/
For a long moment, Akira could simply do nothing but stare, stunned, at the spectacle the whole place had become.
He had no intention of joining an Amateur International Go tournament, so there really was no sense in him being here. Not to mention for the full four days. It was great and all; the popularity of Go growing, all the countries represented… but all the same he didn't expect to see any particularly spectacular plays, and he certainly wasn't playing in it. But Ogata-sensei did ask him to put in an appearance, and truth be told there was never really a time when he declined an opportunity to watch or participate in Go, so it seemed only natural to find himself here, even if he was only here as free help.
It all unraveled as he had assumed it would; people shuffled into their seats, the announcer made congratulatory noises about Go around the world, a lot of pros he knew by name or at least by sight all seemed to have gotten thrown in here as referees, pacing up and down.
And then someone mentioned Sai, and all hell broke loose.
He had never seen anything quite like it, especially from the Go world. Players were normally rather reserved and respectful, it almost seemed par for the course. This blatant disregard for the people still playing and the general auditory levels of the room was most surprising; there were people from all across the globe, and they were all yelling about Sai.
Of course.
Only Shindou could cause such chaos.
Akira appeared to be the only one in the room who was aware of Sai's identity—aside from Waya, who looked equally as stunned with the anarchy that had erupted, and just as reluctant to be a part of it as Akira was. They both knew who Sai was. In fact, Shindou's unveiling as the elusive and indomitable netgo player was actually rather anticlimactic; in the same fashion that almost everything about Shindou was. There always seemed to be this electrifying bubble of anticipation, reverence, and awe that followed Shindou wherever he went. All the kids on his school's soccer team (and Akira's) acted like he was Japan's only hope at the FIFA world cup; all these people were hell bent on finding out who he was. It was a strange aura of mystery and mystique, but the boy himself was rather feckless and unassuming. In one perspective, he could see where everyone was coming from. Removed from the boy, the talent was… incredible. But on the other hand, knowing Shindou he found it to simply be something he accepted.
Meanwhile, everyone continued to speculate on the identity of Sai.
Some of them were absurd, others laughable, and a few that were downright plausible if not totally wrong. Everyone here knew Sai was from Japan, but other than that the online player was a mystery; was he an old man in a hospital, with no way of communicating or playing Go outside of the internet? Was he some kind of businessman who already had a career and had no aspirations for anything else? Was he deux ex machina, the ghost in the machine? Was he Honinbo Shusaku, trapped inside the internet? Akira had never been one for superstition, and that coupled with the fact that he already knew the identity of Sai made it all truly amusing. Amusing… but dangerous.
He couldn't imagine what everyone would do once they figured out that Sai was actually a teenage boy who was more obsessed with football than go.
"Akira!"
Oh no.
"Ogata-sensei…" The boy replied, warily.
The Juudan was approaching him with a laptop tucked underneath his arm. "You're young." He noted, blandly.
Akira blinked. "…Yes?"
"You probably know how to use this," he plopped the thing down onto a nearby table, opening it up.
Here it goes. "What do you want me to do?" He asked tentatively, moving closer with a bit of apprehension and a whole lot of resignation.
"You've played online Go before, right?"
He found himself meeting Waya's equally nervous gaze over the computer. They both knew where this was going. "I played a pro from the south once…" He allowed, at length. "But I'm not really sure if I should—
But they had already attracted a crowd, and Ogata waved his concerns off. "It'll be fine. I'm sure it's not too hard."
It looked like there was no getting out of it, then.
"Ah, Waya, didn't you say something about playing him?" Morishita called, rubbing his chin?
That made it all the worse.
"He played Sai?"
"I played him once. I was crushed."
"I don't know Sai… but a friend of mine asked me to find him when I came to Japan." A man behind him added. "It was Korean Pro Yu 7-Dan. He said Sai is definitely Japan's top player."
"He's not a pro…"
"Then who could have beat him?"
The amount of people talking over one another was starting to get unbearable. So many people, all talking about Shindou… did he realize what he had caused? In hindsight, it was foolish of all of them not to realize what sort of repercussions Shindou casually picking up netgo would have. Akira had just been musing on how Shindou had this sort of indomitable, transformational energy that followed him around—the same energy that apparently had flipped the international go community on its head. Shindou was a player with the capability of causing vicissitude of this magnitude, he knew that already, at least in theory. He'd played Shindou before after all, witnessed that strength firsthand.
"This child played Sai?" A stout European asked with disbelief.
"W—Well I…" Waya's eyes grew wide and terrified. "I mean… it was really short…"
"A game is a game," Morishita pointed out. "I thought you said you talked to him?"
"You talked to Sai?"
"It—we—it was very brief." Waya sputtered.
"What did he say?"
"How did you get him to talk to you?"
"Why would he talk to you?"
"I don't know!" Waya threw his hands up defensively. "I mean… maybe he was just… bored, or something."
Knowing Shindou, that was most likely the case.
Ogata leaned closer, eyes narrowed. Akira logged on, really hoping that Shindou wasn't playing. But it wasn't a school day, they didn't have the pro exams today, and he was fairly sure Shindou had mentioned that he didn't have football this weekend. Hopefully he was still asleep then, or playing video games, or watching TV…
"Sai!" Ogata said, sounding surprised to see he truly existed, even though everyone had already confirmed that.
Akira sighed.
"Sai…" Ogata repeated, and if Akira was paying more attention he would have noticed the change in tone.
"Sai has challenged you!"
His eyes snapped open.
Oh no.
If possible, the crowd pressed in even further. Akira had no idea what to do—incidentally, it appeared neither did Waya. Whatever futile attempts they had made to negate this outcome were overthrown entirely when Shindou a) challenged Akira, and b) drew black and proceeded to play his first hand on 17-4. The whole thing seemed kind of unavoidable, really. Did Shindou think he could really get away with this? Akira didn't really know how to help him, here. Sooner of later he was going to make a play that would remind Ogata of the game they had played a few weeks ago, and Ogata would put two and two together in front of all these people. Or alternatively he was going to say something ridiculous to Akira on the online chat, which would also give him away. There wasn't much Akira could do either way.
He shook his head. Well, there was nothing he could do now.
He moved for the upper left star.
Almost immediately Sai replied with 16-17. The Shuusaku diagonal—for Shindou, this wasn't terribly surprising. And apparently Sai was infamous for it as well. He chanced a glance at Ogata—he looked intrigued and invested, but Akira didn't see any recognition in his expression. He put a stone down at 4-17; Sai immediately countered with 15-3.
Akira blinked. Wait a minute…
He countered on the bottom right, and like clockwork Sai responded at 15-16.
This was a familiar game. Far more familiar than just Shindou being Shindou.
His eyes widened. This was the game they had played after the youth go tournament, the second time they played, where Shindou had sliced him in half.
He seized up, and then before he could think any further on it he resigned from the game.
There was a commotion behind him.
"Hey!"
"Why'd you resign?"
"Akira," Ogata turned to him. "What…?"
Akira shook his head with an apologetic smile. "I'm distracting from the Go tournament," he pointed out politely. "I can finish this game another time."
This was obviously not a satisfactory answer for anyone, but all the same there was nothing they could do about it; Akira was right, it really was rather rude to just plop down at start playing a netgo game in the middle of all of this, even if it appeared everyone was more invested in the netgo than the actual go.
He shut the laptop. "Ogata-san, I'm going to excuse myself for today." He said, as politely as possible.
Ogata spared him a worried look. "Sure." Was all he had to say, however.
Akira took a deep breath of both relief and… and he didn't know. He felt disconcerted, and it was a rather peculiar feeling. He couldn't quite connect the Shindou he knew now to the Shindou playing as Sai, or to the Shindou he had met in the beginning.
/
Hikaru was nervous in a way he hadn't been in a long time.
School was finally out for the summer, which meant the Pro test had finally moved out of the long preliminary stages and the international summer league for youth soccer was starting.
Hikaru had been on SM for a while now, and he knew a lot of the kids on his team very well—to the point that he felt pretty comfortable around them. No one bothered to put on pants when walking to the bathroom in the morning, pranks were always fair game, and half the time he was accidentally wearing his roommates clothes instead of his own. It always felt weird entering into these one-off tournaments where he had to try out for all new teams. The last time he had been this nervous was probably when he had gotten his invitation to play for Team Japan in the U-15 Asia-Pacific tournament. But he didn't even have to try out for that team! And all the other big international tournaments he'd been to he went with SM, so he had nothing to be nervous about.
And this was worse than all of those combined.
Not only was he trying out for a spot on a new team where he didn't know anyone and everyone would be trying out to make the team, but all those kids trying out were apparently the best in the region. He was sure he'd know quite a few faces from other tournaments and stuff, but he'd never had to tryout against them, competing for the same spot on some exclusive team.
All the same, it wasn't as if he could pass up the opportunity because he was nervous. The worldwide Adidas Youth Championships had teams representing every part of the globe from Australia to Africa, and there was no way Hikaru would give up the chance to play against teams like that. And the games were being held in Canada. Canada! He'd never been to Canada. Didn't they just have the Olympics there? He wondered if they would be using one of their stadiums—he had stars in his eyes at the thought of it. Playing in an Olympic stadium! It would be really tough, though. Hikaru was never one to short-change himself, at least not in soccer, but even he wasn't sure if he would be good enough to make the team.
His SM coach assured him he'd have a chance when he nominated him for tryouts, but Hikaru didn't exactly believe that. He might be pretty good in this league, in this age bracket, in this country, but that didn't mean anything in the grand scheme of everyone else in Asia, not to mention the world at large.
Either way Hikaru somehow found himself in Taiwan for the weekend, with minimal adult supervision and a whole lot of other kids who definitely didn't speak Japanese. It was a good thing he was getting a lot better with English now that he was taking classes on it, otherwise he wouldn't even know how to tell his new roommate that he didn't care which bed he had. He was a nice enough fellow from mainland China named Lu Han, with outrageous lavender hair. He said he'd been playing for Shanghai for five years now, which was crazy. Either way Hikaru kind of hoped they both made it on the team.
He'd never been to Taiwan before, and as he suspected, he didn't get to see very much of it outside his hotel and the practice fields and stadiums.
It was also as grueling as he had suspected it to be; the drills were practically at a professional level, and it felt like they were done running sprints. That was to say nothing of the scrimmages. Fortunately Hikaru was getting lucky with the makeshift teams they kept putting him on—he and his roommate got right and left wings respectively and were having some serious chemistry going on right now, and the defenders they got were incredible. Football was a team sport, so what kids he got on his team were kind of a big deal. At least if he wanted to actually make the tournament team.
The other kids called their parents at least once a night, if not more, but Hikaru found himself buried in online go in the little spare time he had. If he wasn't breathing, sweating and bleeding football, then he was playing Go, or sleeping.
By the end of it, Hikaru was actually kind of done with football.
He knew it was just his aching muscles and the fact that the coaches kept making them sprint the field talking right now, but all the same it was making him kind of sullen and confused. Go never made him annoyed. Go was always fun. There was never a moment where he found himself disliking it, even for a moment.
It occurred to him there was a reason for that.
He had never actually trained for Go. Not the way Akira had, or Waya, or Yeongha. Go came so naturally to him—so natural it was unnatural, really. He was so good at football because he'd trained and played for ages now. But he had no idea why he was so good at Go when he had never put forth any effort into it.
It made him want to go home and consult his 'dream book' once again. It still wasn't making much sense to him, but maybe after a break from scrutinizing it every morning he might find something.
There was a very, very tiny part of him that wondered if he already knew the answer, and was just suppressing it in fear. He'd thought on it already after all, right? The Go instructor in his dreams—and his relation to Hikaru.
Obviously he ignored that, and continued throwing himself into football to the point he couldn't think about Go—or dreams about being other people, or dreams about Go.
/
Hikaru was home by the end of the week, just in time for the next round of the Pro test. There were moments—like these—where it all felt so surreal. He had just spent the last couple days doing brutal workouts for an international soccer team and then he was doing a total one-eighty and going into an examination to become a professional Go player. Was he really taking the test to become a professional Go player? How would that change his life, afterwards? He had never thought of it that way. It felt completely logical for him to take the next step as a Go player, as if by some preordained stroke of fate. Shindou Hikaru, the Go player. It felt both right and so wrong at the same time.
He spent the entire time as a bundle of nerves, and this time there were no drills and scrimmages for him to throw himself into to take his mind off it.
He did all he could, he reminded himself. If the other kids were better, than the other kids were better, he tried his best.
All the same he found himself checking the voice messages on the home phone, catching the mailman before he even made it to his house, and checking his email religiously. He stopped just short of bugging his club coach about it, mainly out of sheer embarrassment. Lu Han texted him to tell him he had made the team; Hikaru tried to keep in touch with him and all the really funny Korean kids who had roomed on their hotel floor, but now he wanted to throw his phone in frustration. He didn't want to hear about all of them getting their acceptance letters when he hadn't gotten one himself yet.
To his great surprise, even Go wasn't quite enough to distract him.
He had a game against some kid named Isumi today, and it was going well he supposed. Nothing crazy, but good all the same. He liked to think he was getting a lot better at least understanding the mechanics of Go, and judging the skill level of other players; Isumi was around Waya's level, but nowhere near Touya's. At any rate lunch break had Isumi looking morose and miserable and Hikaru near pacing the first floor up and down, too nervous to even think about lunch. It was atypical behavior of the soccer player; he normally spent his lunch breaks relaxed and playing pokemon, eating absurd amounts of ramen, and talking Fifa with Waya.
"Shindou,"
The boy nearly ran into the wall he was so startled. Waya frowned; he must be really in his own head.
"Are you okay?"
"Huh?" Hikaru blinked. "Um—yeah. Fine. What's up?"
"You're pacing." Waya pointed out, flatly.
Hikaru looked down at himself, as if surprised by his own feet. "Oh. I guess I am."
Waya folded his arms, leaning against the opposite wall in the deserted corridor outside the break room. "You never pace." He continued. "Is it your game? Not going well?" But that was absurd—Shindou couldn't possibly have that much of a problem with anyone here.
Hikaru sighed, running a wary hand through his hair. "No, no, nothing like that. The game is going really well."
The other boy frowned. "Then… what is it?"
Hikaru's shoulders sagged, and his back hit the wall behind him with a thump as he sank onto it, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I had tryouts for this week."
"What? For football?"
"Yeah," he nodded, glumly. This too was out of character; Shindou never looked unhappy when speaking of football. "Adidas is having this really cool international tournament with teams from around the world."
"That sounds awesome."
"Yeah, but every region only gets to enter one team to compete!" He whined aloud. "How do they expect to be able to crunch all of eastern Asia into one team?"
Waya shrugged, totally unsympathetic. "How do they expect to crunch all of Europe into one team?" He pointed out. Which, true. Hikaru hadn't thought of that. Europe might technically be a lot smaller, but the amount of kids who played football there was mind-boggling. And that was to say nothing of South America.
"What do you get if you win?"
"Nothing. Exposure, I guess." He frowned, thoughtful. "Probably a whole lot of Adidas gear."
That, Waya was a little envious of. "You don't think you made the team?"
Hikaru shook his head. "No clue! Those kids were amazing. The best from every country in the region."
"Well, you had to be good enough to be considered one of the best in Japan," Waya pointed out, trying to be optimistic.
It did not have the intended effect. "But what's Japan in comparison to China and Korea and Taiwan and Singapore and Indonesia?" And he was definitely missing some countries in that list, and it was still really long!
Waya sighed. "I guess you'll just have to wait and see?" He offered, helplessly.
Hikaru mimicked his sigh, slouching further in on himself. "Yeah, I guess."
Waya was silent for a beat.
"You wanna eat something?" He asked again, after a long pause.
This actually managed to brighten Shindou's mood. "Yes!" He leapt up, looking very excited at the prospect of food. Of course. Food never failed to lift Shindou's spirits.
/
"You've been here for an awfully long time."
The shadow of a man fell over him in accompaniment to the familiar voice. Ogata scowled back down into the board, wishing not for the first time that the Meijin's salon allowed for indoor smoking. He could really use a cigarette right now; coffee just wasn't cutting it. His sensei would never allow that, though. He turned his head, briefly acknowledging the man in question standing behind him.
"I lost to a thirteen year old boy." Ogata pointed out, flatly. It should be obvious why he was here, everyday, recreating this game.
One of the Meijin's brows rose. "Underestimating your opponent will do that to you."
Ogata shook his head. "It was more than that."
His sensei made a humming noise of assent; they had picked apart this game numerous times during their study groups, all reaching the same conclusions. Shindou was a phenomenal player, that much he knew, and he was sure the rest of his peers agreed to some extent. But many of them made noises about luck and one-time flukes, and brushed off the majority of his genius as circumstance. Ogata went easy on him; he pushed the offensive far too hard; too lax in his opening hands; his play seemed distracted, he was making mistakes where he normally wouldn't. All of those were true, but none of them did Shindou any justice.
It was more than just Ogata having an off day, though that was true, and he guaranteed the next he played he would defeat the boy, talented or no. He would be sure not to underestimate him or let his ego win the better of him next time.
"Yes, you rushed your offensive, and you were incredibly reckless in attacking the center." The Meijin agreed, calmly.
He scowled further. Did even the Meijin not understand?
"I simply do not want you to be too hard on yourself, Seiji," he added, as if he could read the thoughts out of Ogata's head. "The boy is not an opponent to underestimate; all the same do not consider this one game as an accurate measure of strength."
Ogata remained silent.
Sound advice, he supposed, and if he were in the mood for it he may have even agreed. It was foolish to measure a player by one game alone; theoretically he realized that. Living in the moment though it fell a little flat. He had analyzed this game backwards and forwards and felt as if he knew quite a bit about Shindou's style and yet none at all. He was… perfect. Unnaturally so. Academically it was a play style everyone would applaud and yet it didn't seem to fit. Ogata got the same feeling when playing Akira; as if the boy was intentionally changing his game to play against him. It wasn't terribly surprising, or uncommon, but Ogata knew what Akira normally played like already. He was a very tactical and introspective player, he never took unnecessary risks, he took the defensive position before he went for the offensive one. When he played Ogata he became even more cautious, to the point it was difficult even for him to find a weakness; when Akira became like that Ogata's best bet was to slowly whittle away at his territory, for the boy would play an impenetrable defense but also wouldn't push for territory, so if Ogata waited it out he would win.
Of course, with Shindou, he didn't know what his normal play style was like. To be honest, he—like the rest of his peers—had sort of overlooked the boy as incredibly talented but nothing to take notice of. In hindsight, that was particularly remiss of him.
He wouldn't be making that same mistake twice.
"Have you seen him?"
"Hm?" His sensei was distracted by a book on the adjacent table—it appeared to be an analysis on 18th century Go.
"The boy." Ogata elaborated. "Ichikawa said he comes around some times."
"Does he?" This was news to the Meijin, apparently.
Ogata nodded. "Yes. I assumed he was friends with Akira."
This also appeared to be news. A very curious expression came over the Meijin's face; it was not a contrary one, however. If anything, he appeared overjoyed. "Ah, well, if that's the case, try not to scare them off, will you? He's just a child."
Ogata scowled. "I wouldn't scare him off."
Except they both knew that wasn't true. Ogata had a way of being incredibly overbearing when he was impatient.
His scowl deepened as he returned his attentions to the game. After a beat the Meijin offered him a genial pat on the shoulder, before moving on to the other patrons. He listened to his teacher's low, composed voice as he conversed with a group of men not too far from him, before turning back towards the front of the salon. Ichikawa had a duster in one hand, a roll of paper towels in the other, and a look of consternation as she eyed the top of the front doors.
Without any further deliberation, he stood and walked over towards her. "Ichikawa-san," he called.
She spun around. "Ogata-sensei!" She greeted. "How are you? I hadn't even realized you had come in! Do you need anything? Coffee? Another pack of cigarettes?"
He smiled wanly. "I'm alright for now. Actually, I was wondering if you could tell me when Shindou Hikaru was here last."
Ichikawa hummed thoughtfully. "Well, he does come around." She offered, uncertainly. "But not too often, and always at different times. I think his schedule's a bit hard to handle."
"Is that so?"
"Yes," she laughed. "He always looks like he's running from one thing to the next—the amount of times I've had to clean the floors after him and his muddy cleats… honestly! Would it kill him to take them off first?"
"His cleats?" It took him a moment to remember that he had actually met Shindou at a football game—a game in which he had been playing in. He was so flabbergasted for a moment he said nothing.
"Yes, and that's to say nothing of the rest of him. I've never seen a child so frequently covered in dirt! Although to be fair, the only child I really know is Akira-kun, and he's not exactly the type to go roughhousing outside."
Ogata frowned. This didn't sound like the kind of child capable of the Go Ogata had seen.
Ogata nodded wordlessly. "You wouldn't happen to have any of their games recorded, would you?"
"Me?" She paused, before smiling sheepishly. "Well, sometimes I keep the board full after they leave—sometimes Akira-kun likes to come in the next day to recreate them. I'm afraid I don't have any, but he might keep some."
"I see, thank you."
/
When Akira finally found Shindou, he looked halfway into collapsing. He looked—exhausted, really. Like he hadn't been sleeping very well and was incredibly stressed out by something.
"How was your game?" He asked casually, when he finally managed to catch up to the boy after their matches today.
Shindou startled, as if he had been deep in thought. "Um—it was good! How was yours?"
"Longer than expected." He answered smoothly, still scrutinizing the boy.
When it appeared Shindou would say nothing else, he spoke again. "Did… did Waya-san say anything about the Go Tournament?"
At this, Shindou bolted upright. "Tournament? What Tournament?"
Akira hadn't been expecting this response. He reeled back a bit. "The Amateur Go Tournament," he extrapolated.
Shindou deflated like a punctured balloon. "Oh." He said, the relief leaving him, nervous trepidation returning.
Akira watched his response with bewilderment. "Are you sure you're okay?" He hazarded, again.
"Yeah, fine." Hikaru sighed. He shook his head. "Anyway, what about the tournament?"
"Everyone there was incredibly determined to find out Sai's identity." He decided not to mince words. "It was a bit of a spectacle, really."
Shindou made a face. "Seriously?"
Akira nodded. "Yes, that was why I forfeited our game. I apologize for that."
"Oh, that, yeah." Shindou laughed lightly. "It's okay—I figured you had to go do something. I was just messing around."
"I noticed." Akira replied, brow twitching. And his messing around could have almost cost them. "At any rate, I thought I should warn you to be more careful. Unless you want your identity to become public knowledge of the Go world."
Hikaru wrinkled his nose. "I'll pass." He looked back to the table surface, scrutinizing it like a particularly complicated trick play. "That's fine." He said at length. "I probably won't have a lot of time for netgo anyway, so maybe I'll take a hiatus from it."
Akira had never quite understood why Hikaru even played in the first place, so he said nothing to this.
When his attention returned to Hikaru, the boy looked even worse than before. "Shindou, seriously." He started. "If you're sick, you should really stay home."
"And miss a game?" He said, absently, looking more intrigued by the table.
"A game is a game; your health is more important." Akira pointed out. "And you haven't lost one yet." Akira wouldn't normally advise this—and he doubted he would take the advice if someone had given it to him, knowing himself—but Hikaru really did look awful, and it wasn't as if the boy would have any trouble passing the exam with one loss, considering how everyone else was fairing. Only Akira and Shindou had perfect records; the next runner up already had three losses, and that was to say nothing of everyone else.
"I'm heading home, if you want to take the train with me," he offered, after a beat.
Shindou rose to his feet, as uncoordinated and despairing as a zombie. "Yeah, okay." He replied, glumly, dragging his feet after Akira.
/
Hikaru's first thought after finally, finally getting his acceptance letter was pure, unadulterated bliss. Afterwards was relief.
And after that, was absolute terror.
It only occurred to him after dancing around his house and texting all his 'new' teammates and reading through the calendar three times over that he was going to be gone for a whole week. He'd missed school for football countless times, but this was the first time he'd miss a pro exam date.
In hindsight, he'd gotten really lucky so far with that.
To make matters worse, it was the day that he and Touya were supposed to play each other. He looked at the brackets multiple times, but no matter how he calculated the result was the same. He was going to miss it.
Hikaru sighed.
It wasn't as if he hadn't played Touya before—many times now, at this point—but there was something to be said about playing each other in an official match. He'd been looking forward to it, for sure.
But then, wasn't he also looking forward to this football tournament? Hadn't he practically been a terrified ball of fear and excitement the whole week long because of it?
The blonde stopped his pacing, gaze listless and forlorn. He'd already accepted, hadn't he? He couldn't just back out now; he'd gone to tryouts and everything! And he could only imagine how disapproving his coach would be. But on that train of thought, just how disapproving would Touya be? He was sure Touya had been looking forward to playing him as much as Shindou had Touya. What was he supposed to tell him? How was he supposed to tell him? He could only imagine his response. Disapproving didn't even cover half of it. Hikaru dropped to the floor. This was turning into a huge mess.
The boy sat alone in his upturned room, a long mirror across from him, half of his closet spilling out onto the floor, a big nike duffel bag pried open with socks and underwear heaving out. A row of shiny new cleats stood to attention in front of him; behind them was his goban, and a half dozen scribbled pieces of paper strewn across it, drifting to the floor. His artistic abilities were abysmal at best, but it was quickly becoming the most efficient way of recording whatever the hell was going on in his subconscious. Some of them were patterns from boards he saw in his dreams; he could remember the placement of every stone quite clearly, but for the life of him could never figure out how they were placed or where he had even been playing the games. Others were crude attempts at drawing places and moments; leaves on water, the long arch of a veranda, paper screens.
A part of him felt grounded, looking out into the crisp laces and shiny patent leather of his brand new shoes. He felt like himself; Shindou Hikaru, teenage boy, football player, currently looking like an accidental k-pop star. But there was a part of his life swept into the corner that didn't feel like him at all, too old and jaded, too full of regret for a winsome boy with a roguish grin.
And yet all the same, it was a part of him. Just as much as the boy in the mirror.
He could hear his parents scuffling with the door, their feet against the flooring and the quiet murmurs of their voices. It was only then that he stirred out of his thoughts, realizing he was no closer to an answer than he had been a few hours ago.
Hikaru sighed, leaning back against his bed, making a conscious effort not to look at his reflection, or anything else in the room.
Instead his eyes caught on the light streaking across the surface of his phone, like a burning candle.
He swiped it into his hands, turning it over a couple times before turning it on and heading to his contacts.
Yeongha was nowhere near an impartial party, but he was the only one Hikaru knew that at least understood Go and was not currently involved in Hikaru's life.
He took a breath, before calling.
/
It was raining, and his ear felt kind of numb from all the yelling.
Suffice to say, Yeongha had not been on his side. Even the notion of holding football over Go deeply disturbed him. He couldn't even fathom it, no matter how much Hikaru attempted to explain. It was only one game. He had a perfect record. This Adidas tournament was the chance of a lifetime and he'd already flown all the way to Taiwan to compete for the spot. He'd earned this spot (more than he'd ever earned even an ounce of his Go). They were expecting him to be there.
Yeongha had a counter argument for everything he said. It was just a football tournament; there would be hundreds of thousands of them. He was already in the Pro examinations; they expected him to be there too. Just because his record was perfect now didn't necessarily mean he would pass. There was no point in going to a football tournament across the pacific when he could be playing Go, here. Yeongha just didn't understand it.
Not for the first time since he'd picked up his phone, Hikaru wished he'd called Waya instead. Waya, at least, would understand why football was so important. All the same, football was a hobby to Waya—something he played every once in a while when the weather was nice and his friends were over, something he watched on TV whenever it was on. And Waya was taking the exams with him. He'd probably find the very thought of skipping a qualifying game for football sacrilegious. Even more so when Waya was not nearly as assured in his position as Hikaru was. Depending on how the rest of the exams went, Waya might not even make pro this year. And even Hikaru wasn't so tactless as to bring up the fact that he was going to be intentionally forfeiting a game. He would tell him that Hikaru wasn't being nearly as serious as he should be about this; and a part of Hikaru worried Waya was right.
The rain was coming down even harder when Hikaru surfaced from the subway, little droplets trickling past his rain jacket and collecting in his hair, turning it darker than usual. He looked down at it; it was nike, of course. He almost wished he'd worn something else.
The world was washed away in wetness, but Hikaru found the go salon anyhow. Man, was he dreading this. Considering how poorly Yeongha took it, he wasn't even sure he wanted to bring it up with Touya at all.
Maybe he'd just tell the other boy he ended up getting sick. Had a family emergency. A wedding? A funeral? A baby nephew. Hikaru shook his head frantically. These excuses were getting more and more absurd by the minute—he didn't even have a brother or sister in the first place. He held his breath as he walked inside.
He wasn't sure whether the sight made him relieved or even more anxious.
Touya was not here.
"Oh, Shindou-kun!" Ichikawa chirped, popping her head out from where she was filing something under the counter. "Are you looking for Akira-kun?"
He nodded, feeling like his tongue was so tied up in knots anything he tried to say right now would come out garbled and unintelligible.
She spared him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid he hasn't been in all day."
"Is that so?" Hikaru grimaced. He'd been hoping to get this over as quickly as possible… and he wasn't entirely sure how else to get a hold of the boy. They'd never even exchanged numbers.
She was in the middle of nodding when a shadow fell over him.
"Shindou Hikaru."
He looked up, puzzled by the unfamiliar voice. The visage that greeted him was only slightly less unfamiliar, and it took Hikaru a little bit before he recognized where he knew this face from.
"Ogata-sensei," he replied, surprised, and at a loss for words.
Ogata made a noise that could have meant anything, but for some reason Hikaru thought it disapproving. Probably over his outfit, Hikaru digressed. Go professionals had no taste.
"Good timing," was all he said, before turning back around and waving Hikaru to follow him with a vague hand.
Frowning, Hikaru moved through the tables in his wake, halting when they came to a stop in front of a table that looked as if it had been occupied for some time. There were coffee rings on the surface where the owner must have forgotten to use the coaster, so lost in thought. A half-made game was on the board, with the missing stones scattered about the go ke and the table.
Ogata ushered to him. "Sit."
"Uh," Hikaru started, eloquently.
Ogata didn't sit either. He jammed his finger on the board, in front of an innocuous stone. "This move." He said, imperiously. "Why did you play it so late? It was no secret I was making to gain territory in this section at least a dozen hands earlier, so why didn't you defend then?"
"I—" Hikaru sucked in a breath. "Well, I…"
His stomach flipped over. Oh no.
"Not to mention, this pincer here," Ogata continued as if he hadn't heard him.
"I was hard pressed to think this was a poor move, but by yose it was integral to your position in the bottom right."
If Hikaru had thought he was at a loss for words earlier, he was well and truly empty now. He never had any words to give when it came to this. He couldn't explain what he didn't know himself. It was as much a mystery to him as it was to everyone else—probably more so, actually. At least everyone else had a working knowledge of the game.
"I just…"
His tongue got stuck to the roof of his mouth when he realized Ogata was staring at him expectantly—hungrily.
"I don't…" He felt his heart skip a few beats in recognizable terror. "I, um,"
His gaze darted back and forth between the other man and the board, as if one of them would be forthcoming with answers.
"They seemed like good ideas at the time?" He hedged after a long moment of silence, grimacing at the sound of his own voice.
"They seemed like good ideas." Ogata repeated, flatly.
Hikaru shrugged, grimacing further. It sounded even worse the second time.
"Yeah?" He attempted an innocent smile. "They just come to me sometimes. Like instinct. I usually just try to follow it."
"Go is not a game about instinct." Ogata replied, sounding appalled. "It is about reading ahead, tactical decisions, deciphering your opponent; it is a definitive game built on precision, cogitation, and decisive alacrity."
At this point, he was practically towering over him. "Yes, there is an element of intuition involved but not to the extent of playing with your eyes closed!"
Hikaru sputtered. "I… I didn't—
"You did." Ogata cut him off. "Multiple times while we played."
Hikaru stared in horror. Had he really? Sometimes he got a bit lost in his head, sorting through his surface thoughts to find the place deep inside him that had all the answers—but he hadn't realized he had actually been playing with his eyes closed. How exactly was he supposed to explain that away? Why hadn't anyone ever told him about this before?!
"It helps me concentrate." He defended, lamely.
"Concentrate on what?" Ogata returned, sounding genuinely befuddled beneath his irritation. "How are you supposed to respond to a move you didn't even see? Or are you trying to say its simply so easy for you to read your opponents that you don't even need to physically see their response? Are you truly so confident in your abilities?"
"They haven't failed me yet, have they?" The blonde boy snapped back, with more attitude than he intended.
The go professional narrowed his eyes. "Would it kill you to take this seriously?" He snapped. "It's clear to me you don't even take Go all that seriously—
Hikaru opened his mouth to protest. "Hey! I—
"But regardless, you're actually very talented. If you applied yourself a little more, you'd be an incredible player." Hikaru was getting whiplash from this conversation. It appeared like Ogata had already made up his mind about Hikaru well before he'd even walked into this salon—although what his conclusion was, Hikaru had no idea.
He'd done nothing but berate Hikaru since he walked in. And now he was giving him some kind of backhanded compliment as an olive branch?
"What's it to you?" Hikaru scowled. "Why do you even care, if I'm clearly just a brat that doesn't apply myself?"
Ogata's brow twitched. "I'm trying to instill some well needed values in you." He retorted. "You can't coast on your talent forever. If you're not going to work hard at this and take it seriously, you'll never make it very far, and no one will take you seriously."
"I do take this seriously." Hikaru replied, hotly.
"Do you?" Ogata returned, piercing him with his eyes. "Do you know how many hours a day Akira devotes to his studies? How many years? Yes he is talented, prodigal, even, but coupled with that is a tenacious, untiring determination and persevering work ethic. Akira has worked for everything he has with an intense devotion that is, quite frankly, inspiring to even me. His dedication to the game is unparalleled, and everyone can tell. If they do not take him seriously for his skill, than they acknowledge him for his commitment to the game."
Hikaru found himself stunned in silence.
"And in comparison, you may have just as much innate talent, perhaps even more. But you lack his drive and determination. Where is your passion? Your ambition? You play very well, but I can't see the vigor and intensity in you. And without it, you'll go nowhere."
It had been bothering him for some time, because on the board his passion and ambition was so readily apparent. His talent was simply overwhelming. But the tenant was so severely lacking.
Meanwhile, Hikaru was thinking something similar.
It had been bothering him, too. He had fallen into this game like he'd stumbled on his own shoelaces and tumbled down a rabbit hole. Ogata was right. He'd never whittled away an afternoon studying the great plays of the game. He hadn't devoted endless hours of study, and he certainly hadn't started playing Go at the tender age of four, or whenever Touya had started. He and Touya couldn't be any different. Yeongha hadn't said it in so many words when he'd berated him on the phone, but Hikaru knew that's what he was really saying. He couldn't understand, because Yeongha was just like Touya. He had devoted his life to this game, like everyone else who wanted to be great. Like everyone who loved this game, heart and soul.
Hikaru looked away.
Finally, he sighed heavily. "You're right." He acknowledged.
Ogata frowned.
"I don't know." Hikaru confessed, sadly. "I don't know where my drive is—I don't understand why I'm so talented, when it's true I don't deserve it at all."
The go professional frowned further. "That's not—
"I'm not devoted to this game the way you all are." He continued on. "A lot of the time, I don't even understand it. I like playing, it's true, but you're right; it's never going to be enough if I truly want to excel. There's more to Go than just liking it and being good at it."
Ogata scrutinized him closely, his anger cooling.
Hikaru shook his head, taking a breath. He shoved his hands in his pockets, turning around. "Ichikawa-san?" He called, politely.
Harumi turned to him. "Yes? Did you two need something?"
He moved towards the front counter. "Sorry to bother, but could I borrow a pen and paper?"
Ichikawa frowned curiously, but complied all the same.
The boy said nothing for a long moment, bent over the front counter as he scrawled something onto the piece of paper. His features were entirely inscrutable.
Another beat of silence passed, with only the murmurs of the other patrons around the room to disperse it. Both Ichikawa and Ogata watched him with equally confused looks. Hikaru straightened, smiling another impassive and depthless smile that could have meant anything. "Thanks so much." He said, handing it back to her. "Could you give it to Touya the next time he comes in?"
She nodded, still looking confused. "Yes, of course. He'll probably be in sometime tomorrow if you want to stop by."
Hikaru shook his head. "That's alright. I'll catch him later."
It was only as he headed towards the doors that Ogata realized he was actually leaving. He blinked in surprise. "Oi, Shindou—
The blonde boy did not turn around. "Sorry about everything, Ogata-sensei." He said, and there did seem to be something truly apologetic to his tone. Actually, it seemed far too regretful, considering the situation.
But Ogata didn't have a chance to figure out why he was so apologetic, for the doors slid open to reveal a group of elderly men, and Shindou slipped past them to disappear down the hallway.
/
Yeongha had dropped himself into one of his favorite Go Salons, and had sullenly and quite viciously challenged Suyon to at least a half dozen matches the moment the other boy had gotten out of class. Suffice to say, Suyon got fed up with him eventually and waltzed out of the salon like a particularly pissed off cat. Yeongha was in such a foul mood he didn't even bother to feel slightly guilty over this.
He scowled angrily out the window. Seoul was dreary and sad; in perfect harmony with his own mood.
What was wrong with Shindou? Putting football of all things before Go?
If he was in a far more rational state of mind, he would have admitted that he should have seen this coming. He would also have known he was blowing this a bit out of proportion. He was projecting all his hopes onto this boy, this god of a go patron, and had completely forgotten just who he really was. He was more than just quite possibly the most talented Go player of their generation—he was a boy. He was Shindou Hikaru; he had other dreams and aspirations. Actually to that end, Yeongha wasn't even sure if playing Go really was one of his dreams or aspirations. Hikaru himself had admitted he didn't really know. All he could say with complete confidence was that he really, greatly, genuinely enjoyed the game.
Yeongha rubbed his temples.
And was that really enough? He clearly really, greatly, and genuinely enjoyed football as well.
His deep frown smoothed out into a somber expression.
Maybe there really wasn't anything he could do about it. It was Shindou's decision, after all—and if he decided football was more important to him, what was Yeongha supposed to do? He had a feeling half the reason Shindou had decided to take the professional test was because of all the badgering he'd gotten from the people around him—Yeongha included. If that was the case, it was perfectly normal for the boy to get cold feet and back out. Was it even really cold feet, when he didn't want to be there in the first place?
And that's what it really all came down to. Okay, so Shindou missed a game of his pro exams. Big deal. There was no way he was going to lose any of his other matches, so he was in no danger of failing. But it was more than that—it was the principle of the thing. Shindou was putting football before Go; who was to say it wasn't always going to be like this? Football first, Go as the afterthought? Eventually Shindou was going to have to make a choice, a hard choice. One day the two would clash in an irrevocable way—and Yeongha had no idea what Shindou's decision would be then.
Unsurprisingly, Yeongha's mood did not improve for the rest of the week. There was chatter at his school about football, but then, there was always chatter about football, but this week it only served to irritate him more.
He didn't want to hear about that stupid sport. On the best of days the athletes of his school only served to irritate him; what did they do all day, aside from kick balls around or throw things in the air? They were loud and tedious and annoying, but today even more so. They were all talking over each other, gesticulating wildly to the guffaws and snickers of the rest of the crowd—probably something to do with a new video game or something. Yeongha scoffed. There was always a new video game.
It felt like it took decades for the last class of the day to end. Yeongha had been ready for this week to be over since the start, and wasted no time packing up all his stuff as quickly and efficiently as possible. Maybe an afternoon at the go salon would cheer him up some. He wished he hadn't pissed Suyon off—he could do with some decent competition right now.
"Yeongha?"
He paused, surprised that someone was actually addressing him. His classmates were more than aware of his opinion on them, and from the pitch of the voice it certainly wasn't yet another girl giving him a love letter.
When he turned around, he was less surprised. Sehun was one of the very few people he spoke to and genuinely didn't mind having to associate with. He was part of Yeongha's rotating group of select individuals whom he would deign to partner up with whenever the need arose; he also happened to be a football player, but had never been particularly obtrusive about the sport, so Yeongha overlooked it.
"Sehun," he greeted, making an effort not to snap.
It was then that he realized all the boys in the class seemed to have been making a fuss over Sehun, not an actual game, because he had to shoo them all off to give them some privacy.
He stuck both hands in his pockets, giving him a sheepish smile. "Sorry about all of them."
Yeongha had no idea why the boy felt the need to apologize to his friends, other than the fact that they were obnoxious and loud, they were no different than anyone else at this school.
"I just got back from a tournament—" Ah, that would explain Sehun's recent string of absences. Yeongha had had to pair up with Baekhyun for the chemistry exam, another of his approved group, but he would have preferred Sehun because the boy was better in science. "And, um, anyway—do you know a boy named Shindou Hikaru?"
Yeongha found himself at a loss for words. What were the odds that the current bane of his existence would be brought up in conversation with one of his arbitrary school acquaintances?
"I do." He replied, coolly, surprised. "How do you know him?"
"We played on a team together!" He enthused. "Shindou's great! Really funny, really good at football. I was surprised when he said he played Go, and then he mentioned he plays Go with you! What a coincidence, huh?"
"Yes, quite." He was surprised Hikaru would tell one of his football friends that he played—last Yeongha saw of him, he was deathly afraid of any of his friends finding out about his 'dirty secret'.
Yeongha had never felt the need to hide his interest, as if it were something to be ashamed of. He was better than all these fools, why would he hide? Of course, he wasn't naïve enough to assume that his continued good social standing had nothing to do with his looks. If he hadn't been the most good looking boy in school, he may have hesitated a bit. He staunchly believed that other's opinions were beneath him, but all the same the thought could inspire a drop of trepidation in him. Suyon certaininly didn't have it as easy. Suyon had never bothered to pretend to fit in with the insipid interests of their peers either, and the result was a rich, spoiled brat with a lonely streak three meters wide. Then again, Yeongha couldn't exactly point fingers. But his was a self-induced isolation, untouchable and above all his classmates; still, it was an isolation all the same.
His enthusiasm died some after a beat. "I guessed you hadn't heard, so I figured I should probably tell you—
Sehun sighed.
"Shindou's in the hospital."
Yeongha's mouth opened and he sucked in a breath. "He's what?"
"Hit his head wrong in an illegal slide tackle—the ref so should have called that, it was ridiculous—and he was unconscious for, like, half a minute! Anyway, they had to keep him over there because he's got a pretty severe concussion and the doc's were worried the air pressure might make his head explode."
Yeongha blinked in shock, unable to process.
"Um, I'm exaggerating on that." Sehun backtracked. "I don't think his head would explode. But he said something about the air pressure being a bad idea, so… yeah. He's still in Canada."
He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "So is he… is he okay?"
"Well, he's got a pretty bad concussion." Sehun replied, succinctly. "But when we all went to see him he seemed okay, he was talking and stuff and not throwing up or anything. But concussions are pretty tricky things, so it's hard to say."
Yeongha nodded wordlessly, lost in thought.
"I…" He hesitated for a moment, before sighing. "Thanks for telling me."
"Of course." Sehun spared him a worried look. "I'm sure he'll be back on his feet in no time." Sehun assured.
A head poked into their classroom—a boy hollering for Sehun. He was shouting about mcdonalds and video games, and if Yeongha had more presence of mind he'd be more annoyed at that. As it was, he couldn't really spare it a thought. Sehun gave him another apologetic glance, before saying his goodbyes. Yeongha could barely hear it.
A concussion.
Sehun was probably right, if he was talking and aware of himself it probably wasn't that bad. And though they took time, concussions healed. But Sehun was also right in saying they were tricky things—all head injuries were. Academically Yeongha knew that.
This didn't stop him from fearing the worst.
/-/
so I'm drawing what I know about youth club hockey and lacrosse into soccer because I actually don't know very much about soccer leagues at all. Middle school/High school age kids normally play on a school team, a club/travel team, and then enter into different sponsored tournaments. So Hikaru plays for Haze during school soccer season, SM for club/travel on the off season, and then tries out to get onto random teams for one tournament only like the national u-15 japan team for the u-15 asia-pacific tournament whenever they come around.
on another note, I have no idea what the pro exam schedule is like, but someone pointed out that its been going on for a while. I actually haven't read hng in ages, and I assumed it was one game a week? Haha well at any rate, it'll be over soon enough.