Work Text:
Waya Yoshitaka never imagined that, at age thirty, he would be single, without a professional title, and still friends with Shindou Hikaru.
He doesn’t really mind being single that much, except when he’s making instant ramen for dinner for the fifth night in a row. His second girlfriend (out of three total, he’s a pretty loyal guy) was an amazing cook and, in his weaker moments, Waya thinks about calling her up and trying to get back together, even if only so that he can eat her home-cooked meals again.
He definitely minds the fact that he hasn’t won a professional go title yet, though – and winning the Young Lions Tournament the year that Shindou boycotted it (with Touya also boycotting in moral support) doesn’t count. He’s never even gotten to the qualifying stages for a title match, though he takes some comfort in the fact that he managed to reach 8-dan just two weeks before his thirtieth birthday.
And then there’s Shindou.
Shindou reached the Honinbou League for the first time at age twenty, got through to the title match the next year (losing a close final game to Ogata Honinbou, Gosei, Juudan), and then actually won the title the very next year after that (sweeping Ogata in the series). At 22 years and 153 days old, he became the youngest ever holder of the Honinbou title, and has since defended his title for seven years running. Add to that the fact that he beats Waya every single time they play, and it’s a miracle that the two of them are still friends.
As it is, Waya has to admit that he’s developed a bit of a complex about Shindou.
This is probably why he’s in a small, rather seedy-looking bar somewhere in Shinjuku on his thirtieth birthday, drinking alone and contemplating his life thus far with unironical moroseness. Shindou, Isumi, Honda and Saeki all tried to persuade him to go out with them, but he turned them down with a promise to hang out the following weekend, and somehow ended up here. Wherever here is.
He’s wondering how many drinks he’s already had when he hears an unfortunately familiar, nasally voice say, “How very mature of you, to get drunk all by yourself on your birthday.”
Waya doesn’t even bother to turn around, he just thunks his head down on the counter and groans. “Of all the bars in Tokyo. Seriously, how is this my life,” he mutters. Louder, he says, “Don’t sit down.”
Ochi sits down, in the seat right next to him. “Gin and tonic,” he says to the bartender. To Waya, he says with a haughty sniff, “I’ll sit wherever I want.”
“But why?” Waya asks plaintively, perhaps to the universe at large. He taps a finger glumly against his empty glass, and the bartender sizes him up for a second before deciding to be kind and refills the glass for him.
After a long stretch of semi-awkward silence, Ochi finally says, “So, the big three-oh, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Waya replies, not sure how Ochi even knows when his birthday is, or what else to say to his pathetic attempt at making conversation. But then Waya’s mouth opens without his brain’s permission and continues to talk. “Do you still remember when we were insei, fighting it out for wins like every game was the end of the world? God, it makes me feel old to think back to those days.”
“You are old,” Ochi snipes. “And the way I remember it, I beat you pretty much all the time.”
Waya tosses back his drink, choking slightly as the alcohol burns his throat on the way down. “I beat you all the times that really mattered,” he grumbles when he manages to stop coughing.
“Again, not the way I remember it.”
They fall silent again, and this time it’s a little less awkward. Waya still isn’t sure how many drinks he’s had, but the last one seems to really be hitting him hard because everything is slightly fuzzy now, his thoughts muted and slow, and he almost doesn’t feel embarrassed when he asks in all seriousness, “Is this how you thought it would be?”
“How what would be?”
“Life,” Waya says simply.
Ochi squints at him, making his beady eyes look even smaller, and answers just as simply, “Yes.”
Then he explains, “I planned my life around becoming a go professional from the age of twelve, and everything has followed that plan ever since.”
Waya smirks, somewhat blurrily. “So you actually planned to become a 7-dan without a professional title?”
That earns him a beady, squinty glare, and an unamused huff. “I must admit, I’m a little bit behind on my twenty-year plan, but if I work hard in the next three years I should certainly be able to catch up,” Ochi declares.
“Twenty years,” Waya mumbles, staring deep into his empty glass. “In twenty years, I’ll be fifty. I wonder if I’ll still be single and title-less at fifty?”
“Probably,” Ochi says drily, and deftly catches the coaster that Waya tosses at his head in retaliation.
“I wonder if I’ll still be friends with Shindou.”
Ochi snorts. “Shindou is the type to attempt something crazy and impossible, achieve it quickly, and then burn out and vanish. So by the time you’re fifty, he’ll probably have broken a dozen records in professional go and then gotten hit by a bus.”
“Huh,” Waya says intelligently after a long, thoughtful pause. “Touya would be sad.”
Then he ponders, “Maybe I could beat Touya if Shindou were hit by a bus.”
“We can always hope,” Ochi says, sounding almost wistful, and raises his glass as if to make a toast.
Waya taps his glass against Ochi’s, and they drink to the idea of Shindou Hikaru being hit by a bus.
* * *
The next morning, Waya wakes up in his apartment with no idea how he got back there, but a splitting headache and the inability to crack open his eyes remind him of exactly why it is he doesn’t remember. He has a vague flashback of Ochi helping him to remove his shoes before tipping him over onto his bed, but the idea of Ochi knowing where he lives is mildly horrifying so he stops trying to remember altogether.
When he finally manages to get his eyes open half an hour later, he checks his phone and sees upwards of twenty birthday messages, and one from Shindou that reads:
BUT WHY WOULD I EVER GET HIT BY A BUS? :(
Waya laughs until his stomach hurts, and then he stumbles out of bed to start life as a thirty-year-old, and to throw up in his toilet like a proper adult.