling away. His eyes slid away from Fujiwara's gaze.

Fujiwara frowned, no doubt recognizing Shindou's behavior as classic Shindou-avoidance. Akira had noticed early on that Shindou tended to break eye contact when he was lying.

“Hikaru...”

Shindou hesitated, then suddenly blurted out: “You didn't win, so you need to keep playing Touya's dad, right?”

“Even if I had won, we still have a lot of games left to play together. And you know, go's not really just about winning, although winning's nice, of course. But yes, I would like another game. If Touya-sensei hadn't had to return to Beijing so soon, I would have asked him to play again. We're going to play online, but it's not the same.” Fujiwara's lower lip jutted out sulkily.

“Um, so... you still have a lot left to do here?” Shindou asked.

Fujiwara tilted his head quizzically. “'Here' in Tokyo? Well, there's my job, and of course there's teaching you, and playing Touya-sensei whenever he's not in Beijing, and practicing my Chinese, and feeding the fish. I haven't been planning to take a trip or anything, if that's what you're asking.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Shindou's ears reddened. “Ah. Have you been feeling okay lately? Nothing weird?”

Things can't be the same.

In a flash of clarity, Akira understood: Shindou was afraid Fujiwara would disappear again. That was why Shindou had avoided witnessing the match between Akira's father and Fujiwara --- he was afraid of recreating the same set of circumstances that had led to Fujiwara's disappearance. Shindou still blamed himself for what had happened, so by Shindou-logic, he thought that if he removed himself from the equation, he could prevent it from happening again.

Fujiwara's expression softened. “I'm fine, thank you. If anything changes, you know that I'll tell you.”

Shindou nodded, a slow, begrudging movement.

“Well, actually there is something. But I was going to wait until after we finished discussing the game, but since you weren't paying attention anyway... ” Fujiwara's lips curved teasingly, but then his expression grew serious. “I was wondering what you could tell me about Honinbou Shuusaku – about Torajirou. Touya-sensei asked me about him, and I started remembering... things.”

Honinbou Shuusaku. Fujiwara's first host, the Go Saint himself. According to Shindou, Shuusaku had recognized Fujiwara's genius immediately. Shuusaku had let Fujiwara play all his public games, content to play only in private, with Fujiwara as his only opponent.

But I was selfish and mean, so Sai had to leave.

Akira couldn't help glancing at Shindou. Shindou had gone very, very still.

“Ogata-sensei is convinced that I must have studied Torajirou's life very thoroughly before my amnesia, and I'm getting those details mixed up with memories of another person. But I've been reading Ogata's books and articles. They don't mention the things I know about Torajirou.” Fujiwara paused, threading his fingers through the tassels of his fan. “His favorite color was purple, and he liked to take walks. He admired artists, because they could make the world more beautiful. If he hadn't become a go player, perhaps he might have been a calligraphist – his handwriting was lovely. And he wasn't afraid of dying, just leaving behind the people he cared about.” Fujiwara let out a small, shaky breath. “He said 'I'm sorry,' when he died. How could I have possibly known that?”

Shindou said nothing.

With a rueful smile, Fujiwara shook his head. “Am I crazy, Hikaru? Was that my... 'condition' before, the reason I didn't have friends or family?” He looked down at the goban. “I know you don't want to hurt my feelings, but it's okay to tell me the truth.”

“'Crazy'? Don't be silly, Sai. You might act like a real go nerd, but you're not crazy,” Shindou said, his sudden smile bright enough that it might have fooled someone who didn't know Shindou well.

Akira had seen that brassy smile before. At the first Hokuto Cup, when Shindou had lost to Ko Yeongha. The smile hadn't lasted long.

“Are you sure?” Fujiwara said, his voice small. “It's not... normal to have such feelings about a dead person.”

“Yeah, look, just because it's not in Ogata's stupid books, doesn't mean your memories aren't real. Maybe you just need to remember more, and then it will make sense,” Shindou said, his tone nonchalant.

Shindou's knuckles were turning white. He was gripping the arm-rests too hard, Akira thought mechanically.

“Why is Torajirou important to me? Why him and not some other player?”

The smile didn't fade, but Akira saw the edges of desperation flickering in the corners of Shindou's eyes, that same desperation that surfaced whenever Shindou was confronted with the issue of revealing the truth to Fujiwara. Shindou was so very, very afraid that Fujiwara would hate him, enough that he was willing to keep hiding the truth, despite the horrible personal cost to himself.

Shindou opened his mouth -- to deliver some other not-quite half-truth, Akira was sure -- and Akira suddenly realized that he simply couldn't bear to hear one more word of it.

Akira found himself on his feet, one hand wrapped around Shindou's elbow tightly. “Forgive me, Fujiwara-sensei. I have something urgent I need to discuss with Shindou. Please excuse us for a moment.” He bowed stiffly, and jerked Shindou forward, not waiting for an answer.

“Touya! What are you doing?!” Shindou squawked, but Akira ignored him, heading straight for the salon's front door. He yanked Shindou through the door, then whirled around on his heel, glaring.

“This has to stop. Now.”

Shindou jerked his elbow free and stepped away quickly, pressing his back against the door as if he were warding off a rabid beast. “What are you talking about, you big psycho?” he demanded, breathing heavily.

“The lying, Shindou. Fujiwara-sensei needs to know the truth. He's asking you for it.”

Open alarm flashed across Shindou's face. “No! I can't tell him yet. It's still too soon -- he needs to do more stuff first. Play more games with your dad, get closer to the Hand of God, win a title, I dunno, just something that makes it so he doesn't have to leave again.”

Shindou was pleading. There was no other way to interpret that tone. Akira steeled himself, and shook his head. “Neither of us knows how or why Fujiwara-sensei came back. But I do know that your not telling him the truth isn't going to keep him here. He needs to know.”

“Sai deserves to be happy! He's happy now! Do you want me to take that away from him?” Shindou's shoulders began to shake. “He deserves it,” he repeated, like a mantra.

Akira felt his stomach wrench as a tear began to streak down Shindou's cheek, but he kept his tone even. “You deserve to be happy too, you know.”

Shindou blinked at him dumbly, like he was speaking a foreign language.

A flash of anger surged through Akira, and he clenched his fists in lieu of knocking some sense into Shindou's thick head. “I said you deserve to be happy too, you idiot! You're hurting yourself by keeping his secret, and do you really think Fujiwara-sensei's happy knowing that you're in pain?! And he can definitely tell, so stop thinking he doesn't notice.”

Shindou's chin fell to his chest, and he began to sob in earnest, his tears trickling down his nose.

“I don't know how to start,” Akira heard through the crying and sniffling.

Akira reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. Gently, he started to dab at Shindou's wet cheeks, until Shindou looked up at him, eyes red-rimmed and surprised.

Akira pressed the handkerchief into Shindou's palm, curling Shindou's fingers around the cloth before letting go. “Start at the beginning. Like you did for me.”

“The beginning?” Shindou echoed in confusion. Then a thoughtful expression eased onto his face. He sniffled loudly, and wiped the remaining tears off his face with the back of his hand. “He asked me before, about how we met. I didn't really tell him, because I didn't know how to say it without giving everything away. But maybe I can show him instead.”

“Show him?”

“Yeah, take him to Grandpa's. If he's there and he sees the goban, maybe he'll remember on his own. That's gotta be better than me saying it wrong or confusing him.” Shindou cleared his throat, a nervous sound. “If he doesn't remember, though, then I'm just gonna have to tell him straight-out.”

Akira nodded, a gesture he hoped was encouraging. “Maybe it will work. He's already started to remember Shuusaku, and the goban is a big part of that.”

“Yeah.” Shindou rubbed at his nose and eyes with the handkerchief. “I guess we should go back inside before Sai wonders what the hell we're doing. You did just drag me out here.”

“Only because you were being an idiot,” Akira shot back, but Shindou ignored him.

“Sorry to freak out on you,” Shindou said instead, rubbing at the back of his head awkwardly. He started to return the handkerchief, then made a face as if finally noticing its damp, wadded-up state. He shoved it into his jeans pocket abruptly. “Er, I'll give this back to you later. You know, you're not too bad sometimes.”

Shindou-speak for Thank you. “You're welcome,” Akira replied graciously.

As soon as they reentered the salon, Fujiwara stood up anxiously, looking like he was barely restraining himself from rushing across the room to Shindou.

Akira started to apologize again when they'd reached the table, but Fujiwara had eyes only for Shindou, biting at his bottom lip as he took in Shindou's slumped shoulders and raw expression.

“Are you alright?” Without waiting for an answer, Fujiwara pulled Shindou into an embrace. “What's wrong? You aren't sick, are you?”

“Saaiiii!! You're gonna make me sick if you choke me to death,” Shindou whined, but his struggles were only half-hearted, as if he'd long resigned himself to enduring Fujiwara's loving but evidently crushing embraces. “Do you have to squeeze that hard?”

Fujiwara sniffed loudly, and ruffled Shindou's hair. “I'm just concerned about you. You've seemed worried and upset lately.” He lowered his voice guiltily. “It's because of me, isn't it?”

“Geez, not everything is about you, you know! Maybe I just have a lot on my mind,” Shindou said defensively. “Anyway, isn't your salon closed this Monday, for the national holiday? We've got off from the Institute, no matches.”

“Yes,” Fujiwara said, blinking in surprise at the sudden topic shift. “Why?”

“There's someplace I need to take you.”

* * *

The house Shindou had brought them to was like the other houses surrounding it: old, but well maintained, sporting a respectable-sized lawn with a few bushes and potted plants, shingled roof, and paper sliding doors.

“That's where Grandpa and I play go,” Shindou said, pointing to the wooden slatted porch. “He's actually not half-bad, for an old guy. He won a bunch of awards for go like a million years ago, so he says I got my talent from him.” Shindou shrugged his backpack off his shoulders and slung it onto the porch.

Fujiwara frowned at the backpack, and straightened it before placing his own messenger bag beside it neatly. “Are you sure it's okay for us to be here now? Perhaps it would be more proper for us to return when they're back from their holiday. Also, I'd like to thank your grandfather for supporting you.”

“I told you already! This is the last day all three of us are going to have off for awhile, and I don't want Grandpa asking a bunch of weird questions about you. You can meet him another time,” Shindou said, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, don't bother taking off your shoes. We're going into the storage shed over there.”

Shindou sounded like his usually cocky self; nothing like he'd been on Saturday. Akira wondered how he could project such calm, considering the purpose of their trip.

Shindou opened the storage shed with a small set of keys, and a musty odor wafted out. “Don't close the door,” he said, walking inside. “There's no lighting in here.”

As Akira's eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could see that the storage shed was full of shelves that overflowed with dusty scrolls, cracked bowls and pots, hanging lamps, chests, and bundled books. It was an ideal location to meet a spirit, Akira thought, the hair on his skin raising. Ever since he'd learned that ghosts were actually real, he'd found himself just a tad more jumpy, especially late at night.

“Ah, your grandparents are collectors,” Fujiwara said, peering at the contents of one shelf. “I'd like to read some of these scrolls, but they seem quite old. I'm afraid they might get damaged if they were unrolled.”

Shindou shrugged and picked his way towards the ladder in the middle of the room. “Grandma did a lot of these. But she doesn't have enough room to hang them all in the house. If you want, she'll show you her best ones, if you don't mind getting your ear talked off. Anyway, let's go upstairs. Watch your step.”

It was darker upstairs, but Akira's attention was immediately drawn to the far end of the loft, to a sheet-covered object that seemed to be glowing in the shadows. It was also goban-shaped. A goban covered in a shroud.

Akira swallowed hard.

Shindou flung open the shutters on a small window, and sunlight poured in, illuminating dust motes that swirled lazily through the air. “Ugh, I hope neither of you is allergic to dust.”

“When you said that we met at your grandparents', I have to admit, this wasn't what I had in mind,” Fujiwara said, picking up a vase from a shelf. “Hmm, this is rather nice craftsmanship. Good detailing, strong use of color,” he murmured to himself, as he rotated it in his hands. “Was I here because of my interest in pottery?” Fujiwara said, his expression eager.

“No,” Shindou said, sounding noticeably strained for the first time. “Ah... does anything seem familiar to you yet?”

Akira knew he was trying not to look at the goban. They had agreed that it was best to wait and see how much Fujiwara remembered on his own, just from being in the storage shed again.

Fujiwara replaced the vase carefully on the shelf. “Not really, although it feels comfortable. I like being around old things.”

“Well, that explains O--”

Akira gave Shindou a dark glare.

“--a lot of your hobbies,” Shindou amended quickly, with a sheepish grin of apology for Akira.

Fujiwara wasn't listening. “What's this?” he said, kneeling on the floor at the far end.

Fujiwara had found the goban.

Akira and Shindou exchanged looks as Fujiwara removed the sheet. Akira wondered if Fujiwara had been drawn to the board because of his connection with it, or simply because it was the only covered object in the room, and he was curious.

“A goban!” Fujiwara exclaimed in delight. He ran his hands over it reverentially. “Oh, it's very well made. See, there are no signs of cracking or warping.” He tapped on the board experimentally, and nodded with satisfaction. “A good sound, definitely high-quality kaya. It's as nice as Ogata-sensei's or Touya-sensei's.” He turned it over. “Actually, it's even older than your father's.”

Much much older. Akira's heart thudded. “How can you tell?”

Fujiwara pursed his lips in consideration, and set the goban down. “The craftsmanship. The way they slot the legs into the board, the method for treating the wood, the coats of polish – all of that has changed throughout the history of go as new materials are discovered, and techniques are refined. But a new board isn't necessarily superior to an older one, if the older one has been cared for and loved. Like this one,” Fujiwara said, stroking the goban like a cherished pet. “I can't believe it's just sitting up here in the attic, unused. What a waste... Hikaru, doesn't your grandfather already have another goban that he plays on?”

“Yeah,” Shindou said weakly. He shifted sideways, and his shoulder bumped against Akira's.

Akira didn't protest. He knew that Shindou needed reassurance, a physical reminder that he wasn't alone.

Fujiwara brightened at the answer. “Maybe he'll sell this one to me. I really like it.”

“I don't think so,” Shindou managed to get out. “Do you remember the reason he keeps it in storage?”

“No.”

“He says it's cursed.”

Shindou was trembling. Akira let his hand brush against Shindou's, and Shindou responded by threading sweaty fingers through Akira's.

“Cursed?” Fujiwara echoed. He didn't laugh, but instead peered at the board more intently. “Why is it cursed?”

“Touya,” Shindou whispered hoarsely, and he squeezed Akira's hand so hard it hurt.

Akira understood what Shindou was asking of him. “The people who played on it always died young,” Akira replied in Shindou's place. Not the whole answer yet, but hopefully enough to trigger Fujiwara's memory, like his father's words had.

“How unfortunate!” Fujiwara said, and patted the goban consolingly. “Your owners died young. You must have been so lonely with no one to play on you for so long. It feels like a lonely board, doesn't it?”

“Yes,” Akira said quietly, his throat constricting painfully. He squeezed Shindou's hand back.

Fujiwara sighed. “I'm a bit of an idiot. Even though I know it's cursed, I still want to take it home. It feels so familiar, like...”

Suddenly, Fujiwara froze.

“Did... he... did Torajirou play on this board?”

Akira nodded, unable to answer, but Fujiwara did not see, his widened eyes fixated on the goban. He reached out his hand towards the upper right quadrant, and touched it with trembling fingers. “There used to be blood stains here, weren't there? Torajirou's blood... he died playing go. He died because he was so kind, and he wouldn't stay away from the sick students.” A harsh, dry sob escaped from Fujiwara. “Is that what happened? I owned this board, and poor Torajirou haunted me?”

“Torajirou wasn't the ghost.”

Fujiwara looked up at Shindou, a tear dripping down his cheek. “What are you saying?”

Shindou squeezed Akira's hand once more, then let go.

Akira watched as Shindou made his way to Fujiwara, and crouched down by Fujiwara's side. “Torajirou and I were both your students. That board was yours first, a long time ago.”

A tremor ran through Fujiwara's body. “Then I...”

“It was you. You were the ghost, Sai!” Shindou cried. “You possessed Torajirou, and he knew how good you were, and he let you play all his games. You were Honinbou Shuusaku; all of his games are yours! You're the genius!” Shindou's face contorted in agony. “You possessed me too. You remember, don't you?”

“Yes,” Fujiwara said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I remember. You found my board, and I took over your mind. I forced you to play go despite your wishes. I'm so sorry.” He wrapped his arms around Shindou.

“No, I'm the one who should be sorry. I didn't let you play enough, and you disappeared and it was all my fault!” Shindou choked out a sob, and hid his face behind his hands. “I'm so sorry, Sai. Please don't hate me. I didn't mean to be so selfish.”

“Hikaru. I could never hate you.” Fujiwara patted Shindou's back soothingly, but Akira could see that his hands were trembling. “What happened wasn't your fault. I was the selfish one who... drowned himself. Because of my selfish desires, I couldn't accept the serenity of the afterlife. I was so cruel, taking Torajirou's games, and trying to take yours too. I'm a horrible, selfish teacher. I should be the one to say sorry, for taking over your life, forcing you to play.”

Shindou shook his head. “You're the best thing that ever happened to me. Before, I didn't have a purpose or a goal. I didn't like school, and I wasn't serious about anything. Without you, I wouldn't have met Touya, or realized how much I like go. You were my ghost, but you were my best friend, too. I would have given anything to get you back.”

“Hikaru is too kind,” Fujiwara said, burying his face in the crook of Shindou's neck. He did not say anything else.

Akira wasn't sure how much time passed with the two of them huddled together, crying softly. He just watched, slightly surprised at himself for not feeling terribly awkward. Usually he felt like an unwelcome intruder whenever a situation became serious or intimate. But he was a part of this – had been, ever since that day Shindou challenged him to a game in his father's go salon.

“Sai, are you okay?” Shindou had disentangled himself from Fujiwara's embrace, and now he was shaking Fujiwara's shoulder. “Talk to me, Sai!”

Akira realized that Fujiwara was shivering, as if he were horribly cold. He walked across the room, and joined Shindou by Fujiwara's side. Akira put a hand on Fujiwara's forehand, and found that his skin was clammy.

“Shindou, look at his eyes,” Akira said. Fujiwara's pupils were blown and unfocused. He'd seen the expression before, on a dazed pedestrian who'd been struck by a motorbike. The injuries hadn't been serious, but the pedestrian had been so startled that he had gone into shock, and had needed treatment.

“What's wrong with him?” Shindou demanded.

“He's in shock. What he just remembered would be too much for anyone to handle,” Akira said.

“Should we call an ambulance?” Shindou said, patting his pockets frantically. “Damn, I left my cell in my backpack. Is this serious, or can he snap out of it on his own?”

“I'm not sure. I guess we should call to be on the safe side.”

“I'm okay,” Fujiwara mumbled, his eyelids fluttering as he tried to focus. “Please don't make me go to the hospital.” He clutched at Shindou's hand. “I don't want to be alone. I don't want to disappear again. You can still feel me, right? You can still hear me?”

“Yeah, Sai,” Shindou said, patting Fujiwara's hand. “You're real. You're not going anywhere, I swear. I won't let it happen.” Shindou's face scrunched up in resolve and pain, and he laced his fingers through Fujiwara's.

Akira felt his heart wrench. He had known it was going to be difficult when Fujiwara remembered, but he hadn't anticipated this. “We won't leave you alone, Fujiwara-sensei. You're going to be alright,” Akira said with false calmness, and took Fujiwara's other hand. Fujiwara's pulse was racing frantically, like he'd been running sprints.

“Thank you,” Fujiwara said. He leaned into Shindou's shoulder again, and shut his eyes.

After a few minutes, Fujiwara's breath evened out, his pulse slowing to a steady beat. Akira heaved a silent sigh of relief, and met Shindou's eyes across Fujiwara's back. We should take him out of here, Akira mouthed. Being away from the attic and that goban – Fujiwara's former prison, really – might prevent another panic attack.

Shindou nodded. “Sai, are you ready to go?” he asked, his tone softer than Akira had ever heard it.

“Yes,” Fujiwara said uncertainly, as if he'd been presented with a riddle.

“Where do you want to go?”

“...I want to go home.”

Shindou licked his lips nervously. “Do you mean my house or Ogata's place?”

“No, my home. Heian-kyou.”

Shindou swallowed hard, and Akira knew he was forcing back tears. “Sai, you can't go back there. It's Kyoto now. It's not the same anymore.”

With disjointed, halting moments nothing like his usual grace, Fujiwara pulled away from Shindou, staring at him with an expression of disbelief. Finally, the disbelief faded, replaced by a weary resignation. Fujiwara bowed his head. “I... understand. Then please, would you take me to Ogata-sensei's apartment?”

Hurt flashed across Shindou's face, but he didn't seem surprised. Instead, he just nodded, and helped Fujiwara to his unsteady feet.

Akira felt a pang of sympathy for Shindou, and wondered if Shindou understood Fujiwara's reasons. Even though Fujiwara had apparently regained his memories, and his memories of living with Shindou for over two years, he was afraid to return with Shindou.

Shindou's house was where he had disappeared.

* * *

Ogata tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for the traffic light to change. He'd been at a social mixer at a Watami pub with some “very valued” sponsors for most of the afternoon. The sponsors were valued enough that the Go Association's Board of Directors had decided that at least one title-holder needed to give up part of his three-day holiday to stroke their egos. Ogata, as one of the youngest titled players, had been a logical sacrifice.

Ogata was aware, of course, that these sponsors were the same ones who funded the extravagant prize money for the titles – his included – but that didn't mean that he liked having to socialize with them for hours and pretend that their jokes were funny. Especially considering that alcohol did not improve everyone's personality, specifically the assistant editor for The Asahi Shimbun, who'd been seated next to Ogata. He'd become progressively friendlier with his hands the more beers he'd downed. The worst part was that Ogata couldn't just simply maim him in front of all the other guests, not when the assistant editor had the excuse of being “drunk.” It was expected that Ogata would simply shrug it off like any good-natured person.

Sometimes Ogata hated Japanese customs.

But then Ogata had discovered, to his immense delight, that the man had smoke allergies. Nothing serious, just enough of a reaction to make him cough and rub at his eyes. Naturally, Ogata had opted to puff away for the entire remainder of the mixer. Even better, the man couldn't complain, as several of his superiors had also decided to light up after Ogata had pulled out his cigarettes.

Sometimes Ogata rather enjoyed Japanese customs.

Ogata's mood had been thus improved, until he'd finally gotten out of the meeting to discover that he had a brief e-mail from Akira: Fujiwara-sensei is not feeling well, so Shindou and I brought him back to your apartment. I apologize for the intrusion.

Immediately, Ogata had called Akira. Akira had been vague about the details, only stating that Fujiwara was upset and not sick per se, and had tried to downplay the incident, but Ogata knew that Akira wouldn't have contacted him in the first place if Akira weren't seriously worried. Akira had always made a conscious effort not to be a bother. Then there was the fact that Akira and Shindou were still with Fujiwara -- “just to keep him company,” Akira had said on the phone, but Ogata could read between the lines. For some reason, they didn't want to leave Fujiwara alone.

Ogata could only imagine what had happened, and various scenarios – all unpleasant -- played through his mind as he sped down the expressway. At least it was Sunday. There were never many patrol cars on this stretch on Sunday.

Finally Ogata reached his apartment. He opened the door, noticing only two pairs of shoes in the entranceway. One large enough to be Fujiwara's, the other pair smaller and leather. Nothing bright and yellow and tacky, however, so Shindou was gone.

Akira padded up to the doorway in his socks and took Ogata's coat. “Shindou's mother wanted him home for dinner, so he left a little while ago,” Akira said in a low voice. “Fujiwara-sensei is sleeping on the couch.”

Ogata nodded sharply, and made a beeline for the living room.

Fujiwara was covered in a heavy blanket, even though it was still relatively warm outside. He didn't stir when Ogata approached.

Ogata's frown deepened. There was something pinched about Fujiwara's face, as if he were unable to relax even in sleep. Like he was in pain. Ogata touched the back of his palm to Fujiwara's forehead. His skin wasn't hot, despite the blanket, so he wasn't running a fever at least.

There was nothing else Ogata could check without disturbing Fujiwara. He'd have to wait until the other man woke up.

Akira was waiting at the kitchen table, his hands folded in his lap. “He's been sleeping mostly ever since we brought him back. Sometimes he wakes up with a start, but he doesn't stay awake for long.”

Ogata sat down heavily, letting a long breath out. “Akira. What exactly happened today? The three of you went to visit Shindou's grandparents, correct?”

Akira looked down at his hands, a gesture that struck Ogata as distinctly guilty. “Not quite. Shindou's grandparents are out of town. We went to visit the house... for Fujiwara-sensei's memories.”

Ogata edgily wondered what else he hadn't been told yet. “So visiting the house ended up making him upset. Enough that he had a breakdown and you had to bring him back here. A bad enough breakdown that you didn't want to leave him by himself.”

“Yes. He went into shock.”

“Why didn't you bring him to the hospital, then?” Ogata said, his jaw clenching.

Akira's chin raised, and his eyes flashed. “Because he didn't want to go. Forcing him would have only made him more upset.”

Ogata repressed the urge to sigh. He was going about this the wrong way. Seeing Fujiwara like that and not knowing what was wrong was making him snappish, but obviously offending Akira wasn't going to help matters. “I apologize, Akira-kun. You handled the situation as best as you could. May I ask exactly what is making him so upset, so I know what I'm dealing with?”

“He remembers now,” Akira said quietly.

Ogata froze, trying to process what he had just heard. “What... what exactly does he remember?” Ogata managed to ask.

Akira's gaze slid over to the living room. “Everything, it seems. At least, he remembers everything that Shindou already knew, as well as things that Shindou had no knowledge of.”

Fujiwara was cured? His amnesia was gone? No wonder Fujiwara had suffered a meltdown. Remembering so much at once would be enough to overwhelm just about anyone. “So he remembers where he comes from? His past life?” Ogata asked as evenly as he could manage with his blood pounding in his ears.

Akira nodded. “Yes. But it's...” Akira paused, searching for words. “...complicated.”

“'Complicated'?” Ogata arched an eyebrow. Obviously, Akira didn't want to breach whatever confidence Shindou was holding him to, something Ogata didn't actually hold against Akira. Akira was incapable of being rational when Shindou was involved. “That's rather vague.”

Akira bit at his lip, then said: “Fujiwara-sensei doesn't have a place to return to. Shindou told him as much before, but I think he must have been hoping all along that there was something or someone that Shindou didn't know about. Now that he remembers himself, he's having to try to accept it.”

So Fujiwara really was alone. There was no one else. A sense of relief washed over Ogata. Then he mentally scolded himself. It was hardly proper to feel good about such a tragic revelation.

“I told you that Fujiwara-sensei wakes up sometimes,” Akira continued. “He's... checking to make sure that we're still here. He's afraid. Afraid of being left alone.”

Ogata nodded, recalling Fujiwara's nightmare several months ago. He'd been afraid of being left alone then, too, something Ogata had attributed to his amnesia. “That's not surprising. He must feel vulnerable.”

“There's more, of course, but I don't think it's my place to tell you,” Akira said, a hint of apology in his tone.

“Don't worry about it. That's enough information for now. I'll discuss the rest with Fujiwara-san later, and see where he wants to go from here. Why don't you go home and get some rest? You look tired,” Ogata suggested, noticing Akira's sagging shoulders and drawn face. He was probably drained after dealing with such an emotional situation.

“Are you sure?” Akira said, hesitating.

Ogata felt himself soften at Akira's concern. Akira hadn't known Fujiwara for long, but he cared a lot for the other man's welfare. “Go home. He'll be fine. He's been through some rough patches already, and he's got a strong spirit.”

Akira nodded in agreement, and got up from his chair.

Ogata followed him to the entranceway. Akira put on his shoes, and then gave Ogata a measured look. “Ogata-sensei, Fujiwara-sensei's past is... unusual.”

“Fujiwara-san is unusual. It's probably a prerequisite to becoming a go player,” Ogata said dryly.

Akira shook his head. “It's more than that. His story isn't easy to believe. Please try to keep an open mind.”

Ogata frowned, wondering exactly what Akira thought he'd have a hard time believing about a man he'd found floating in a canal in the middle of the night. There was nothing normal about Fujiwara. Of course he'd have a strange past. “Alright, Akira-kun. I understand. And thank you, for taking care of Fujiwara-san.”

“I'm glad I could do something,” Akira said, but his troubled eyes didn't match the smile on his lips.

Ogata closed the door, pondering Akira's expression. He was probably still worried about Fujiwara. Akira had always possessed a tender side.

* * *

Ogata was puzzling over a kifu when a gasp broke his concentration.

Fujiwara was awake.

“Ogata-sensei?” Fujiwara whispered. “Are you there?” With sluggish movements, as if he were underwater, he pushed the blanket off, and struggled to right himself.

“I'm here,” Ogata said quickly, getting out of his chair. He sat down beside Fujiwara on the couch. The other man was shivering, Ogata realized with alarm.

Fujiwara squinted at him as if he were having trouble focusing. “Ogata-sensei?”

Ogata took Fujiwara's hand and squeezed it briefly. “I'm right here.”

The contact seemed to reassure Fujiwara. He gave a small sigh of relief, then smiled. “You can touch me.”

“Um, yes,” Ogata said, although he didn't know what Fujiwara meant. It didn't sound like he was giving permission to be touched as much as he were making a statement of fact, that Ogata was able to physically touch him. Which was a very strange thing to say, but Fujiwara was confused. “Are you cold?” Fujiwara hadn't stopped shivering.

“I... suppose.” Fujiwara blinked slowly, craning his neck as he looked side to side. “Where are Akira and Hikaru? How long have you been here?”

Ogata draped the blanket around Fujiwara's shoulders. “About an hour or so. Akira left when I got back. Hikaru left before that.”

Fujiwara fingered the tassels on the blanket idly. “Oh, yes. I told Hikaru to go home when his mother called. He argued with me, but I told him he shouldn't miss dinner with his family.”

He lowered his eyes, and Ogata knew that Fujiwara was thinking of the family that he didn't have. The home he now knew he could never return to.

“Is there something I can do for you? Do you need some aspirin?” Ogata offered, eager to quell the sensation of helplessness creeping over him. He liked problems with solutions. Perhaps that was why he found go fun, and maintaining relationships not nearly so much.

“No thank you,” Fujiwara said. “Well, actually there is something... if you wouldn't mind...”

Fujiwara's face had gone quite pink. “Yes?” Ogata prompted, striving not to notice how much a little coloring heightened Fujiwara's attractiveness. Considering Fujiwara's emotional condition, it was not appropriate.

“May I lean against you for awhile?” Fujiwara asked, staring at the blanket very fixedly.

Well damn. “Of course,” Ogata heard himself say nonchalantly. He shifted himself lower on the couch so that Fujiwara could rest his head on his shoulder comfortably.

Fujiwara scooted across the couch in increments until he was nearly pressed against Ogata's side, then he hesitated, evidently shy about breaching whatever he perceived to be Ogata's personal boundary space.

Ogata bit back a smile, and slid an arm around Fujiwara's shoulders, and tugged gently until the other man was tucked up against him, thighs and sides and shoulders aligning surprisingly well. They were almost exactly the same height, no more than a centimeter or two's difference, Ogata thought as Fujiwara put his head on his shoulder. Fujiwara had a smaller frame, though, so it wasn't difficult to balance his weight.

“Are you sure I'm not bothering you?”

“Not at all,” Ogata replied.

That answer seemed to do the trick: the tenseness left Fujiwara's muscles, and he let himself sag against Ogata, as if he'd finally been able to slip free of a heavy burden. His shivering gradually subsided, much to Ogata's relief. He'd been worried about Fujiwara succumbing to shock again.

“I'm sorry I'm always causing problems for you.”

“You aren't troublesome. You've held up remarkably well, considering what you've been through,” Ogata said. “Did you want to talk about it?”

“I made both Akira and Hikaru upset,” Fujiwara said in a small voice. “I don't want to drag you into it too.”

Ogata was about to disagree, but then Fujiwara shifted, and Ogata's mind completely blanked at the electric sensation of thigh sliding against thigh, and glossy hair rubbing against his cheek. Wholly innocent on Fujiwara's part, Ogata knew, but that didn't make it one iota less arousing. Ogata grit his teeth when Fujiwara's hand brushed against his side. If Ogata believed in a god, he was certain it was determined to foil his aspirations to be a better person.

Focus, idiot, Ogata scolded himself. He'd spent the entire summer striving in vain to unearth the truth about Fujiwara; now it was right in front of him. He just had to convince Fujiwara that it was safe to talk – that he needed to talk. “Akira and Shindou are good boys,” Ogata finally replied. “They have their hearts in the right place, but they're still very young. They lack experience. Not that I'm an expert, but I'm confident that I can offer you some solid advice. Or find you someone who can.”

“You've always given me good advice, Ogata-sensei,” Fujiwara said.

Ogata could hear a note of reserve in the praise, and Akira's troubled expression surfaced. Akira had been worried that he would find Fujiwara's story hard to believe. But Fujiwara had always been remarkably frank and open with him; Ogata knew he wouldn't lie about remembering his past, and he certainly wouldn't lie about the details of that past. Not to him.

Unless... did Fujiwara think he was protecting Ogata by withholding the truth? Before the match with Sensei, Fujiwara had been worrying about some old jealous rival, Ogata recalled, his pulse accelerating. If Fujiwara had reason to believe he was still threatened, there was a definite possibility that he'd hide it to protect Ogata.

“Are you in danger?” Ogata asked point-blank.

“Wha... what?” Fujiwara said, drawing his head away from Ogata's shoulder to stare at him, open-mouthed.

“That jealous rival you mentioned before, when you were worried about meeting Sensei. Is he after you?”

“Oh no. Not at all. He's... long passed on.” Fujiwara's head bowed.

Ogata resisted the very strong urge to retort Good riddance. “Is there anyone else who might cause you trouble?” Ogata said instead.

“No. There's no one else,” Fujiwara said quietly, looking away. “Ah... I'm a little thirsty. Do you want anything from the kitchen?”

“No, I'm fine.”

Fujiwara went to the kitchen, and Ogata took the opportunity to stretch and smooth out his clothing. There were warm spots on his body where Fujiwara had been resting. Ogata had never been inclined to snuggle, but whatever this was, it wasn't too bad.

Fujiwara came back with a glass of water, but instead of returning to the couch, he sat in the chair opposite the couch.

Ogata tried not to feel disappointed.

Fujiwara did not drink, but instead stared intently at the glass in his hands, as if he were expecting to find answers inside. “You deserve to know,” he said after a long moment of silence had passed.

A sense of foreboding crept over Ogata. There was definite reluctance in Fujiwara's tone, like he'd considered the issue from every angle and had still arrived at an unpleasant conclusion. Perhaps there were parts of Fujiwara's past that embarrassed him, and he was afraid Ogata would judge him. And Fujiwara had only just remembered, so whatever injuries he'd suffered would be fresh in his mind. “If it's difficult for you to talk about, I don't have to know right now. I just wanted to make sure that you weren't in any immediate danger. The rest can wait,” Ogata said, leaning forward and placing his hands on his knees.

Fujiwara pressed his lips together, so hard that they turned white. “No, I can't. If I don't tell you now, I won't be able to.”

“You're afraid to,” Ogata said with delicacy.

Fujiwara nodded. “I want you to believe me. I... need you to believe me.” He sounded almost desperate. If he'd been sitting closer, Ogata would have taken his hand again.

“Why would you think that I wouldn't?”

Fujiwara swallowed, and closed his eyes. “Ogata-sensei... you're very logical. Rational. You believe in the facts, in things you can touch and analyze and figure out. This is not like that.”

Ogata thought of the odd conversation Fujiwara had shared with Sensei. Did this have something to do with the connection Fujiwara supposedly had with Shuusaku? Ogata frowned. He'd heard of people who claimed they were the reincarnation of Jesus Christ or Napoleon or Genghis Khan, but Ogata had always chalked it up to attention-seeking behavior by people bored with their mundane lives. But Fujiwara didn't fit that profile at all. “Please,” Ogata said, “give me the benefit of the doubt. I trust you.”

“Thank you,” Fujiwara said, giving Ogata a shaky smile. He exhaled slowly. “I... used to teach go to the Emperor. I was one of two tutors to his Majesty.”

The Emperor?! Ogata was momentarily taken aback. He hadn't known that Emperor Akihito played go, or had go tutors, but the Imperial Household was infamously secretive. No wonder Ogata hadn't known of Fujiwara, or his rival. The royalty moved in completely different circles, aided by police and the government.

“But my rival – the other go tutor – was jealous of me. He framed me by pretending that I had... cheated at a game, and I was cast out of the court.” Fujiwara broke eye contact with Ogata. “I couldn't bear the shame. So I drowned myself.”

A cold chill ran over Ogata's body. No one had tried to murder Fujiwara. Fujiwara had tried and failed to kill himself, and Ogata had found him floating in the canal.

“But I still wanted to find the Hand of God, so my spirit was unable to ascend to heaven. My soul was trapped inside my goban – the same one that later passed into the hands of Torajirou and eventually into the hands of Hikaru's grandfather.” Fujiwara paused, and took a deep breath. “I spent... hundreds of years in that goban, just waiting for someone – anyone – who could hear my voice, so I could have another chance to play go again. All that time, and there were only two.”

Ogata's mind went numb. Fujiwara actually believed he'd committed suicide successfully -- and that he'd been dead for hundreds of years. Fujiwara hadn't been referring to the current Emperor at all.

“This is why I became so upset earlier. Hikaru showed me the goban in his grandfather's storage shed, and I remembered that it had been the prison for my soul,” Fujiwara said quietly. Fujiwara continued his story about how Torajirou had allowed him – or rather, Fujiwara's spirit -- to play all of Torajirou's games under the name Honinbou Shuusaku.

Ogata kept his face very still, but inwardly, his horror was increasing as he realized that Fujiwara believed every single word that he was saying about his existence as a spirit. There was no hint of a joke in Fujiwara's tone, no twitch to betray a lie, just the same sincerity that Fujiwara always exhibited. This was all quite real to Fujiwara.

Then Fujiwara began to explain the circumstances under which he'd met and possessed a certain Shindou Hikaru, persuaded him to take up go as a hobby, and sent the entire go community into a state of upheaval.

Despite Ogata's disbelief, he couldn't help noting how well the pieces of the story fit together, like patterns on a goban. Fujiwara's explanation meshed with the bits of the story Ogata already knew, like how Shindou's abilities fluctuated from brilliant to bad then better, and how extremely reluctant Shindou had been to divulge any information about s a i, and why Shindou possessed such an incongruous fixation with Honinbou Shuusaku (even to the point of accusing some washed-out pro of autograph forgery). The story worked startlingly well, even the part about Fujiwara's alleged past in the Heian court, which explained Fujiwara's hobbies and mannerisms.

“It was shortly after that game with Touya-sensei that I disappeared. I still don't know exactly why I disappeared. Neither does Hikaru. He told me that he quit playing go for several months because he thought it would bring me back.” Fujiwara's gaze turned inwards. “I think what scares me the most is that I don't know why I was allowed to come back with a body. Maybe I'll just disappear again,” he admitted in a tight voice.

Fujiwara did not speak again, and Ogata realized he was finished with his story. It was a story that explained Fujiwara's past perfectly, except for the minor fact that it was completely insane. Ogata was at an utter loss for words. What exactly what he supposed to say? Fujiwara clearly believed that he had told Ogata the truth, and he wanted Ogata's support. Actually, Ogata wished he could lie to Fujiwara; he wished he could pretend that he believed Fujiwara's story.

But Ogata had sworn to himself that he'd never lie to Fujiwara again, not after that initial lie of omission had almost destroyed their relationship. Nor could Ogata support Fujiwara in believing complete nonsense. That would only hurt Fujiwara's recovery in the long run. What Ogata needed to do was calm Fujiwara down first, and then help him think rationally about his situation. From there, Fujiwara could make informed decisions about his future.

“You aren't going anywhere,” Ogata said reassuringly, steepling his hands. “People just don't disappear. Spirits, maybe – I won't claim any knowledge of the occult or even its existence -- but obviously you're a real, tangible person.” Ogata took a deep breath, regarding Fujiwara carefully. “I think maybe you ought to consider visiting a psychiatrist. Remember Dr. Kiyohara? I'm sure she could recommend a good one, someone who is easy to talk to. You can discuss your fears about disappearing and your amnesia with the psychiatrist, and he or she can help you work through your issues.”

“You think I'm crazy. You don't believe me,” Fujiwara said, his eyes growing moist. He drew back in his chair, his water nearly sloshing out of his glass.

Ogata felt his stomach knotting at the sight of Fujiwara withdrawing from him like Ogata was repulsive. It would be so much easier to lie, and let Fujiwara lean against him again. “I believe that you believe your story is real. I don't think you're lying; I think you're confused, and I think you're still in recovery. There's nothing wrong with going to a doctor to work out your problems. I probably should have suggested this sooner, in truth, to help you deal with the stress and bad dreams.”

“Hikaru said I shouldn't tell other people because they would put me on drugs or lock me up, and I wouldn't be able to play go anymore. I don't want to,” Fujiwara said, setting his jaw stubbornly.

A flash of anger made Ogata's vision go white for an instant. So Shindou had warned Fujiwara to be afraid of the very same people who could help him. He'd abused Fujiwara's unwavering trust in him by engineering this crazy, elaborate story that gave Fujiwara the answers he needed, but for what purpose? Fujiwara was confused and sick, but Shindou had no such excuse.

Suddenly, Ogata had an epiphany: if Fujiwara believed he had a special, secret connection with Shindou that no one else could know about, then he'd be tied to Shindou. Shindou had convinced Fujiwara that there was no one else in his life, that Fujiwara was truly alone, and that only Shindou understood him, that Fujiwara had been his ghost, his constant companion for two and a half years. That was a powerfully binding story -- and horribly dishonest. Shindou had obviously known Fujiwara before his failed suicide, and he'd used Fujiwara's amnesia to manipulate the man for his own selfish reasons. He'd even gotten Akira to go along with the charade, probably by using Akira's infatuation with him.

Ogata was disgusted. He'd never suspected that Shindou could be capable of such a deed, or that Akira would let himself be duped into going along with it. “Don't you think it's a little unwise for Shindou to be advising you not to seek professional help? He's still a child, and ignorant about much of the world,” Ogata said, biting back the words he really wanted to say.

“I trust Hikaru. And Hikaru trusts me,” Fujiwara said pointedly.

Ogata's patience snapped. “Shindou is lying to you! He can't stand the thought you of regaining your independence from him, so he's using his position to encourage you to believe a ridiculous story – one that, might I add, conveniently makes you very dependent on him. And of course he told you not to talk to anyone else; they'd realize how wild the story is, and they'd try to talk you out of it.”

Fujiwara's lips trembled. “You're jealous. You're jealous of our relationship,” he said, his tone half-disbelieving. “Hikaru told me he thought you were, but I told him not to be childish. I suppose he was right.”

Ogata rubbed at his temples. He was developing a major headache. “I'm not jealous; I'm worried. You can't keep believing these lies. It's unhealthy.”

“I remembered most of these 'lies' on my own. And I remember things that Hikaru never knew, like the color of his Majesty's eyes, and the first song I learnt on my flute, and the smell of Heian-kyou after a hard rain. Hikaru didn't lie, and you're hardly in a place to be accusing anyone of dishonesty, Ogata-sensei,” Fujiwara whispered, tears slipping out of his eyes. “I'm sorry that I asked you to believe such a difficult story, but you're important to me, so I thought you should know what I am – what I was. I guess I was just being selfish again, because I knew that you don't believe in such things.”

“Please don't cry,” Ogata murmured. His head still hurt, and now he felt sick to his stomach, watching Fujiwara cry. He didn't know what he was supposed to say. Maybe there was nothing to say.

Fujiwara rubbed at his eyes. “I'm sorry. Please excuse me,” he said, abruptly standing up. He bowed quickly, and left for his room.

Ogata watched him go.

* * *
The next morning, Ogata wearily dragged himself out of bed after a restless night of sleep. He found a small suitcase by the entrance way, and Fujiwara sitting at the kitchen table, watching the steam curl off a cup of tea.

Fujiwara was leaving.

In all honesty, Ogata couldn't blame him. Fujiwara believed that story with all his heart, and Ogata had stomped all over it, and he'd placed the blame on Shindou to boot. Fujiwara probably despised him.

“Do you need a ride to the station?” Ogata didn't ask where Fujiwara was going. He didn't feel right demanding any more answers from Fujiwara.

“No thank you. It's not heavy.”

Ogata nodded mutely.

“Thank you for everything you've done for me. But I think it's time for me to leave.” Fujiwara stood up. He stared at Ogata hesitatingly for a moment, then stepped forward to give Ogata a quick hug. “Goodbye.”

Ogata watched him go.

* * *

Chapter Text

Ogata blinked dully at his computer monitor, wondering exactly how he'd arrived at a Wikipedia entry about HVAC, of all things. He'd logged on with the full intention of researching records from the Honinbou tournaments, but had found himself unable to focus. A quick glance at the computer's clock revealed that he'd just wasted the last two hours clicking about aimlessly... and that it had been a week and a half.

Fujiwara hadn't contacted him even once.

Initially, Ogata had thought that Fujiwara would return, after Fujiwara had gotten some space and a little time to recover. Fujiwara was inclined to be the forgiving sort; he had forgiven Ogata about the s a i incident, after all. And Fujiwara had been comfortable living with Ogata: he liked the condominium, his Chinese tutor lived next door, he knew the neighborhood, he had a job at that go salon, he had the fish... and he had Ogata. At the very least, Fujiwara had liked playing go with him. Even outside of go, they'd had some enjoyable experiences together.

But a week and a half? Logically, Ogata knew that he had to accept that Fujiwara wasn't coming back. Perhaps Fujiwara just couldn't forgive him, he thought, recalling that soft look of resignation in Fujiwara's eyes when he'd said goodbye -- as if the hurt had set in too deep, and Fujiwara had known it.

Scowling in irritation, Ogata closed the browser and rolled his chair back. There was no point in even attempting research if he couldn't concentrate. It was probably time to feed the fish their evening meal anyway.

He walked over to the aquarium display, and took out the containers of fish flakes and pellets from the storage space underneath the aquarium. First, he crumbled a few flakes into the tank, and watched as the fish began to converge towards the surface excitedly, the angelfish boldly seizing the largest chunks of food, while the tetras darted between them, nervously snapping up smaller bits. The male guppies were incapable of moving as quickly as the other fish because their ornamental tails slowed them down, so as always, he sprinkled in a little extra for them on the side while the other fish were distracted with the feeding frenzy at the center of the tank.

Next, Ogata dropped a pellet into the tank for the clown loach, smirking when the pellet landed directly on top of the lazy fish, startling it. “Maybe you ought to pay better attention, Kuwabara dearest,” he informed the fish dryly. He'd liked the fish's looks better before it had grown so fat, but Fujiwara seemed to favor it, crooning at it and calling it “cute.”

Had seemed to favor, Ogata corrected mentally, unable to stop himself from wondering if Fujiwara missed the fish. Probably.

He replaced the containers, and returned to his chair. He glanced at his cell phone, again considering sending Fujiwara a text. Nothing long, just a “how are you?” or even a “where are you?” But Ogata had ended up trashing all the drafts he'd started, paralyzed by a niggling feeling that he had somehow been the one in the wrong. Yet no matter how many times he replayed that conversation in his head, he couldn't see what he ought to have done differently, or what he should or shouldn't have said. The advice he'd given Fujiwara was sound and made out of concern for Fujiwara's best interests.

“I should have just lied,” Ogata muttered, suddenly not wanting to be anywhere near the fish. They reminded him too much of Fujiwara, like just about every other damn thing in the apartment. He grabbed a book off the shelf at random, and flicked the lights off as he left the study.

Book in hand, Ogata settled into his favorite chair in the living room, but he'd only gotten a paragraph or so into the foreword when he became uncomfortably aware that Fujiwara had been the last person to sit in that chair. The same chair where he'd cried because Ogata couldn't believe him.

Ogata let out a slow breath, unpleasantly reminded that he'd always had a very logical reason for not inviting girlfriends over to his apartment. He hadn't wanted to deal with distasteful memories cluttering up his living space after the inevitable breakup.

Well, at least he hadn't been thoughtless enough to let his physical attraction towards Fujiwara develop into anything serious. Nothing beyond some casual flirting here and there. Their separation – no, that wasn't the right phrase, he thought with a grimace -- the termination of their arrangement -- had been bad, but not nearly as bad as it could have been. They'd both known all along that the arrangement was just a temporary one; he just hadn't expected it to end so abruptly and on such poor terms. That had... unsettled him. He'd lost his equilibrium.

The cure for that was simply time, and other pursuits to distract himself with. He had led a perfectly fulfilling life before Fujiwara, and he merely needed to resume that life. Business as usual. He still had his go, and it was stronger than it had ever been. The arrangement with Fujiwara had ultimately achieved Ogata's aims: he'd brought his game to the next level. Allowing himself to fret over insignificant details was pointless: in the end, only go mattered.

Tomorrow was Thursday, which meant he had a match scheduled at the Go Institute. The winner of the match would advance to the next round of the Honinbou semi-finals. His opponent was Takeshima 9-dan, a player he had faced on several occasions. Ogata's record against Takeshima was four wins and two losses. The wins hadn't been as solid as Ogata preferred, but he knew that he had increased in strength significantly due to training with Fujiwara. He was expecting much better results for tomorrow's match.

He glanced at his watch. It was nearly eleven, so he decided to shower and turn in. He was accustomed to keeping late hours, but preferred to wake up earlier on match days. He abandoned the book on the chair's armrest with the resolve that he would continue reading it in that chair after his victory tomorrow. It was a very comfortable chair, and it would be ridiculous to allow himself to develop an aversion to it.

After all, Ogata prided himself on being reasonable.

* * *

After Ogata had answered enough questions from Kosemura to give the man enough material for a half-decent Go Weekly column, Ogata bowed again to his opponent, the officiator, and the recorder, and excused himself from the game room.

In the hallway, he rubbed at the crick in his neck, reveling in that unique mixture of fatigue and adrenaline that always accompanied a win. And of course, the urge for a good drag; his fingers always itched for a cigarette after a game. Depending on the outcome of the game, however, it was either a celebratory smoke, or a consolation smoke.

He eyed the stairs and the elevator, wondering which would result in him getting outside faster and thus getting his fix faster. He was up on the fifth floor: if the elevator stopped on every floor, then taking the stairs would be faster, especially if more than one person got on at each floor.

Ogata had started for the stairs when his attention was caught by the sight of a familiar figure emerging from one of the other game rooms. He was initially surprised to see Akira, but then he recalled that Akira had been promoted to 5-dan just three weeks prior. Akira's official matches were therefore held on Thursdays now, along with all the other upper dans -- like Ogata.

Akira was engrossed in examining the contents of the drink vending machine, his back turned to Ogata, so Ogata walked up to him noiselessly, waiting until he was almost directly behind Akira to speak: “Akira-kun.”

Ogata was perversely gratified to see Akira stiffen in surprise. Nice to know he still had the touch.

“Ogata-san,” Akira said, turning around, his face slightly pale, although composed.

“How was your match today? You played Tabuchi 7-dan, correct?”

“I won by three moku,” Akira said matter-of-factly, as if winning by such a large margin against a 7-dan veteran player was to be expected. For Akira, it was. Akira had never learned to expect any less of himself. That confidence was one of the reasons some players resented Akira, but Ogata found it one of Akira's endearing traits.

“Nice. Do you know if you'll be playing Shirakawa or Saeki next?”

Akira shook his head. “They haven't had their match yet. And how was your game today?”

“I also won. Takeshima made a mistake during chuuban, and he wasn't able to recover from it by the time we entered yose.” It was unnecessary for Ogata to mention that he'd spotted the mistake immediately, and exacerbated it ruthlessly. Akira already knew because he would have done exactly the same.

“I see. Congratulations.”

Ogata's eyes sharpened. There was strain in Akira's voice, and Akira was shifting his weight ever so slightly on his legs, a habit he only displayed when he felt awkward. For Akira to feel uncomfortable around Ogata -- someone Akira had known all his life – meant that Akira was concealing something.

Ogata had to know what it was.

“What's bothering you?” Ogata said softly. If he came at Akira aggressively, Akira would become evasive. The gentle approach was better for slipping under Akira's defenses.

“Ah, nothing really. I was just thinking about an upcoming match.” Akira's eyes slid to the side. “I really ought to get going; I'm meeting someone for lunch.”

Ogata knew that Akira was lying; Akira had always been too polite to look someone directly in the eyes when he was being deceptive. Ogata schooled his features into concern, and he leaned in, just enough to throw Akira off balance (Akira needed a lot of personal space). “Is it something I did?” In truth, Ogata didn't think any such incident had happened, not recently anyway, but Ogata needed to keep Akira talking. “If so, I apologize.”

Akira's face flushed, and he shook his head, flustered. “Not to me,” he said quickly. Then he pinched his lips together abruptly, as if he'd let too much slip.

Ogata wanted to rub his temples. Of course it was about Fujiwara. And here he'd been doing such a good job not thinking about the man, so well that his logic had failed to connect the dots. Of course Akira was still in touch with Fujiwara; Fujiwara had no reason to cut ties with Akira. Akira believed every single word of Shindou's crazy story. So it was only natural that Akira would feel awkward around Ogata; Ogata had rejected the ghost story, and had hurt Fujiwara.

Well, there was no point in further questioning. If Akira wanted to nurse a grudge based on a wild fairy tale, then it was hardly Ogata's business. Fujiwara had chosen to end their arrangement of his own volition, and Ogata was adult enough to accept that. Fujiwara was no longer his concern.

“Is he okay?”

Apparently, Ogata's mouth was not in agreement with his brain.

Akira's eyes widened. He did not answer for a long moment. “He's doing alright,” Akira finally said. “Better.”

“Where is he staying?” Ogata asked, reasoning that he'd already blown his resolve to ignore Fujiwara, so another question wouldn't make much of a difference.

Akira raised his chin ever-so-slightly. “Isn't that something you should ask Fujiwara-san yourself?”

That was rich, coming from the boy who'd more or less spent his junior high years practically stalking Shindou. Not that Ogata had disagreed with Akira's methods or aims – hell, he'd encouraged it -- but Ogata found Akira's sudden air of righteousness irritating.

Akira's phone vibrated from inside his messenger bag. Akira did not take it out, but instead frowned. “I'm running late. Please excuse me.”

Ogata ignored Akira, instead placing a light hand on Akira's shoulder. “Under normal circumstances, you'd be absolutely correct. I ought to ask Fujiwara myself. However, given that the last time I spoke to Fujiwara, I only made him upset – despite my best intentions -- I didn't want to risk upsetting him again. Surely you can understand that, considering the various instances you relied on others to inform you about Shindou. Don't tell me you've already forgotten.”

Akira glared, his eyes flashing fire, and Ogata arched an eyebrow. Really, Akira did have such a fierce expression when he was riled. Ogata would have probably found it a little scary if he didn't have a distinct memory of a two-year-old Akira wearing a ridiculously pink bib and smearing most of his dinner on his face.

“Really, Akira-kun? Are the dragon-eyes called for?” Ogata drawled.

Akira stepped sideways so Ogata's hand slid off his shoulder. “I don't think the situations are comparable.”

Ogata sighed. Akira wasn't interested in making it easy. “I'm not going to try to see Fujiwara. I have no interest in intruding where I'm not welcome. But I know he isn't ready to live on his own, so I would simply like know that he's... in a safe situation.”

The anger dissipated from Akira's face, and he gave Ogata a measured glance. “Fujiwara-san is staying at my house for now. I asked him to, since it's large for me to maintain by myself while my parents are gone.”

Relief flooded Ogata. So, Akira had managed to overcome Fujiwara's pride by phrasing the offer as a request for help. Smart boy. The Touya residence was an ideal place for Fujiwara, and Ogata knew that Fujiwara would be welcome to stay as long as he needed. Ogata did find it odd that Fujiwara hadn't opted to stay with Shindou, as close as Fujiwara was to Shindou. Regardless, it was definitely better that Fujiwara stay with Akira instead.

“Thank you,” Ogata said, grateful for the peace of mind. Even though Akira had been duped by Shindou, Akira was still a good child at heart.

“OK Touya, now you'd better stop bugging me all the time about running late.”

Shindou was standing at the head of the stairwell, leaning against the wall with a lazy smile, but Ogata could read anger in the taut lines of Shindou's shoulders and neck. Anger directed straight at him, of course. Shindou had probably heard Akira tell him about Fujiwara's location.

Akira started. “I'm sorry! I lost track of time,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “If we hurry, we can still catch the next rapid.”

Shindou snorted. “I can. Dunno about you, granny legs.”

“Shindou!” Akira huffed, his face flushing red again, but in a way that suggested he rather enjoyed the teasing on some level. “Have a good afternoon, Ogata-san,” he said cordially, then took off for the stairs.

Shindou let him pass. “I'll give you a head start, you know, senior citizens' handicap!” he called after Akira's retreating back. When the sounds of Akira's footfalls had faded, Shindou turned his gaze back towards Ogata. He smiled again, a hard and bright expression that had no warmth to it.

“Need something?” Ogata said nonchalantly.

“Actually, yeah,” Shindou said in a low voice. “For you to stay away from Sai. Haven't you already been enough of a jerk to him, or have you got a quota to fill?”

Ogata eyed Shindou coolly, impressed that Shindou had mustered up enough nerve to stare him down – granted, from a distance, but still admirable considering the boy used to dash off at the mere sight of him. Idly, Ogata noted that Shindou had finally hit a major growth spurt; he'd probably added at least ten centimeters this year. “I told Fujiwara-san the truth, Shindou-kun. I hope you aren't expecting me to apologize for being honest.”

Shindou clenched his jaw. “I know better than to expect an apology from you. You're never wrong, are you? Must be nice.” Shindou turned to leave, then he stopped abruptly. “Sai never really did tell us what you said to him. He tried, but he couldn't stop crying. Cried so much he made himself sick. Thought you'd like to know.”

Ogata had nothing to say.

“I hate you,” Shindou said calmly. Then he was gone.

Ogata found he no longer wanted a victory cigarette. He just wasn't in the mood anymore.

* * *

After he left the Go Institute, Ogata ate an early dinner. There wasn't anywhere he felt like going, so he decided to simply return to his condominium.

The book was still sitting on the armrest, looking rather forlorn. Ogata picked it up, flipping to the table of contents, surprised to find it was a book about Beijing. He didn't remember buying it. Perhaps the book had been a gift – maybe from Akiko or Sensei? Ogata often got books as presents, although not books about go or fish; his friends knew that if an interesting go or fish book was published, Ogata probably already owned it. Ogata started reading. The book wasn't strictly a travel guide; granted, it had the usual glossy photographs of famous sites and scenic places, but there was also detailed information about the history of the city as well as the various social issues that had shaped it.

Idly, Ogata wondered if he ought take a vacation. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a nice long vacation. There'd been that trip with his mother to London back when he was still in high school, but he hadn't been out of the country since. If he scheduled the vacation at the right time, he could avoid missing any critical matches. Hell, he could probably convince the Institute to work around his schedule with minimal persuasion. Ogata was a title-holder now, after all. The majority of the Institute's publicity and profits were generated by the handful of pros who made it to the top, so the Institute was inclined to treat those select few with some favoritism.

Ogata bookmarked a few pages before setting the book aside. He'd think about it. He needed something to amuse himself with.

On his way to the bathroom, he noticed that the door to Fujiwara's room was slightly ajar. Instead of closing the door, he went inside.

Unsurprisingly, the room was clean: the bed made, the books all neatly aligned on the shelves, and the surfaces dusted. There was little evidence that the room had been lived in, except for a single hanging scroll with a depiction of koi in a tea garden pond. Fujiwara hadn't spent much time in the bedroom, though, so it wasn't surprising that he hadn't put much effort into the décor. But perhaps Fujiwara had also felt reluctant to alter the room since he knew his stay was temporary. Honestly, Ogata wouldn't have cared if Fujiwara had redecorated; Ogata had never used the room before, other than as extra space for his bookcases.

Inside the closet was another story: Fujiwara had left what appeared to be the majority of his clothes. Ogata scowled, recalling the size of the suitcase that Fujiwara had taken when he'd left. Of course Fujiwara hadn't been able to fit all his wardrobe into that small suitcase. Ogata pinched at the bridge of his nose, exasperated. It wasn't a matter of Fujiwara not liking the outfits he'd left behind; he'd picked them all out himself, after all. Fujiwara had probably thought he shouldn't take too much since Ogata had paid for them, which was ridiculous. Ogata certainly wasn't going to wear Fujiwara's clothes. Even if they had the same tastes in fashion – and they didn't -- Fujiwara was about two sizes smaller.

Well, Ogata would just have to pack the clothes up, and drop it by the Touyas' at some point, preferably when Fujiwara was out. If Akira asked Ogata about it, he would say that he needed the closet space. Fujiwara could throw the clothes away or give them away if he really didn't want them; the point was, the clothes didn't belong in Ogata's apartment.

Ogata pulled all the clothes out and placed them on the bed, careful to keep them flat. When he'd finished folding them, he put them into a cardboard box. As an afterthought, he rolled up the wall scroll and placed it on top of the clothes. Ogata then set the box by the entranceway with a feeling of accomplishment. Good riddance.

Accomplishment, naturally, deserved a reward. Ogata still didn't feel like a cigarette, but a beer seemed tempting. He hadn't been able to enjoy the free alcohol at that sponsors' mixer, thanks to that editor with no concept of personal space. Instead Ogata had spent his time engaged in chemical warfare via secondhand smoke. But now that he was in the safety of his own apartment, Ogata had the urge to get absolutely hammered. He hadn't been good and drunk since that conference ages ago, when some fans had treated him for winning the Juudan title.

A brief search revealed four cans of Yesibu inside the refrigerator, and a completely untouched 6-pack inside a cabinet. Ogata wasn't surprised to find so much beer; he'd drunk very little the entire summer because he had always been playing Fujiwara, and hadn't wanted to dull his mental edge. Ogata took all the cold cans out, then shoved the pack inside the freezer so it would be ready to drink sooner.

Ogata settled down into his chair in the living room and popped a can open. He wondered if Fujiwara drank. He'd never seen Fujiwara drink during all the time they'd lived together, but maybe Fujiwara just didn't like beer, which was the only alcohol Ogata usually kept stocked. Considering Fujiwara's tastes, perhaps he preferred something more traditional, like sake or shochu.

Not that Fujiwara's preferences were of any further concern, Ogata reminded himself sternly. Really, it was rather embarrassing that his thoughts kept gravitating to Fujiwara. As a go professional, Ogata prided himself on exercising excellent control over his concentration, both on and off the board. (That little “move sealing” incident during the Honinbou finals had taught Ogata the hard way what happened if he let his control slip for even a moment, damn that old monkey Kuwabara.)

Fujiwara, though, was proving hard to push aside. Ogata considered the problem for a good moment. He had been rather fixated – obsessed, to be honest – with all things s a i for years. He had researched every Internet rumor, had tracked down kifu, and had even pumped people for information. Thinking about s a i had become a regular part of Ogata's life: a habit. A habit that had now lost its usefulness. If Ogata didn't check it, the habit might even become detrimental to that mental sharpness he had to maintain.

Well, habits could be broken, just as readily as they could be formed. All breaking a habit required was determination, a quality Ogata possessed in spades. He just needed to distract himself every time he was tempted to think about Fujiwara.

Setting his jaw in grim determination, Ogata turned the TV on. He flipped the channel to one of the more popular and particularly mindless variety shows. Sober, he couldn't stand the show. Tonight, Ogata decided, was an excellent night to figure out exactly how many beers it took before he actually found the show entertaining.

It took two beers before Ogata stopped wanting to rip the microphone away from the obnoxious host, and three for Ogata to crack a smile. Somewhere through the fourth, Ogata actually started laughing, although he wasn't sure if he was laughing at the host's idiotic puns, or himself for watching a show he loathed.

Ogata was on the fifth when he remembered that there was a box of clothes sitting in his entranceway, and it just suddenly, really, pissed him off. He didn't like clutter in his entranceway. Shoes and umbrellas were OK. Clothes, on the other hand, were definitely not.

Ogata pulled his cell phone out of his shirt pocket, and dialed Fujiwara's number with the air of a man on a mission.

Fujiwara picked up on the fourth ring. “Good evening, Ogata-san.”

“Hey. What're you doing?” Ogata said without preamble.

“...Are you well? You sound a little... strange.”

Ogata realized he was getting tipsy, but even so, the wariness in Fujiwara's tone irritated him. What did Fujiwara think he was going to do? Be rude to him over the phone? “I'm fine. Except for your clothes. Your clothes are in my entranceway. Anyway, what're you up to?”

“I'm very sorry; I couldn't fit them all in the suitcase. I apologize for the trouble. And... I'm just studying.”

Ogata laughed at the TV, only belatedly remembering to move the phone away from his mouth. The guest star had been coaxed into eating some disgusting-looking concoction of squid and spaghetti, and the expression he was making was utterly priceless. Even a child would have known that was a spectacularly bad idea. Ogata moved the phone back to his face. “Studying? Well, your clothes are here. Where's Akira?”

“Akira's out with some friends.” Fujiwara paused. “I could come get the clothes tomorrow, if it's convenient.”

“Haha, I hope he's not eating squid pasta. No, tomorrow's no good,” Ogata stated with absolute certainty. Nope, no good at all. Had to be tonight. “Look, I'll just put it in my car and bring it to you tonight. I know the way, no need to even bother with directions. It'll be easier for you, since you won't have to deal with a big box on the train.”

“No, please don't.” Fujiwara sounded distinctly anxious. “I don't want to trouble you.”

Ogata wondered why Fujiwara was fretting. It wasn't like Ogata was going to get lost driving to a house he'd been visiting for like, forever. “Not out of my way. Won't even take long.” It was true. Ogata had learned that the stretch to Sensei's house was wonderfully under-policed in the evenings. He bet he could get the box delivered even faster than Kuroneko.

“Ogata-sensei, please don't drive. I'm coming over right now.”

Ogata took another swig of beer, then wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You sure?”

“Yes, I'll be there very soon. Please... don't get into your car, okay?”

“Fine, whatever,” Ogata said agreeably. “But if you don't hurry, there isn't going to be any beer left for you.” He hung up the phone, smug in the knowledge that Fujiwara would certainly come quickly now. Yebisu was the best.

Ogata watched the show for a few more minutes before growing bored with the endless variations of “What is the most disgusting and/or hottest thing we can make an idol eat?” Even the magical properties of beer apparently had its limits.

He flicked the TV off, and dragged the chair over to the goban sitting on the coffee table. Since Fujiwara was visiting, Ogata decided he ought to take the opportunity to show Fujiwara the game he'd played earlier. Ogata was rather eager to hear Fujiwara's input, especially since Ogata's application of the ogeima at 14-15 had been inspired by games with Fujiwara. Ogata began laying stones on the board, pleased to find that his memory seemed only slightly impaired (he'd only almost misplaced stones twice). Well, he had always been damn good at holding his liquor, Ogata reflected with pride. Hip hip horray for his British metabolism.

A vague feeling of unease at talking go with Fujiwara surfaced, but Ogata pushed it aside with a few gulps of beer. Go was awesome. Nothing was more fun than go. Fujiwara knew that, better than anyone else. Yes, they'd had their disagreements, but go was go.

Ogata was still nursing his sixth beer when he heard a quiet rap on his door; he'd slowed down his drinking so he wouldn't be too sloshed for the discussion. “Come in,” Ogata called. He knew Fujiwara still had a key. Really, it wasn't even necessary for Fujiwara to knock. Ogata waited, listening as Fujiwara removed his shoes, then made his way to the living room.

Fujiwara bowed when he entered the room. “Good evening. I'm sorry for intruding so late. Thank you for packing the box,” Fujiwara said politely, but his clasped hands revealed his unease.

“It's not a problem. I don't have a match tomorrow,” Ogata said, feeling a prick of annoyance. True, they had parted ways on a sour note, but that was no reason for Fujiwara to act as if they were strangers. They had lived together. “Anyway, wanna beer?”

Fujiwara regarded the proffered can with wide eyes and blushed, as if he'd never been offered a beer before. “Um, no thank you. I probably ought to be heading back to the Touyas' house soon.”

Ogata smirked, amused at Fujiwara's overreaction. Fujiwara was cuter when he blushed. Maybe he ought to tell Fujiwara that, so Fujiwara would blush more often. Instead, he replied, “No beer? Then I'll get you some tea. Sit down.” Ogata gestured to the couch on the other side of the goban, then headed to the kitchen, not waiting to hear a refusal from Fujiwara. If Ogata gave him something to drink, especially something he'd had to prepare, Fujiwara would be obliged to stay for at least a little while. He was too well-bred to simply leave.

Ogata dithered between some nice chai he'd acquired recently, and their old favorite, Earl Grey. Finally he chose the chai, and took his time preparing it. Good tea should not be rushed.

Fujiwara was indeed sitting on the couch when Ogata emerged from the kitchen, chai in hand. Fujiwara gave Ogata a look from underneath his lashes, an expression that somehow managed convey both gratitude and wariness. “Thank you,” Fujiwara said, accepting the cup and saucer.

A compulsion to sit down next to Fujiwara seized Ogata. Hadn't they sat together recently? Ogata recalled liking it. However, Ogata wasn't quite drunk enough that he was just going to give into whatever whimsy struck him. Fujiwara was already tense, and Ogata didn't want to agitate him more than necessary, not when they had a game to discuss. Besides, the ice bucket with the rest of the delicious beer was next to the chair.

Ogata plopped down in the chair, and popped open a new can of beer. He knocked it straight back, enjoying Fujiwara's sidelong glances. “You've never seen me drunk before, have you?”

Fujiwara glanced down at his cup quickly, apparently embarrassed to have been caught looking. He didn't answer.

Ogata shrugged nonchalantly. “I don't get drunk often. Takes a lot to get me sloshed, so gotta do it on purpose.”

“Why would you...” Fujiwara's voice trailed off.

Ogata arched an eyebrow. “What? Get drunk? I dunno. For kicks? Celebrating? I was bored?” Ogata never bothered to question the why once he'd achieved that pleasant buzz; his only major concern now was not crossing over the tipping point. He preferred not to wake up with the mother of all hangovers come next morning. “The real question is, why don't you want to try some of this delicious beer? Or are you a sake purist?” Ogata teased.

“I'll drink a little sake for a flower-viewing, or a moon-viewing,” Fujiwara said quietly. “I've never tried beer, but I don't particularly care for the smell.”

“How about a goban-viewing?” Ogata laughed loudly at his clever joke. “Tell you what, I'll go buy you some fancy sake – the kind that's so high grade that you can't even tell it's alcohol -- and then we can have a goban-viewing, and compose a poem to the greatness of go. Isn't that the old tradition? You sing a song, compose a poem, offer a toast?”

“Thank you for the offer, but you can't drive right now. And I'm going to head home soon.”

Ogata frowned. Fujiwara was playing hard-to-get, but Ogata knew him better; Fujiwara was probably just dying to talk go. “I know you already peeked,” Ogata said, gesturing at the game between them. “Probably memorized it all already.”

Fujiwara pursed his lips together haughtily, but he did not deny it.

“Ha!” Ogata chortled. “So what do you think?”

“It's a fine game. Your move at 14-15 reminded me of a game we played. I've never considered using the ogeima in such a fashion, but it works well here.”

Ogata nodded, but he felt vaguely dissatisfied at Fujiwara's subdued reaction. Fujiwara's body language didn't mesh with the praise. Rather than leaning in towards the goban, Fujiwara was pressing back into the couch, his legs and arms pulled in close, like a turtle. And he was staring at his cup again, as if the chai were far more interesting than the goban.

Maybe the chai was, for all Ogata knew. He'd probably deluded himself into thinking the game was better than it actually was, so Fujiwara was having to feign interest for politeness' sake. With a scowl, Ogata reached down, and swept the goban clean with one swipe of his arm. The stones clattered noisily against the glass surface of the coffee table, and Fujiwara jerked, startled.

“Sorry,” Ogata said automatically. “Didn't realize it was going to be that noisy.” He pushed his chair away from the table so he could search for the stones that had fallen to the floor.

Fujiwara joined him on the floor after a moment, helping Ogata sort the black and white stones into their proper goke. When they had finished, Fujiwara sat back on his heels. “Thank you for the chai. I really must get going---”

“Let's play,” Ogata interrupted. “The goban's all ready now; it would be a waste not to use it,” Ogata said, flashing Fujiwara his most charming smile. Ogata wanted to see Fujiwara across from him, his face lit up with passion and intensity and love for go – Fujiwara, not this reserved, detached person. “Besides, we're practically already in seiza.” Ogata picked the goban off the table and set it between them. “Just a quick game.”

“Ogata-sensei... you're drunk.”

Ogata pushed Black's goke towards Fujiwara. “Yes, but I'm not 'drunk-drunk.' You know when you start seeing doubles? Well, maybe you don't. Anyway, my point is, there's still only one of you right now. I might be in trouble if there were two of you. I don't think I could beat two of you. But there aren't, so why not play a game for fun?” Ogata grabbed a handful of the white stones, then rested his fist on the board. “C'mon. Odd or even?”

Instead of answering, Fujiwara bit at his lip, his eyes sliding towards the door.

A memory of Shindou's cold eyes flashed across Ogata's mind, and Ogata felt his stomach tighten. Shindou had said he hated Ogata, and he had meant it. Of that, Ogata had no doubt. But Shindou was still a child in many ways, and prone to childish logic. Fujiwara, though... Ogata had hoped that Fujiwara realized that Ogata had only had the best of intentions. But Fujiwara didn't even want to play him, not even for a short game. Did Fujiwara secretly hate Ogata too, so much that he didn't even want to be in the same room?

“Please?” Ogata said, unable to suppress a hint of desperation from leaking into his tone. He just had to play Fujiwara again. Damned beer, making him emotional. Ogata was drinking Sapporo next time.

Fujiwara gave him a small smile, and laid two stones on the board. “Even.”

Ogata opened his fist to count the stones, trying not to dwell on Fujiwara's expression. Fujiwara looked... sad. He ought to be happy. He liked go, didn't he? “Twelve. You're first, then.”

Fujiwara claimed the upper right star. Ogata responded with a stone at the lower left star, taking comfort in the familiarity of the joseki as they continued to claim the star points.

Surely, this was what he had been missing.

* * *

Ogata was the first to deviate from the pattern by playing a diagonal at 14-3 to check Fujiwara's star stone. On his next move, he strengthened the play with a stone at 14-5, planning to inhibit Fujiwara's ability to gain territory in that quadrant -- a defensive strategy. Although Ogata enjoyed playing riskier go, he was quite good at playing defensively when the situation called for it. And the situation definitely did: Fujiwara always played aggressively, but when Fujiwara had Black he played even more aggressively to make up for komi. If Ogata didn't take care to protect his advantage from the very beginning, Fujiwara would snatch it away. Also, Ogata was fully aware that he wasn't up to the mental task of playing tactically high-stakes go. He'd have to focus on solid go if he wanted to play respectably, and not lose by too large a margin (Ogata was not sloshed enough to believe he actually had a chance of winning this game; not against Fujiwara, not when he wasn't in top form).

Fujiwara's brow furrowed, his suspicions apparently roused. After a moment's consideration, he placed a stone at 16-14, a move that mirrored Ogata's play.

Ogata pushed his glasses up his nose contemplatively. If he were Black, he'd cut off White's connections as soon as possible, before White managed to lock Black out. Swiftly, Ogata added another stone to White's chain. Now it would be impossible for Black to interfere without being captured.

Fujiwara showed no shift of emotion on his face, but Ogata knew White's move had been effective because Fujiwara did not make a move against White. Instead, Fujiwara focused his attention on strengthening Black's position around the upper right star, a gesture which meant Fujiwara had decided to write off White's connection as a lost cause.

If Ogata wanted to try to sneak around Fujiwara's star at a later stage, it might be challenging, but Ogata didn't mind that loss of influence in a corner too much. White had gained a strong position near the board's upper center, a far more influential area. Pleased, Ogata turned his energy towards his larger plan. A strong outline could be built around the upper and lower star points he'd claimed in the left quadrants. Naturally, Fujiwara would do his best to disrupt White's plans, but Fujiwara would also be preoccupied with establishing his own outlines.

After about twenty more hands, Ogata had crafted a pleasing shape around the upper left star, one that blocked Fujiwara from any significant gains in the upper board. The fight that had erupted in the lower right was becoming worrisome, though. Black was playing very densely, blocking all of White's attempts to advance from the corner.

Ogata scowled at the sticky situation, then took a gulp of beer to fortify himself. He decided to abandon in the fight in the lower right in favor of plunging into the center, conservative play be damned.

Fujiwara followed.

The new clash was hardly unexpected, but Ogata couldn't help feeling a burst of adrenaline as they exchanged rapid blows, leaving tightly knotted chains of black and white in their wake. Black was vicious, brilliantly vicious. Ogata admired the genius behind the moves, even while acknowledging that White's territory was being sorely compromised by Black's assault into the center. The play was vicious and elegant and sharp and Ogata loved it, even though he was drunk and his head was fuzzy. Ogata glanced up, eager to see the excitement and intensity of the game mirrored on Fujiwara's face.

But there was none. Fujiwara's expression was as withdrawn as it had been earlier, as if he were still engaged in painful polite talk with a host he'd rather not see, his eyes soft and resigned. Resigned, like he already knew the conclusion of the game, and it made him sad.

Ogata felt a moment of guilt before irritation took over: Ogata wouldn't have been drinking in the first place if Fujiwara weren't being so utterly impossible. And why was Fujiwara underestimating him, anyway? Ogata was hardly playing shoddy go; no, not up to his usual standards, probably, but it wasn't bad go. Not bad enough to go and get all weepy over, at any rate. Ogata set his jaw and placed his next stone, resolved to fight to the bitter end. He placed his stones quickly, aware that over-analyzing would not serve him well against Fujiwara. It was better for him to rely on his instincts.

Fujiwara matched Ogata's fast pace, carving into White's territory with a cool, aggressive efficiency that seemed jarringly incongruous with that sad expression, like the person wearing that face had nothing to do with the hands placing the stones. Two different Fujiwaras.

Ogata scowled at the strange thought, and mentally scolded himself for letting his attention stray again. He had a game to worry about. Ogata tapped his finger against his chin, suddenly impatient to finish the game off. There wasn't much left to do in any area, except for the very top right of the board. White had already claimed the left and center top of the board in the very beginning stages of the game. If Ogata got around Fujiwara's right star, he could secure the top right as well, and gain that entire territory. Ogata hadn't seriously entertained winning, but the points from such a gain might very well be enough for White to win, with komi factored in.

Of course, White couldn't launch a straight-forward attack on Black's star. If Fujiwara realized Ogata's intentions, he'd spare no cost in stopping him. Ogata naturally wanted to avoid that, so he picked a fight with Black about ten spaces below his real goal, reasoning that a nice little territory battle ought to provide a good distraction.

Slowly the battle worked its way up towards the right star, Black and White filling in gaps in their earlier defenses. Finally, Ogata was in position to place a stone at 18-13 – just a hair away from Fujiwara's sole defense of his right star, a stone at 16-14.

Ogata couldn't help holding his breath as he laid the stone. After his next hand, it would be too late for Black to stop him, even if Black realized White's intentions. Ogata waited for Fujiwara's response, keeping his face expressionless.

Fujiwara did not even pause, playing a stone at 17-14 as if by reflex.

Ogata blinked at the stone dumbly, the horrible truth dawning on him slowly. Out of all possible moves, Fujiwara had just played the one single move that rendered Ogata's plan entirely useless, the move Ogata hadn't realized existed until now.

What was more, Fujiwara had been able to play that move because of the stone he'd placed for his ninth hand – the very stone Ogata had interpreted as a mere strengthening of Fujiwara's star position, a move of little significance. But now it seemed as if Fujiwara had already foreseen Ogata's intentions, before Ogata had even come up with the plan.

Ogata had never had a chance at all.

Numb, Ogata placed a stone at the bottom of the left quadrant. There was no real point to the stone. It was just his turn.

Fujiwara laid a stone nearby, and waited.

Ogata knew there was no point in playing further. Fujiwara had won. There were no more moves for Ogata to make.

“Makemashita,” Ogata said, bowing low, not looking at Fujiwara's face. He didn't want to see Fujiwara's disappointment at a game that had ended so embarrassingly prematurely. It was not a game worthy of a title-holder like Ogata. He'd been selfish and childish, demanding a game when he was drunk. That was the sort of silly stunt one could pull with a study group chum, or perhaps a junior. Not with a genius like Fujiwara.

“Thank you for your hospitality. Good night, Ogata-sensei,” Fujiwara said in a quiet, strained voice.

Ogata couldn't bring himself to see Fujiwara to the door, so he remained still, staring at the board while Fujiwara left. The game was ugly, but that wasn't Fujiwara's fault. Ogata could see the beauty of Fujiwara's play, and how poorly he had played in comparison. They had played a tight game, stones packed densely, so the ugliness of his own moves contrasted even more starkly against the beauty of Fujiwara's. It brought back unpleasant reminders of his calligraphy classes in junior high. Ogata had never quite been able to get his strokes to mirror the flowing perfection of the printed example.

Despite his shame, Ogata couldn't tear himself away from the goban. There was something hauntingly familiar about the game, a niggling sense of déjà vu. Which was definitely odd; it wasn't like Ogata made a regular habit of playing while drunk, and Ogata couldn't believe that any game he'd played while sober would seem even remotely similar to this game.

Ogata drew his brows together, searching his memory. There had been that conference in some random boring country town, a long time ago – back when Shimano had still been an insei studying under Sensei, before he'd given up his hopes of going pro and had turned amateur. There had been what, four of them? Shimano, Ashiwara, Shirakawa, and himself – they'd been passing around a bottle and taking turns at pair go. That couldn't be the game, though. There had been nothing serious about it; they had played intentionally poorly in order to sabotage their “partners” for laughs.

God, his head was starting to hurt, even despite the numbing effects of the alcohol. With a scowl, Ogata pulled his glasses off, shoving them into his shirt pocket so he could massage his temples.

Let me play s a i.

Ogata blinked slowly at a memory of himself sitting across from Shindou at a goban, demanding a match with s a i after he'd beaten Shindou at rock-paper-scissors. When had that been? Shindou had been a lot shorter, his face rounder. Two, two-and-a-half years ago? They'd been at some tourist hotel, doing shidougo demonstrations for the guests. Ogata had definitely been wasted; some of his fans had taken him out drinking to celebrate his winning his first title – the Juudan.

Ogata had been drunk, but he had still wanted to play s a i. Had needed to play s a i, and Ogata had been drunk enough that he didn't care that the guests were watching as he challenged his junior for the right to a game with s a i. Shindou had humored him, cheerfully agreeing to play Ogata in s a i's stead.

Ogata squinted at the board, trying to dredge up the memories of that game. Shindou had won; he'd played brilliantly, a performance worthy of s a i's student. Slowly, Ogata began to rearrange the stones on the goban, misplacing the stones only a few times. Like the game tonight, that game with Shindou hadn't lasted long. Ogata hadn't been playing up to par, of course, but the skill displayed by Shindou was far beyond what anyone would expect from a newly-minted pro, even one with Shindou's erratic talent. Shindou hadn't been intimidated by Ogata in the least – granted, Ogata had been stone-cold drunk – but even so, Shindou had played with an admirable calmness, with a solidity that one wouldn't expect from a child.

Ogata finished replaying every move he could recall, but there were still several missing sections. Ogata had never been able to recall the game in its entirety because Shindou had cleaned off the board before Ogata could commit it to his diminished memory, and Shindou had steadfastly refused any requests to recreate it.

However, Ogata did remember the significant end-game. Shindou had known where Ogata's critical point was. He'd attacked Ogata's key stone, and sealed his victory. Just like Fujiwara tonight. Ogata's eyes widened as he stared at the board: Exactly like Fujiwara. A clean, game-ending move, surprisingly obvious in retrospect, but wholly unexpected at the time. Had Shindou really internalized Fujiwara's play to such a level that he could change his style to play as Fujiwara at will?

Ogata scanned the rest of the board quickly, mentally imposing the game he'd just played with Fujiwara over the recreated game against Shindou. The efficiency of the moves, the elegance of the style, the degree of strength: it was all identical. How, Ogata wondered in disbelief, was it even possible for Shindou to imitate Fujiwara that closely? Ogata had been studying under Touya Kouyou for far longer than Shindou under Fujiwara, but Ogata couldn't even hope to emulate Sensei half as convincingly.

Of course, the identical play was entirely understandable if Fujiwara had indeed been possessing Shindou.

A shiver ran down Ogata's spine. That was preposterous. Utterly absurd. Briefly, Ogata entertained the idea of more beer to flush the stupidity out of his system, but he resisted the urge. There was something important here, some crucial point evading his grasp. Ogata had demanded that Shindou let him play s a i, and Shindou had offered to play in Sai's stead, but Shindou had played just like s a i instead of Shindou, and that was impossible.

Then Shindou had disappeared for months, forfeiting games, skipping Morishita's study session, and even avoiding Akira. Ogata frowned in concentration, piecing dates together. It was right after that drunken match in the hotel that Shindou had quit playing go, wasn't it? Ogata recalled thinking that it was such a waste, considering the talent Shindou had just displayed. But if--if--that absurd ghost story was true, had Shindou been grieving Fujiwara's disappearance? That would explain Shindou's erratic behavior.

Fujiwara had claimed that he'd disappeared shortly after the game with Touya-sensei, which was corroborated by the second disappearance of s a i from NetGo. But that match in the hotel, with the Shindou-who-played-like-s a i, that had definitely happened after Sensei's Internet game.

Again, Ogata turned his focus to the board, his stomach tightening. Ogata had played Fujiwara far too many times not to recognize Fujiwara's particular combination of aesthetics, classical moves and pure genius. Fujiwara's fingerprints were all over Black's stones.

Ogata's heart slowed, and he could hear the sound of blood pounding in his ears. Ogata and Shindou had been alone in that hotel room, except for Ashiwara, who'd been sound asleep, and besides, Ashiwara couldn't fake s a i style's if his life depended on it. Shindou hadn't had his cell phone out or a laptop nearby or a Bluetooth headphone in his ear; there was simply no way that he could have been receiving instructions from an outside source. At least not one perceptible to Ogata.

Ogata drew a long, shaky breath, and replaced his glasses. It had been one matter to dismiss the ghost story when he'd thought all of s a i's games had taken place only on the Internet. Anyone could lie and conceal identities or gender or origins online; that was a large part of the Internet's appeal. But this game had taken place in his very presence; Ogata couldn't deny the results. Ogata trusted his instincts as a go player, and those instincts told him he'd played s a i both times.

Fujiwara had actually been a.... ghost. Ogata swallowed, his fists clenching involuntarily. My god. Fujiwara -- the ghost Fujiwara -- his last opponent hadn't been Sensei at all. He'd played Ogata via the medium of Shindou, because Ogata had been drunk and pushy and demanding.

Just like tonight. Ogata had refused to take “no” for an answer, so he'd cajoled Fujiwara into playing him, taking advantage of the other man's kindness. Ogata hadn't thought he was really doing anything wrong, other than perhaps being annoying, and lots of people were annoying drunks so it wasn't that big of a deal.

But now, now that Ogata knew the truth, Fujiwara's uncharacteristic behavior suddenly took on a new light. Fujiwara had been withdrawn and reluctant, but not because he was angry with Ogata. That expression on his face... Fujiwara had been in pain. In all likelihood, Ogata had forced him to relive a very unpleasant memory. Fujiwara's last damn game before he “died” or whatever it was that happened to ghosts when they disappeared, and it had been against a drunk.

Hardly a send-off worthy of a genius who loved go more than anything.

A distinctly queasy sensation settled in Ogata's stomach, and it had little to do with the eight or so beers he'd downed. Even the mind-blowing epiphany that there were actually spirits (well, at least there had been one for certain) wasn't enough to distract Ogata from the truth of what he'd just done. He'd hurt Fujiwara again, hurt him deeply. Not intentionally, no, but Ogata had been an asshole, ignoring Fujiwara's attempts to excuse himself. Nor had Fujiwara been able to articulate why he didn't want to play; Fujiwara had already known that Ogata wouldn't believe any explanation involving the supernatural, so he hadn't even tried.

Agitated, Ogata raked his hands through his hair. He had to find Fujiwara, and apologize, and explain that he finally understood, and that he'd been a spectacular idiot. Except Ogata was still pretty stinking drunk, and hardly at his most eloquent, and Fujiwara would probably rather see anyone other than Ogata right now. Maybe he'd just say something stupid and hurtful again. Yet the idea of not doing anything seemed equally distasteful.

Ogata's head was throbbing by this point, so he dragged himself to the kitchen. He rooted through the medicine cabinet and located the bottle of aspirin. After Ogata had swallowed two, he turned the faucet on full blast. He splashed his face roughly with cold water, grimacing at the shock, but grateful for the jolt of clarity that it delivered to his system.

Ogata rubbed his face dry with a hand towel and reflected. There was a very good chance that he would royally screw things up even more (if it were possible) by trying to see Fujiwara tonight. But at the very least, Ogata could let Fujiwara know that he believed Fujiwara's story. That Ogata hadn't believed him seemed to be what had hurt Fujiwara the most.

The box of clothes was gone from the entranceway. That box was heavy and cumbersome, Ogata thought with a twinge of guilt, wondering why he hadn't thought to wrap it up with a carrying string and handle. Perhaps Fujiwara hadn't gotten very far on foot.

Ogata took the elevator to the ground level, skipping the parking level, as he'd sobered up enough to realize that taking the car would not be a good idea. Ogata winced, remembering how very insistent Fujiwara had been that Ogata not drive. He'd probably terrified Fujiwara.

A blast of chilly fall air hit Ogata when he stepped outside. He shivered as he started walking down the sidewalk towards the station. Too bad he'd forgotten to grab his coat, but perhaps if he walked briskly he'd warm up, and he would have a better chance of overtaking Fujiwara – if not at this station, then at the Touyas' local station. The Touyas lived a good distance from their station, and Fujiwara would be slowed by the box.

Ogata was so intent on hurrying forward that he didn't register the familiar figure sitting at the bench until he was almost past the local park. Ogata turned on his heel slowly, and met Fujiwara's surprised gaze. Ogata started to ask why Fujiwara was sitting on a bench when it was so cold outside, but he bit back the question when he drew close enough to notice Fujiwara's miserable expression and raw eyes. Obviously, Fujiwara was trying to regain his composure before he took the train.

“You probably shouldn't be outside, Ogata-sensei. You might hurt yourself,” Fujiwara said quietly.

“I haven't tripped or wandered into traffic yet,” Ogata said dryly. When Ogata drank too much, his problem wasn't falling down stairs or bumping into walls or other such pratfalls; it was remembering details, and monitoring his damn brain-to-mouth filter. “I was wondering if you needed... help,” Ogata finished lamely, discouraged by Fujiwara's obvious dismay at seeing him.

Fujiwara shook his head. “No thank you. Just, please leave me alone.” He looked down at his folded hands, breaking eye contact.

The request wasn't wholly unexpected, considering Ogata's dismal track record lately, but it still stung. “Alright.” Ogata stopped where he was, not coming any closer to the bench. “But I wanted to tell you that I believe you, what you said about being a ghost, everything. I was wrong to doubt you and Shindou-kun, and I apologize to both of you.” Ogata swallowed hard, realizing that Fujiwara had every right to not want to see him, and that there was little he could do besides respect Fujiwara's wishes. “I'm leaving now.”

Ogata was several paces down the sidewalk when Fujiwara said, “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes.”

“Aren't you just saying that because you've drunk too much?” There was no cynicism in Fujiwara's voice, just weariness.

Ogata turned around and gave Fujiwara a long look. “For starters, I know that this isn't the first time I've played you drunk.”

Fujiwara's eyebrows shot up, his eyes rounded with disbelief. But after a pause, he picked the box up from the bench and set it on the ground.

Understanding the gesture, Ogata walked back and sat down, careful to keep his legs from bumping into Fujiwara's. There wasn't much space on the small bench.

Fujiwara stared at his hands again, apparently absorbed with toying with the zipper on his jacket sleeve. “Why did you change your mind?”

Fair enough question, especially considering that Ogata had been so adamant about not believing in the supernatural. Ogata licked at his lips, wishing his mouth wasn't so dry. Damn alcohol. “At the conference – after I won the Juudan for the first time – I was drunk, and I asked Shindou-kun to let me play s a i. But he offered to play me in your place. He beat me. Well, perhaps it's more accurate to say he thrashed me,” Ogata said dryly. “I knew something was off about that game. Black was too... polished. Shindou-kun didn't – doesn't -- have the experience to play like that, and he's too brash. But he always refused to discuss the game with me, so I was forced to believe I simply lost because I was too drunk to compensate for Shindou's talent.”

Fujiwara said nothing, still fixated on his sleeves.

Ogata shifted his weight uneasily, wishing Fujiwara would give him some sign that he understood. Stupid bench wasn't comfortable, and the area behind his eyes was throbbing dully, despite the aspirin he'd downed earlier. “After tonight's game, I realized that Shindou-kun had actually let me play you – you as a spirit -- in the hotel. You played exactly the same both times: it's obvious now that you were holding back, just enough to win instead of cutting me off as soon as possible. You were compensating for my poor play.” Ogata shook his head in self-deprecation. “Why did you ever agree to play me?”

Fujiwara bit at his lower lip nervously.“You... were drunk. So I... Hikaru and I knew that you couldn't expose us.” At Ogata's nod, Fujiwara continued hesitantly. “Of course I would have liked to have played you sober, but you had already gotten too close to our secret. You're very perceptive. And persistent.”

It made perfect, cruel sense. Ogata had been thoroughly obsessed with s a i, and no one had been more acutely aware of that fact than Shindou. Shindou had correctly suspected he'd never get a moment's peace if Ogata had been allowed a regular match with s a i, even over the Internet. But Ogata could barely keep up with Fujiwara when sober; drunk, he stood no chance. Surely Fujiwara was aware of that. “But what did you possibly hope to gain from such a ridiculous game?”

Fujiwara finally looked up, his eyes bright with pain and some other emotion Ogata couldn't identify. “Not everything is about gain, Ogata-sensei. I just... I understood how you felt. About wanting to play someone so badly, but being denied the opportunity. I had been wanting to play you ever since I saw you watching Hikaru in the Young Lions' Tournament, when I realized that you loved go as much as I did.” Fujiwara smiled sadly. “You might be as obsessed with go as I am, although perhaps that's not a compliment to either of us.”

Ogata blinked hard at that revelation: Fujiwara had been longing to play him as well, and for about as long. Fujiwara had pitied – no, empathized with him. Ogata felt a knot of guilt harden in his chest. He hadn't been worthy of Fujiwara's empathy, or that game, especially considering that it had probably been Fujiwara's last. But Ogata had to know for certain. “Shindou-kun quit playing go after that game.” Ogata's throat tightened, and he had to force the next sentence out. “Was that because our game was your last?”

“I knew there wasn't much time left, so I was desperate to play as much as I possibly could, no matter what kind of a game it was.” Fujiwara smiled wistfully. “When Hikaru got back from that conference, I begged him to play me, even though he was exhausted and falling asleep. We were only a few hands into that game when I started fading. I tried to say goodbye, but he couldn't hear me.” Fujiwara's head bowed. “Poor Hikaru. I made him carry a burden he wasn't ready for.”

In a moment of horrible clarity, Ogata understood why Fujiwara was so afraid of disappearing, to the point of suffering nightmares about it even before he'd recovered his memories. No wonder Fujiwara had wanted to be touched; he'd needed to be reassured he was still real. “I'm sorry I made you relive that. I shouldn't have forced you to play me tonight. I was selfish,” Ogata said, his voice hoarse to his own ears. He wanted to reach out and take Fujiwara's hand, but Ogata didn't feel he had the right to even ask permission. The buzz from the alcohol had left his system some time ago, and the self-loathing was starting to kick in, full force. Ogata knew he had been a possessive bastard – repeatedly -- and he'd ruined his relationship with Fujiwara.

“Ogata-san, why were you drinking?”

Ogata inhaled slowly. Fujiwara had asked that question earlier, but Ogata had brushed it aside with a flippant answer. “I wanted to stop thinking about you,” Ogata admitted, closing his eyes, embarrassed at the admission. Had he been sober, he would have never been able to admit it.

Fujiwara said nothing, leaving Ogata painfully exposed. Fujiwara probably thought Ogata was pathetic, turning to drink to cope with the mess he'd gotten himself into. Ogata had about convinced himself to leave before he made a further fool of himself when Fujiwara took his hand, threading his long fingers through Ogata's.

Ogata froze at the unexpected contact, but then Fujiwara started gently rubbing circles into back of Ogata's hand with his thumb, and Ogata thought he might very well melt. There was something reassuring about the gesture, like Fujiwara didn't judge him at all.

They sat for a few long moments like that, hands entwined as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Then Ogata reluctantly noticed the clock glowing in the middle of the park. It was almost midnight, and the trains would stop running soon. “I should call you a cab. You might miss your connection, and that's too heavy for you to lug home anyway.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Fujiwara said, his voice soft.

Ogata was unable to squelch a flutter of hope in his stomach. That question made it seem as if Fujiwara leaving weren't already a foregone conclusion. “No, but I can't ask you to stay when I'm like this. I've already put you through enough,” Ogata said, not referring to only his inebriation. Ogata knew he was flawed, and that there was a reason he hadn't been able to make his relationships last. He didn't want to hurt Fujiwara again.

“You stayed with me when I needed you. You didn't resent me for being weak.”

Ogata shook his head. “You were sick. I'm just drunk, and a bit of an as-- a jerk.”

“That's true.”

Surprised, Ogata stared at Fujiwara, and discovered that the other man was smiling, a warm smile with an undeniable hint of promise that sent a jolt of electricity through Ogata.

Fujiwara cupped Ogata under the jaw with his free hand, tilting Ogata's face towards him. “But no one's perfect.” Then Fujiwara leaned forward, and kissed Ogata, and his lips were even softer than Ogata had imagined, but there was nothing hesitant or shy about the firm pressure behind them. Ogata's body caught up faster than his mind, and he found himself kissing back, matching Fujiwara's intensity with his own, eager to explore this new territory of lips and tongues and breath.

Finally, Fujiwara broke the kiss, slowly stroking Ogata's jaw as he withdrew his hand, and Ogata shivered at the sensation. Fujiwara was still smiling, beautiful eyes bright with passion, and Ogata was filled with the urge to pull Fujiwara close so they could start a second round.

Fujiwara, apparently reading his intentions, leaned away, his eyebrow arched teasingly. “Don't expect another one until you've sobered up. Your breath, frankly, leaves a lot to be desired.” He stood up, and picked the box up from the ground. “We should probably get you back home before your hangover kicks in,” Fujiwara said, sounding rather cheerful, considering that he was discussing Ogata's imminent and undoubtedly very miserable hangover from hell.

Home.

Ogata didn't particularly care if Fujiwara indulged in some well-deserved Schadenfreude. That simply didn't matter, and neither did the hangover. Even the overwhelming knowledge that Fujiwara was exactly who and what he'd claimed to be didn't seem unbearable.

Fujiwara was coming home – to their home, and that was enough for Ogata. They had issues to work out – and Ogata owed Shindou an uncomfortable apology and explanation, and hell, Akira too -- but Fujiwara accepted Ogata. Bad breath and all.

Ogata got up from the bench, and helped Fujiwara carry the box home.

* * *

--The End.