Diary of an imaginary Henry fangirl

3 Drabbles + First Lines Drabble-Fest

2008-07-01T04:13:27Z

I have written drabbles (ish) for dorrie6's First Lines challenge. Hikaru no Go, xxxHolic and Harry Potter.

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Telekinesis (Hikaru no Go)

"Shindou, this is ridiculous," Touya says, shifting irritably on the other side of the goban.

"Shut up, it's not." Hikaru frowns, concentrating more fiercely.

"You are not going to move the stones with your mind."

Hikaru looks up, giving him a level glare. "Not on my own," he says. "Obviously."

_________________

Hold Still (xxxHolic)

"Ugh. Is it gone?" Watanuki asked, propping himself up on his elbows, one of which was throbbing.

"Hold still," Yuuko said, her expression intent as she scanned his face.

Maru and Moro danced behind her, inappropriately delighted. "Hold still! Hold still!" they cried.

Watanuki flopped his head back, knocking it repeatedly against the smooth hardwood floor. "Ow. Ow. Ow." The store room was a dangerous place, but he'd never opened a writing case and been chased by a quill before. It was the most undignified thing that had ever happened to him. Except for maybe the cat ears thing.

"Ow," he said, knocking again.

"You're not holding still," Yuuko observed, her voice dark with amusement. Watanuki glared at her, and she ran careful fingers over his cheeks. Then she smiled, springing to her feet. "There! All gone."

Maru and Moro laughed and hugged each other. They didn't chorus "All gone!", which Watanuki should have realised was a warning bell.

Doumeki's expression only changed a little bit when Watanuki came out to find him waiting at the front of the shop.

"Suits you," he said.

"What?" Watanuki demanded. "No, whatever it is. Whatever Yuuko just drew on my face, get rid of it."

Doumeki actually bit his lip. Then he stepped closer, and touched Watanuki's cheek. His fingers were a feather over the skin.

He was ridiculously close, closer than he needed to be, and Watanuki suddenly couldn't breathe. Doumeki's eyes were dark and very serious. Watanuki's cheek under his fingertips felt shivery for some reason.

"There," Doumeki said, stepping back abruptly, taking the heat with him. Watanuki blinked. "It's gone."

It was only when Watanuki got home that he discovered that Doumeki hadn't rubbed out the cat whiskers inked over his cheeks after all.

_________________

Baby Blue (Harry Potter)

It was Remus who brought him in, small and quiet with that hair.

Harry reached out, cautiously in case Remus said that he shouldn't, and touched a pale blue curl. The baby opened its mouth and yawned, graceless and tiny. There was a little spit bubble at the corner of its mouth.

"He's, um ... he's a Metamorphmagus, then?" Harry asked.

"It's not supposed to be hereditary," Hermione said, fascinated. And then, realising that this might not have been the expected reaction, "Professor, he's gorgeous, he really is." She frowned, biting on a thumbnail. "It must be the effect of having two shapeshifters as parents - that's a powerful mixture."

"Well, I'm glad that if he inherited shapeshifting from us, it was this variety," Remus said. He sounded as though he was trying to joke, but there was a hoarse, pained note in his voice that spoke of dreadful seriousness. He stroked the edge of Teddy's forehead, very gently, under the soft impossible hair. He looked up. "Do you want -?"

Hermione stepped forward, then bit her lip. "I'm not sure that I - I'm not very good with - with small things. Babies and things."

Ron was in the kitchen with Andromeda and Tonks, theoretically helping them put away the shopping they'd been doing when Harry and the others ran into them in Diagon Alley. By the sound of it he and Tonks were mainly clashing saucepans together and getting in Andromeda's way, rather than helping.

Remus passed Teddy to Harry, who held his breath, taking the slight weight. He looked down at the small face. Teddy made a wet, sucking noise, and blew another spit bubble.

Harry adjusted his arms, careful and awkward. He knew that if babies were really as breakable as they looked, he would never have lasted with the Dursleys. He'd been older than Teddy then, though. When he was this age, he was probably being passed to his godfather to be held too.

Teddy squirmed a bit and raised his arms, and Harry adjusted his arms again, tucking the baby more securely against his knee. Godson, he thought, trying the word out in his head.

It sounded nice.

It'll be different for you, he promised. He was embarrassed by how serious he felt, here in this peaceful, sunny scene with Tonks snorting with laughter in the other room. But ...

I'll make sure.

_________________

Links to the original fics these were based on are here.

And because that was fun, I thought I'd try it over here as well. I'm not sure whether my friends list is large enough to pull it off, but please join in!

1. Choose one of the first lines from one of my fics below.
2. Use it as the first line for your own drabble or ficlet in any fandom, any or no pairing. If you need to change names so that you can make it a new fandom, go ahead.
3. Post it in the comments! Or if it won't fit in a single comment, post it at your journal and link :-)

Note: if you're curious, links to the fics in question are the stars at the end of each line.

Pick a line!

"... which is perhaps the essence of the game." ★

"Are these your glasses, Harry?" ★

"How could she possibly have got tanned?" ★

"I think the problem, sir, is that you're not twisting your upper body enough." ★
[Oh go on, write this one, please.]

Draco stepped cautiously under the arch. ★

Given how much more Watanuki saw than anybody else, there was an awful lot he didn't notice. ★

Harry heard the bolts on the door slide back as he was lifting himself out of the water. ★

Late afternoon sunshine reflected off the dog-eared pages of Percy's Ancient Runes textbook. ★

Morishita-sensei took Saeki aside mid-way through Tuesday's study group. ★

Pansy wasn't attracted to Hermione Granger. ★

Sometimes you're not even sure yourself whether what you do is magic. ★

The device sat on Draco's bed, denting the heavy green quilt into a rumpled dip. ★

The first thing Draco focused on when he opened his eyes was Harry Potter on the next bed. ★

The moon should have risen an hour ago. ★

The wounded had been taken to St Mungo's and the Death Eaters rounded up and marched off with the aurors.

Two months after Draco Malfoy was reported dead, Harry and Ron found him tangled in Strangler Ivy on the grounds of Hogwarts. ★

Waya hopped onto his toes, trying to see over the crowds. ★

Waya's memories of the Chinese pro Yang Hai weren't especially warm. ★

If you write a drabble and then do this meme on your own journal (and link me) I promise to drabble for you in turn.

A Poll: What Should I Write?

2008-06-23T09:32:50Z

So, I have very temporarily upgraded this journal to a plus account, so that I can do a poll. I'm pretty sure this seems like a good idea only because I'm sleepy and useless and got nothing done at work today, and everybody knows that making lists is good for your soul.

I've recently started letting myself write fanfic on the tram on the way home, when I'm too tired and sulky to work on original fiction. The system isn't flawless, but it does seem to mean that I'm going to keep producing fic for a bit.

Sooooo, I thought - well, somebody said to me, I can't remember who - that I should not make assumptions about my flist. It's entirely possible that most of you aren't impatiently waiting for me to get back to the H/D-ness. So I'm asking, which of these do you want me to write next?

I do not promise to definitely write the one with the most votes, but I do promise to be swayed. Especially if you comment with why you want it, as well.

(Also, I want to write all of these, possibly all at once, so it will not be a hardship. Plus, note check boxes, pick as many as you want.)

View Poll: #1209384

ETA: Oh, one more I forgot! Harry Potter, H/D, amnesia fic with Pensieve, mostly humour, some serious. Sorry, no room in the poll, comment if you want it.

Fic: Footbridge, Doumeki/Watanuki

2008-06-21T02:03:49Z

I don't know why I keep writing fic in pairings and fandoms nobody on my friends list wants to read. I'm starving for comments, it's pathetic.

Title: Footbridge
Fandom: xxxHolic
Pairing: Doumeki/Watanuki
Length: 2,900
Rating: PG
Summary: For somebody who sees so much, Watanuki misses a lot.
Dedication: This is for dorrie6, who barely knows me but who sold this series and fandom so hard that I banged my knees falling into them.
Acknowledgments: Respectful reference to events in Melymbrosia's fantastic Houses and Rain.
Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to CLAMP. No money is being made from this fic.
Spoilers: Written between chapters 157 and 158 (Volume 13). Mild spoilers up to that point.

Footbridge

Given how much more Watanuki saw than anybody else, there was an awful lot he didn't notice. Sometimes Doumeki thought that it was some kind of equal value exchange he'd had to make at birth: supernatural sight, in exchange for social blindness.

Watanuki paid a lot of attention to Kunogi, but he never noticed the way her hand crept to the back of her neck, under her hair, when she talked to him.

"Kohane-chan looked so unhappy on the television!" she was saying now, her knees folded neatly on the grass. "I'm glad she doesn't have to do that any more."

"Yeah," Watanuki said, smiling at his hands – that sweet smile he only used on children and young fox spirits. "I am too. But it was pretty horrible for her, the way it happened."

Kunogi smiled, bright enough to dazzle, and said, "But she's lucky to have you for a friend, Watanuki-kun."

Watanuki was too busy gasping and falling onto his back in happiness to notice Kunogi's hand touching the back of her neck.

Doumeki didn't think that it was self-consciousness, or that she was checking that her hair was still covering the scars. He thought she was reassuring herself that they were there: that she'd paid a price that gave her the right to sit here and crinkle her eyes in a smile.

She wasn't ever going to give Watanuki what he wanted, Doumeki knew. Under the sunny smile, she was so desperately unhappy that Doumeki didn't think she could untangle herself far enough to love anything.

With Tanpopo she made careful, fumbling attempts. They worked because Tanpopo had been made for her.

Doumeki reached over and took one of Watanuki's rice balls to wake him back up out of his sparkly faint.

Kunogi giggled beneath her hand as Watanuki flailed at him.

"Too loud," Doumeki said, plugging his ear with his finger.

*

Watanuki never noticed the looks the three of them got at school, or seemed to think about what an odd grouping they made. Kunogi had never had her lunch with anybody, before she started eating from the bento boxes Watanuki brought. She was liked – plenty of people thought she was cute – but she'd never made friends. Doumeki knew that she'd only let Watanuki start eating with her because Doumeki was there too, to protect him.

Sometimes Doumeki was terrified – cold and shaking – that she might have too much faith in him, she and Yuuko both.

People stared even more to see Doumeki with the other two. He was popular, not because he tried to be, or because he'd ever wanted to be charming, but because he was athletic and looked good with a bow (he was pretty sure) and never seemed especially impressed by anything.

"Doumeki-kun, won't you hang with us sometime?" Takahashi from the archery club was trying hard to sound cool about the offer. "We could discuss technique, you know. I've been thinking I might be twisting my wrist too much in tournaments – do you think?"

The other two boys behind him nodded, eagerly. "You should come hang out, Doumeki-kun! Heh, you don't need to sit with those two, you know."

Doumeki shrugged, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Maybe some other time," he said.

He could feel their disappointed gazes following him as he turned away.

Watanuki was waiting on the path. He was glowering and shifting from foot to foot.

"Here!" he said, shoving a bento box into Doumeki's hands. "You're too slow! When I, Watanuki-sama, have bestowed my art on your lunch, the least you could do is not make me wait!"

Doumeki looked inside the bento box. Watanuki had made sushi rolls with pickled ginger, the way Doumeki liked them.

Watanuki must have known what Doumeki was looking at. He flushed and looked away. "I made them for Himawari-chan. There were just a few left over."

Watanuki didn't notice the boys giving him enviously resentful looks, or the couple of girls watching and giggling.

It wasn't that Doumeki wanted him to notice – but it might have been nice if he sometimes recognised that there were people who actually liked Doumeki's company.

Still.

Doumeki ate one of the sushi rolls.

"At least wait until you're sitting down!" Watanuki flailed. "You don't eat standing up!"

They were delicious.

*

Watanuki never noticed the way that Yuuko sometimes watched him, either. Doumeki saw the darkness in her gaze, more and more often, and shivered. He wanted to ask what she saw, what was coming – but she'd demand a price for the answer. And whatever it was that Yuuko saw in Watanuki's future, Doumeki suspected that he'd need anything he could pay, just to meet it.

*

Doumeki wasn't sure how he felt about the Zashiki-Warashi giving Watanuki Valentines chocolates again. He was glad that she hadn't chosen to take his soul this time, but looking at her hopeful, flushed face, and the eyes that she couldn't bring herself to raise to Watanuki's face, Doumeki wasn't sure that this was better.

"They're delicious," Watanuki told her. The gentle smile he gave the little fox spirit and Kohane-chan was apparently allowed for shy house spirits too.

The Zashiki-Warashi raised her face and smiled at him, her eyes shining. "The fox spirit and Ame-Warashi both helped," she said quietly.

Doumeki heard a snort and glanced over to where the Ame-Warashi stood. She was tapping her booted foot against the flat stones of the path through the park. She twitched her parasol in her hands, her eyes narrowed as she stared at Watanuki and the Zashiki-Warashi.

Watanuki looked up and blinked, registering her glare. Doumeki could see him wondering why she disliked him so much.

Seeing the vulnerable line of her mouth when she looked at the Zashiki-Warashi, Doumeki thought that it was painfully obvious why.

Watanuki wasn't going to see it, though.

The Zashiki-Warashi bowed again, with a "Thank you for accepting my gift!" in a quiet, breathless voice, and turned to look at the Ame-Warashi.

"Are you finished?" the Child of Rain asked, her voice awkwardly abrupt.

"Yes, Ame-Warashi." A sweet smile and an arm offered to the other girl. "We can go."

The four of them were standing just under the tree that Watanuki had said the dead lady's spirit had been in – the one he and Kohane-chan had brought to Doumeki's temple. Watanuki glanced up at it now, his attention caught by some motion. Doumeki put a hand up to his right eye as he saw a brief, confusing flash of little men in dark glasses, riding surfboards through the air. It was so random that he almost thought he must have imagined it. But Watanuki was looking wary in a fed up sort of way now, so they were probably real.

The Ame-Warashi looked around as she took the Zashiki-Warashi's arm. The Zashiki-Warashi gave her a hopeful look, and the Ame-Warashi sighed, looking put upon.

"Oh, fine," she said. "They can have crop showers too."

She flicked her parasol in a pointed motion, vaguely towards the sky. Then she determinedly turned both herself and the Zashiki-Warashi, folding them out of sight.

Watanuki frowned. "What was –"

He was cut off by a shocking, drowning sheet of water: rain so sudden and so hard that Doumeki felt as though he'd fallen into the rush of a river somehow. The rain was hard enough to be painful, the cold and the stinging pressure stealing the breath from Doumeki's lungs.

He reached out, grabbing Watanuki – almost invisible in the rain – and pulled him into a stumbling run.

Watanuki kept up with him, his gasps loud in Doumeki's ears. Then they were slipping down a slope. Watanuki fell to his knees; when Doumeki reached down to pull him up, he discovered that they'd fallen into the little creek that bubbled through the park. The water swirling past their shins was almost lost in the confusion of drumming water all around.

There was a vague dark shape ahead. Doumeki tugged Watanuki towards it, creek pebbles turning over under his shoes. His hand touched cold stone, then they were undercover. The rush of water quietened like a volume dial being turned.

Watanuki pushed his hands against his knees, gasping.

They were, Doumeki realised after a moment, under the little ornamental footbridge he'd walked over a few times. It was a close, shadowy space underneath, dry and cobwebby. They were still standing in the creek, but there was space to sit, up on the bank under the curve of the bridge, if you were willing to scramble and didn't mind huddling a bit.

Doumeki pushed Watanuki up into the small space, ignoring his sputters, and climbed up beside him.

There was room for both of them, although their knees and shoulders were touching.

Watanuki slid a look across at him. "Huh," he said, edging his knees to the side.

The air was already becoming warm and humid with their breathing in the confined space. On either side, the edges of the bridge were arcs of water in green-white sheets. It looked even denser when you were looking into it than it had from the midst of it. Even muted by the shelter of the bridge, the sound was a steady rush in their ears.

They were both close to soaked from even their brief dash. Doumeki's clothes were dragging against his skin. The pebbled bank was uncomfortable under him. He ignored it.

Watanuki was staring at the rain, his eyes narrowed. "She did that on purpose," he said with decision.

Doumeki shrugged.

Watanuki shot him an annoyed look. "You're supposed to answer comments politely, not shrug!" He stretched back, not waiting for a reply, and made a pained face as he knocked his head against the underside of the bridge.

"You're taller than me," Watanuki said, sounding as ever as though being taller was something Doumeki had arranged purely to torment Watanuki. "Why don't you knock your head?"

"I don't flail around without looking at what I'm doing," Doumeki said. "Idiot."

Watanuki scowled at him, rubbing his head.

Watanuki's hair was clinging to his forehead in wet, spiky tendrils, and his cheeks were damp, and pink with cold. He'd stretched his legs down the slope, his boots just stopping short of dipping into the stream. His jeans were as damp as the rest of him. He looked ...

Actually Doumeki wasn't going to think about how he looked. He stole one of Watanuki's chocolates instead, from the damp and bedraggled bag still clutched in Watanuki's hand.

"Those aren't yours!" Watanuki objected.

Doumeki was already tasting the chocolate. It was ... interesting, in a somebody-forgot-to-add-the-sugar sort of way. He put the rest of it carefully onto the ground beside him. Watanuki had put the bag down between them, in a bad-tempered, tacit permission for him to eat the rest of them, but he thought that he wouldn't.

"It's so annoying that I'm stuck here with you!" Watanuki burst out. He gazed dreamily into the rain. "If I was here with Himawari-chan it would be so romantic. She would be shivering, and I'd give her my coat to keep her warm, and put my arm around her shoulders ..."

"Your coat's wet," Doumeki observed.

"If Himawari-chan were here her warm smile would make it seem okay," Watanuki said, glaring.

Watanuki shifted, his leg rubbing against Doumeki's. "Instead I'm here with you." Watanuki sighed. "There's no justice."

Only hitsuzen, Doumeki thought, because Yuuko wasn't there to say it, and because apparently she'd indoctrinated him sufficiently that he'd internalised her voice now.

"Did you just smile?" Watanuki asked, his voice curious.

Doumeki shrugged.

Watanuki subsided. The rain was still a thick curtain – maybe not so supernaturally dense now, but still enough to soak you the instant you left shelter.

When Doumeki chanced a look at Watanuki, he was watching the rain, a pensive expression in his eyes.

Doumeki leaned back a little further, careful of his head against the bridge. Watanuki shifted automatically to make room for him. Doumeki could feel Watanuki's shoulder just touching his own. Under the rhythmic drumming of the rain he could hear the in-out of Watanuki's breathing – hitching when he sniffed and rubbed his damp scarf over his mouth.

Their feet were close together against the stony ground, trickles of water snaking over the pebbles from the dunking their shoes had got. Doumeki had to bend his knees a bit to keep his feet out of the flow of the stream. It brought his knee closer to Watanuki's.

They were quiet – Watanuki seemed to have forgotten to do anything but watch the rain – and Doumeki's clothes didn't feel so uncomfortable any more. There was only the green-white rain and their breaths in the shadowed space, and Watanuki next to him, a warm presence.

It was a little bit fantastic.

Watanuki leaned his chin on his hand. Doumeki still wasn't quite used to how his face looked without glasses. The line of his cheek looked softer, the lashes on his eye – his right eye, Doumeki's eye – looked inkier. His fringe tickled his lashes, without the glass in the way.

His mouth had fallen into that soft, accepting shape that he'd worn so often recently. It was the one that made Doumeki want to catch hold of him somehow, terrified that he was slipping away in some way that Doumeki didn't understand. Or to trace the line of Watanuki's mouth with his thumb, smoothing away the expression and waking the sparks in his eyes again.

Or maybe he just wanted to trace his fingers over Watanuki's mouth to see what it felt like – if it was as soft as it looked. He wanted to smooth back the hair at Watanuki's ears, too, where it was drying in feathery tufts. He wanted to touch his fingers to the skin between Watanuki's thumb and forefinger, and to the little strip of wrist that was showing under his shirt sleeve – there, where he was propping his chin in his hand.

Usually Doumeki didn't let himself think about these things. They were dumb and pointless and didn't go anywhere. Watanuki would freak out if Doumeki ever did any of them. Which would be fun, but then Watanuki would avoid him, and probably get killed by some spirit because he had the survival instincts of a drunk kitten. And that really wouldn't be worth the fun involved.

The shape of Watanuki's mouth still did uncomfortable churning things to Doumeki's stomach, though. And the line of his jaw, under the hand he was supporting with an elbow on his knee, looked sharp and soft at once.

Watanuki sighed, softly, and turned his head. His eyes were still, quiet, and Doumeki felt caught. He was usually careful, but now he had the wrong expression on his face, and he wasn't sure what it was, but Watanuki ... Watanuki had noticed.

This he noticed. Of all the things, with everything he missed, he noticed this. Doumeki opened his mouth, trying in a panic to think of something to say for damage control.

Watanuki's eyes had widened: their expression was suspended, a sort of dawning understanding. He stared at Doumeki, open and intent, as if watching the rain for so long had put him in a kind of trance.

Doumeki still couldn't say anything.

Watanuki put out a hand, his eyes direct and searching, as though he was discovering something. He rested his fingers against Doumeki's mouth.

Doumeki sucked in a breath, the sound pained.

Watanuki blinked, waking up to himself. The colour rushed into his cheeks and he snatched his hand away.

Doumeki opened his mouth again, but Watanuki was desperately looking around. "The rain's stopped!" he said. He was already scrambling down the slope, soaking his shoes in the creek again.

It wasn't quite true – there was still a light, steady rain falling – but it was nothing you couldn't walk through.

Doumeki gathered his scattered thoughts with an effort, and climbed down after him. Watanuki, waiting next to the creek with his jeans wet halfway up his shins, gave him a very quick glance and then turned away, striding off.

Doumeki caught up easily. "You –" he said, sliding a look at Watanuki.

"Shut up!" Watanuki said.

"I didn't –" Doumeki tried.

"Shut up shut up shut up." Watanuki wheeled on him. "Don't say a word! Ever!" His finger flapped wildly in Doumeki's face. Doumeki looked at it. Watanuki spun around again, making incoherent sounds.

"Huh," Doumeki said.

"Shut up."

Doumeki's shoes were squelching from their second dunking in the creek, and his clothes were still uncomfortably damp. But the steady scatter of rain on his cheeks was cool and welcome after the warm, humid space under the bridge. The park looked lovely in its curtain of rain: bedraggled and soft-edged and very green.

Doumeki touched his hand to his mouth, feeling the light pressure of Watanuki's fingers there.

Watanuki noticed, and flushed again, looking away.

Fin

Fic: Blades in the Night, Fuji-centric

2008-06-18T10:06:10Z

Title: Blades in the Night
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Some Fuji/Eiji
Rating: PG-13
Length: 4,800
Summary: Fuji Syusuuke can make knives fly like swallows, glittering silver death. (Vigilante AU.)
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Konomi. No money is being made from this fic.
A/N: (1) All non-tenipuri names are made up. Please let me know if any have unfortunate connotations.

(2) This should be crack, I know, and it's not, really. But it was made with love.

Blades in the Night

Sometimes you're not even sure yourself whether what you do is magic. You know that you can feel the lines of energy in the air, feel the way the wind changes, the slightest pressure dipping and sparkling around you. You can feel the way the knife will fly: perfect, supernatural, deadly.

It flies now. A dip like a swallow, a glide, and flashing death back towards you as it falls. You twist your wrist and catch the handle, stepping back to absorb the momentum, body moving without conscious direction. The blade shimmers for a moment, spinning in your fingers. Then you look away, tossing it to your other hand and back again.

"Nya, Fujiko," somebody says from behind you, "you're scary when you do that!"

You tuck the knife away, one of many hidden in your clothes, and turn to face him. Your smile is as bright as the glittering knife was, but not so deadly – not for Eiji. You tuck your hands into the pockets of your coat, letting your fringe fall into your eyes, and smile behind it.

"Hello, Eiji. I got your message," you say.

He bites his lip and grins, sauntering over to you. The bright, autumn-coloured hair slips over his cheeks as he jumps up onto a step, avoiding the tangle of a broken table and chair in the alley. He's wearing what he calls his uniform. He's plain clothes, but that rust-red jacket and the black trousers that give him room to move are his usual costume when he thinks he might have to fight. That's your second hint that tonight is about more than catching up with a childhood friend.

Your first hint was Eiji's voice over the phone, conscious and half-laughing as he asked you to meet him.

He reaches you and slings an arm over your shoulder, a warm weight. "You're still short, Fuji," he laughs, reaching over to ruffle your hair. You slip out from under his arm, stepping back and narrowing your eyes to gleaming slits while you examine him.

"You look well," you say, relaxing.

"Nn," he says, raking his eyes over you. He dips his eyelashes, grinning again. "I like your coat! I bet it swishes when you swing around." He looks up again and winks. "I'm pretending I don't know how many concealed weapons you're carrying under it."

You just smile. He doesn't expect an answer, of course.

He props his head against your shoulder, hair sliding soft against your cheek as he drops his arm around your shoulder again. "Come on, this place is great," he says. "We haven't had a drink together in months."

You laugh, the sound sunny in the dusk-lit alley. You let him tug you along. "That's because the last time we had a drink you twisted your ankle trying to somersault from the top of a fountain," you tease.

"Fuji, don't be mean," he says, hitting you with his elbow. But there's the hint of a smirk in his mouth as he tilts his head away again.

The bar is thinly populated, given that it's so early; you assume there's a reason Eiji arranged for you to be here at this time, though you don't ask. It's already shadowed, though, the warm, dim lighting probably hiding the scars on the walls. The patrons, the few that there are, look like people who wouldn't be afraid to cause a few more scars of one kind or another, if they had good reason to. They're not roughly dressed, but their eyes are hard, and warily lidded.

You tilt your head, smiling, and push your hands into your pockets. Your hair slides into your eyes again. You know that you don't look at all intimidating like this.

Eiji tugs you to a table in an especially shadowed corner. You don't miss the quick scan he gives the room, pausing at every face, before he relaxes and flops into the seat opposite you. Then he pops back up onto his feet, calling over his shoulder, "I'll get the first drinks!"

You watch him flirting with the barkeeper, with that irresistible charm that serves him so well when he's undercover. You wonder whether he's actually on duty, or if this is a more informal outing. Probably the latter. You suspect that whatever he's here for, he's following a hunch that he's been forbidden to follow up for some reason by his superior. Eiji's never been one to openly oppose authority, but he usually does what he wants anyway. That's been true since you were both young enough that the price of being caught in mischief was detention and a stern lecture.

The price is a lot higher these days, but you suspect that Eiji's attitude towards it is much the same.

You slide lower in your seat, keeping your gaze sleepy as you scan the bar again, memorising the exits and obstacles, making idle judgments about each of the patrons. The young woman in the far corner looks as though she may snap in the wrong way if there's trouble, but Eiji's eyes didn't hesitate over her, so she's probably not involved in whatever he's here for. The man with her isn't focusing on anything but his companion's legs, long and black in sheer stockings beneath her red dress. The pining, pained devotion in his eyes might be affecting, but the girl is obviously disgusted. She flicks his cheek with her thumb nail, forcing him to look up, and he does, flushing.

The lines of energy that you slide a knife along, the glittering spaces in the air, aren't as mysterious as the spaces between people. Eiji, leaning over the bar, never seems to notice those spaces as he casually invades them, but you've never been able to see past them. You can spin a knife, a gleaming trail in the air, through any space you can see, down any path. But you can't follow it. You can't cross to another person.

The red-dressed woman and her companion don't even notice the lines as they manoeuvre around them in an intricate dance.

There are two men at the bar, a little way down from where Eiji is giving the barkeeper a cheeky smile as he turns around. They're already unsteady on their stools, though, and your eyes skim over them.

There are another four men and a woman in another corner, three of them watching while two play shogi on a board set up between them, but Eiji's eyes didn't hesitate over them either.

The man on the couch by the door with the furry black buzz-cut is checking his watch, his forehead falling into anxious lines.

Eiji slips back into the seat opposite, sliding a drink over to you. It's a dangerous blue colour and it hisses when liquid sloshes against the rim. Eiji grins at you, waiting, and you oblige by tipping the drink to your mouth. It's a burn in your throat, unpalatably sharp. You hum, enjoying it.

Eiji flops his chin onto his hands, his grin widening as he watches you. "The barkeeper didn't believe me when I said I wanted that," he confides, delighted. "He said it strips the skin from your throat! I knew you'd like it."

"Thank you," you say. You look at the drink, your tone casual. "The man by the door is waiting for somebody."

Eiji's expression flickers, and his eyes flick to the buzz-cut man, narrowing for a moment, then back to you. "Oh?" he says.

You look up, your smile bright and unquestioning once more.

"Hoi," he says, his eyes sliding away from yours. His cheeks are pink. "Don't say anything or I'll be sacked, ne?"

You just shake your head, because as if you would. He meets your smile, trying to ruffle your hair again and laughing when you catch his wrist.

"I heard some gossip around the station," he says, taking a sip of his own tamer and less alcoholic drink. "About how they captured the Riza circle." His eyes flick to you. "They're trying to keep it quiet, but that was you, wasn't it? I recognised your style."

The door opens and another three men come in. They come into your line of sight, joining the man with the buzz-cut. The buzz-cut man relaxes, and gives one of the others – a man with gelled dark hair – a cautiously respectful nod. Their greetings are too low to hear.

Eiji's eyes flick to them, then carefully away. "Give," he says, looking back at you with a grin.

"There weren't that many of them in the circle," you say. You tilt your drink, swirling the liquid against the glass.

Eiji chokes. "Only twenty or so," he says. "Nya, Fuji." You look up and he's watching you, his expression oddly sorrowful. "I know you think the city needs a protector, but – is it going to be you forever?"

Eiji doesn't look serious very often. His eyes seem very large as they pin you, and you don't know what to say. That you couldn't stop if you wanted to, maybe. That it's part of you, a part you couldn't tear away now.

"Yuuta's been dead a long time," Eiji says. "It can't be just about him any more."

"It's not," you say. You clear your throat. "It's personal, Eiji." You keep your gaze steady and clear, and Eiji's eyes widen a little in response. "I don't have a very strong sense of abstract justice. That's for you, and your colleagues. But I – take every act personally, every time I go out there. That's what Yuuta's death gave me."

Eiji looks down at the table, then back up at you. "Doesn't it get lonely?" he asks.

You shrug, looking away. When you look back you're smiling again, warm and bright. Eiji rolls his eyes, but then his gaze is caught by something over your shoulder: more people coming into the bar. His expression tightens. You slip lower, tilting your chin until you can catch a glimpse of them. The man in front has a clipped, grey beard and a military bearing. You frown, placing him after a moment. Minagi-san, from the central police command. Definitely Eiji's superior.

He's not alone. There are three men behind him, two of them with the blank faces and careful movements of bodyguards – or another kind of hired weapon, perhaps.

The third is younger, his face blank in a different way. His eyes are almost sightless, and he sways a little as he walks. His hair is a tangle of elf-locks, black and wild. You can't decide whether he should, properly, be dangerous, or sweetly scrappy.

Maybe both. He shouldn't be blank-eyed and passive, though; you're quite sure of that.

"Nara," Minagi-san says, his voice low and pleasantly gruff. The gelled man quickly gets to his feet, answering in a voice too quiet to be heard. His eyes slide between Minagi san and the younger man with the queerly blank face. That one doesn't react to the greetings at all.

Eiji is looking at his fingernails. His mouth barely moves as he says, almost too quietly to hear, "The one you're looking at is Kirihara Akaya. His family holds a license that the Sensi Corporation wants. Akaya's been spending all of his time with ... people connected to Sensi, in the last few days, and his only contact with his family has been two phone calls to suggest that they sell the license. His family insist that he's behaving oddly and that they haven't been allowed to see him, but because he's not a minor, he hasn't disappeared, and he's making no complaints, there'll be no investigation.

He doesn't need to add that Minagi-san is one of those people with connections to Sensi, or that there has been pressure from inside the department to disregard the family's complaints.

He doesn't need to point out that Kirihara Akaya is currently drugged, either.

"Mm," you say, your eyes drifting most of the way closed.

Eiji gives you a quick, searching look.

Then he rises and starts towards the door, his mouth shifting into a sweet, surprised smile as he goes. His hand touches your collar as he passes, and you know him well enough to know that he's telling you that whatever part you take in this is up to you. He's never tried to direct your movements, or use you as formal backup. Eiji's a lot smarter than that. And he knows you well enough to know that you were going to make yourself involved, when you saw those glazed, passive eyes. Kidnappers deserve no mercy at all.

"Minagi-san!" Eiji says behind you, his voice bright. "What a surprise to see you here, sir!"

"Kikumaru-san," Minagi-san replies. His tone is repressive. "What brings you here? You're not still on duty, I hope?"

"Nope," you hear Eiji reply, cheekily informal. "Just having a drink. You, sir?" You're facing in the other direction, slipping out of your seat and towards the exit at the rear, but you imagine his eyes sliding to Nara and Kirihara and the others, open and innocent. "Is it a business meeting? You have corporate interests, don't you, sir?"

"Quite," Minagi-san grits out. You smile to yourself, slipping out the back door and hovering there. "If you're here for pleasure, I would not wish to keep you from your companion." The voice is distant now, but still audible.

"Oh, I think he's gone to the bathroom," you hear Eiji reply vaguely. "This isn't as nice a place as I'd hoped, actually, sir. I hope there's not a bar fight or something." You can almost see the wide eyes accompanying the comment. "I'd have to go on duty then, you know, to keep the peace."

You open your eyes, a gleam in the dimness, and slip down the alley.

These are your favourite times, you sometimes think. The night air is cuttingly cold on your mouth; your hair soaks up the cold, feathering light, icy touches on your neck, the tip of your nose. The uneven paving of the alley is quiet under your boots. The hem of your coat swishes about your ankles as you move.

It's only twenty minutes later that Kirihara comes back out of the bar, accompanied by four men now. Two of them have him half-propped between them, his elbows supported as his feet shuffle against the pavement.

You step out of the dimness, halfway down the alley they've just turned in to. You have your hands tucked deep into your pockets, your shoulders a gentle curve in your coat.

None of the five men outlined against the end of the alley are Minagi-san, but you recognise the man he greeted as Nara. Clearly the meeting tonight was for a minder changeover.

Kirihara is swaying gently.

"You," Nara says, his voice harsh in the quiet night. "What are you doing in there?"

You step forward. Your hair is a shine in the darkness, against your collar. You push your hands deeper into your pockets and look up to smile, sweet and piercing-bright.

"My name's Fuji Syusuuke," you say.

Three of the men stiffen. One, standing in the vague illumination of an upper window, pales noticeably.

"Get yourself together," Nara growls at his companions. "He's messing with you. Tell me you fools don't believe in street tales." Nara flicks his head at you. "Look at him. He looks like a boy. And he's just smiling; he's barely got his eyes open."

You do open your eyes then.

Nara shifts, uneasily. "Just push past him and get the kid out of here," he says. "He'll be waking up soon, and I don't know about you but I'm not dealing with him if he goes demon and tries to escape again. Take his arm."

You take another step forward. Your posture is different now: your head up, your eyes all the way open. Your mouth looks as though you've never smiled.

"I don't think that he wants to go with you," you say. This is a voice that Eiji, and your other friends, have never heard. It's clear and deadly, and although you still don't take your hands out of your pockets, one of the men takes a step back. "I think you should take your hands off him," you continue.

Nara narrows his eyes. "You talk big for an unarmed kid," he says.

One of the men holding Kirihara shifts, his movements betraying his nervousness. "If he's Fuji Syusuuke then he's not un–"

"I told you that I don't believe street tales!" Nara interrupts, his eyes wide.

Kirihara makes a little sighing sound, inky curls falling into his eyes as he shifts, restless, against the arms holding his elbows. "Not like that," he mutters, his words slurred.

"I've had enough," Nara says, a hand going to the inside pocket of his jacket.

He hasn't even finished withdrawing the gun when the first flash of steel cuts through the air. The gun goes off as it clatters out of his hand, the retort as the bullet hits the stone wall behind him drowning out his curse.

The others shout and pull out their guns, dropping Kirihara's arms to fire down the alley.

The next knives are already slipping into your palms, though, and you can feel their paths like trails of silver fire before they leave your hands. You twist, throwing the third knife over your shoulder, feeling the spin it takes. The blade flashes, end over end, a fourth blade following. The motion is too swift for the eye to follow, but the high singing cracks as steel dances against bullets, flinging them out of the air, is unmistakable.

In the silence following you hear one of the men start to sob. "He's a magician. No man can knock bullets out of the air with a knife."

"He's not a mage," his companion answers, his voice grim. "He's a fucking demon."

You can't hear anything more after that, because there's gunfire again. The noise has drawn the other patrons from the bar. There's swearing, a confusion of scuffling, and more gunshots.

You can make the blades dance, smooth arcs that dip and dive lethally back into the alley – but you're not immortal. You slip into the narrow gap between two buildings, a sort of alcove, and press yourself back against the warm body already waiting there.

Eiji grins at you. "Che," he murmurs. "You didn't look as though you wanted any help."

"I didn't," you say with a small smile, pressing yourself closer as a bullet whips by, too close.

Eiji lets out his breath in a laugh that's part gasp. "You looked good," he says. Pressed close in the alley, his head drops to rest against your cheek as more shots ring out.

"Thank you!" Your smile has a laugh in it.

"Mm," Eiji says. His hair is still a soft drag against your cheek, and his body has become a more yielding line. He looks up. "Nya, Fujiko," he says quietly, his eyes very dark. "Sometimes I think you don't even know how hot you are."

You gape at him. He turns his head and presses his mouth against yours with a sudden determined motion. Your own mouth falls open in surprise and he makes a tiny, breath-hitching sound as he licks inside. His hands come up to wind in your hair, over your chilled ears.

You're frozen. Eiji's lips are soft, and his body is lean under his jacket, pressed up against yours. He's close up against you, but there's still a gap – you feel it like a yawning emptiness between you. You have no idea how you'd cross that space. You have no idea if you could want to.

Eiji leans back, slowly. He drops his lashes, giving you a very lazy smile. Shots and panicked voices are still ringing out in the alley behind you.

"What," you say, and can't finish the question.

"Mm," Eiji says, voice low. "I've been wanting to do that for years." You can feel the queer, blind expression on your face; you're not used to it. Eiji laughs and moves back. "It's all right: I know. Spaces, ne? I just couldn't resist. And," his smile takes on a wicked edge, "I knew that if it was me, you probably wouldn't actually kill me for it."

You can't quite answer yet, so you close your eyes into a smile, cautiously relaxing. Eiji cranes past you to sneak a look into the alley.

"Hoi," he says, letting his breath out, "it's turning into a bar fight! It looks like good officers of the law should be doing something to keep the peace, don't you think? I'll have to go on duty."

He's right: the other patrons have reacted badly to the sight of all the weapons and fired guns. The little group at the mouth of the alley is trying to flush Fuji out and cover its back at the same time.

"True," you say. "What a shame. On your night off, too."

Eiji grins. He slips past you, vanishing down a thin side street that will get him out into the open street in front of the bar.

You reach up and grasp a windowsill above you. Your feet leave the alley.

From above, navigating the roof as soundlessly as a cat, you can see the tangled mess the fight has become. The woman in the red dress you thought might be trouble is the only one you can spot not actually taking part. She's sitting on a windowsill, watching the fighting with narrowed eyes as she files her nails. Even the drunks from the bar are throwing punches. A few people have joined in who weren't in the bar at all.

You see Eiji stride openly out into the street. He ducks a wild punch, twisting the man's arm up behind his back and shoving him away. Then Eiji's face brightens and he waves a hand above his head. "My backup!" he calls, his voice clear and happy. "Oishi, you were cutting it fine!"

You spot Eiji's partner striding forward with two uniformed officers behind him. His face breaks into relieved lines as he sees Eiji.

Eiji ducks under a knife and jabs his elbow into the man's stomach, rolling over his assailant's back in the same movement. He catches himself on Oishi's shoulder as the other reaches him. They clasp hands for a moment, and then they're turning to the fray.

They fight like dance partners. Eiji flips and rolls, his movements as lithe and acrobatic as a tiger's. Oishi somehow knows exactly where he's going to be, and how to cover all the places he leaves open.

There are no spaces between them. There's just warmth and connection – something stronger than understanding. They move as though the swirling lines around them tie them together, rather than keeping them apart.

Eiji gives Oishi a victory sign as Oishi flips a man onto his back and steps over him.

They've neutralised a good part of the street in the time it takes the two uniforms to stop blinking and wade in.

You creep along until you're directly above the small knot of men in the mouth of the alley. One of them is down, already, clutching his leg, and the others look harried and the worse for wear. Only Kirihara looks as though he's suffered no harm.

You swing down lightly, one knife leaving your hand before your feet touch the paving stones. It pins Nara to the wall, the blade twisting the cloth of his shirt hard against his windpipe, caught fast in both cloth and the wall behind him. His eyes fly wide, but the collar is too tight to allow him to speak.

Another knife is against the throat of one of the men still holding Kirihara before he can turn to face you. He gulps, his hands tightening around Kirihara's elbow, and tries to slide his eyes over so that he can see you.

The third man – the one with the soft buzz-cut from the bar – stares at you over his friend's shoulder. He swallows, his grip on Kirihara's other shoulder going slack, and slides to his knees.

"No," he breathes. "Fuji-san, no."

"I think I said before," you say, your eyes clear and cold, "that it didn't look as though Kirihara-san wanted to go with you. Perhaps you should let go of his arm."

The man whose throat is under your knife hesitates for a long second in which the blade presses gradually harder. Then he lets go in a rush, his shoulders dropping.

Kirihara stands for a moment, his hair in his eyes.

"Kirihara-san?" you ask.

He tilts his head up, the curls tumbling off his forehead. Then he ducks, driving his fist into the stomach of the man who just released him.

Afterwards he turns and does the same to the wide-eyed man behind him, already on his knees on the paving stones.

You slide the gun out of your gasping captive's hand and step away form him. He throws up on the ground. You retrieve the other man's weapon and turn to look at Kirihara, your eyes thoughtful.

Beyond the mouth of the alley, the fight is winding down. You hear Eiji's triumphant shout and the dull thud of a body falling and rolling to its feet.

"There are policemen out in the street," you say, clicking the safeties on the guns and tucking them inside your coat. You push your hands into your pockets and look back at Kirihara, smiling. "You should think about going and introducing yourself to them. They'll take you home, and ask you for a statement when your head clears."

He tilts his head to the side, the motion bird-like and a little hungry. "Are you really Fuji Syusuuke?"

You smile more brightly, but don't answer.

Beyond the alley the fight has finished. Eiji is stepping jauntily over a slumped form, pulling out his badge. "Kirihara-san?" he calls. "Are you in there?"

At Eiji's shoulder, Oishi sweeps the alley with his eyes. You know you're an uncertain figure in the darkness, but his gaze hesitates on you anyway. Then it moves on as, embarrassed, he pretends not to know that his partner has been consorting with a vigilante again.

"Kirihara-san, are you all right?" he calls instead.

You give Kirihara a last smile and turn on your heel, the coat flipping about your ankles.

"Wait!" Kirihara calls.

You're used to not answering that kind of call.

"Wait," Kirihara calls again, his voice sounding young now. "You can't be him!"

You slip out of the end of the alley, your coat flipping against the corner.

The night is cold in your chest, painful and bright and as beautiful as glass. There's a fierce happiness in being out here, in the flashing steel spinning as you toss a knife between your hands, catching the light. You can feel the space around you, clean and clear. Lines and space, spaces and lines, marked out by the flashes of steel. The warmth between Eiji and Oishi can't compare with it.

You smile, your eyes almost all the way closed, and let the spinning blade blur in your sight.

Maybe you could step out of this space if you wanted to, or maybe you couldn't (maybe you don't work that way). But you don't want to.

You catch the knife behind your back, a careful flick of your wrist. Tucking it into your belt, you stride on into the night.

Fin

Fic: More Than Meets the Eye, Saeki/Ashiwara

2008-05-15T12:51:22Z

Title: More Than Meets the Eye
Fandom: Hikaru no Go
Pairing: Saeki/Ashiwara
Length: 4300 words
Rating: PG
Summary: In which Saeki spies, and Ashiwara might not be quite what he seems.
Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to Hotta and Obata. No money is being made from this fic.
A/N: (1) tangledtale wrote this fic in outline-form for bookshop's enormous Hikaru no Go Five Things Post of Love last week, and graciously allowed me to expand and complete it.
(2) Title in honour of doubly-transformative works – and no, I don't know whether anybody else even gets the joke, but you should all be grateful that I didn't call it 'Go Pros in Disguise'.

More Than Meets the Eye

Morishita-sensei took Saeki aside mid-way through Tuesday's study group.

"I've been thinking about it, Saeki-kun," he said, tapping his finger on his chin. "I think that you should begin following Ashiwara from Touya Kouyo's study group around. Secretly, of course."

Saeki started coughing. He focused on Morishita's chest, which was going blue and watery in his vision.

Morishita made an impatient sound and thumped Saeki on the back. It caught the edge of his shoulder blade and hurt quite a bit. "Pull yourself together, boy!" Morishita peered at him, his eyes very black under beetling brows, filling Saeki's vision. "This is the honour of our study group at stake."

"W-what?" Saeki managed. That had been kind of impolite. He bowed, and added, "Sensei?"

Morishita had turned to gaze at something beyond Saeki, and didn't seem to notice. Saeki turned around and found that Morishita was watching Waya having a hissed argument with Shindou over their goban, on the far side of the room. Waya's hair was slipping onto his forehead while he gestured at whatever move Shindou had made, his eyes flashing. Shindou lifted his chin and grinned, saying something that seemed to incense Waya even further.

"Yes," Morishita said, decidedly. He looked back at Saeki, waving an arm. "Follow him and so forth," he explained. "Understand him. Know him. Touya Kouyo's group is still an average of 2.5 dan higher than mine, even now that he's retired. I will not allow them to beat us!" His fixed Saeki with a glare.

Saeki shifted, avoiding Morishita's eyes. "Sensei," he said cautiously, "haven't you thought that maybe our rivalry with Touya Kouyo's group is a bit one–"

"But Shindou-kun is catching up to Touya Kouyo's son," Morishita said, his eyes back on the game on the far side of the room. Shindou was now leaning back from the goban with a self-satisfied smile. As Saeki watched, Waya turned to stare, with a stricken expression, at the shape of the stones.

Morishita looked approving. "And he did it by fixating on that boy," he said. "That's the way! Get under the skin of your rival, and you'll reach and surpass their level faster!"

Morishita fixed Saeki with a beady look. Saeki opened his mouth and could find nothing to say. He swallowed.

*

Other than the acute embarrassment involved in doing it at all, following Ashiwara Hiroyuki around wasn't especially difficult. Ashiwara's schedule was a lot like Saeki's: structured around tournaments and tutoring jobs and study group. Although it involved less going bowling with friends on weekends, and more being dragged to bars by a steely-smiling Ogata-san.

Ashiwara never drank at the bars. He simply stayed, looking out of place, while Ogata-san got drunk and flirted with the wait staff and carried on a one-sided conversation with Ashiwara full of ambiguously worded comments that might have been compliments or insults or something else entirely.

At least, that was what the conversation sounded like when Saeki ducked down behind a pot plant on the way to the bathroom, so that he could eavesdrop and pretend to tie his shoe.

Ogata and Ashiwara were at the bar, long legs stretched before their bar stools. The lighting was muted, scoops of dark blue and gold pooling on people's laps and feathering through the spray of leaves in front of Saeki. The music was something with a repetitive beat, blending with the too-loud flirting and conversations swirling around the knots of people.

Ashiwara's hair looked blue-black when he turned his head, and for a moment so did his eyes. Ogata's paler honey-coloured hair caught people's eyes, though; or maybe catching peole's eyes was something that he did deliberately. When he leaned forward and tapped Ashiwara's glass of water, his eyes lazily hooded, Saeki was fairly sure that he meant to be watched.

"Are you sure?" Ogata asked, obviously asking something he'd asked before.

Ashiwara smiled at him, ducking his head. "Thank you, Ogata-san. No."

Ogata smiled at his drink, running a finger around the rim. "Your mother must be proud of you, Ashiwara."

Ashiwara smiled slightly, and shrugged 'sorry' again.

Saeki ran out of things he could do with his shoelace. He thought Ashiwara might have spotted him when he stood up, because the other man hesitated for a moment, half-turning his head. Then he turned back to his water, turning the glass around in his fingers, and gave a soft, embarrassed laugh at something Ogata said.

Morishita had said that the purpose of this exercise was for Saeki to understand Ashiwara. Which, fair enough, because Saeki really didn't. What was Ashiwara doing here? Why did he come to these bars? Was it to be polite, or because he admired Ogata; or was he just ... what? Really, really nice?

Saeki leaned against the wall by the bathroom, letting his fringe spike into his eyes while he watched the two men over the other side of the room. Saeki wasn't that nice. Saeki didn't know anybody who was that nice.

He ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated. He didn't know what he was doing here any more than he knew what Ashiwara was doing here. Ashiwara didn't think of him as a rival. Saeki didn't really think of them as rivals, although he'd tried to for Morishita's sake. It was just ...

He shook his head. It would help if he was even sure Ashiwara would definitely recognise him, if he turned around and saw Saeki standing against the wall. Saeki crossed his arms and let his fringe fall into his eyes again, moulding his shoulder blades to the wall behind him.

Later, seeing the faint flush on Ashiwara's face as he refused a cigarette on the way out of the bar, and the flustered way he rubbed at the back of his head, disarranging the curls, Saeki still didn't know what Ashiwara was doing there. He was fairly sure he knew where the enjoyment was for Ogata in inviting him, though.

*

"How's your surveillance on that Ashiwara going?" Morishita demanded, tugging on Saeki's elbow.

Saeki jumped. He'd been watching Shirakawa-san's practice match against Waya. He scrambled to his feet, turning to Morishita. "F-fine. It's going fine. But Morishita-sensei, I've been thinking that maybe it's not the best –" He trailed off as Morishita's gaze sharpened.

"What have you learned about the boy?"

Saeki's mind went blank. The only thing he could think of was Ashiwara laughing, soft and embarrassed, under Ogata's slitted blue gaze.

"He doesn't drink alcohol," he blurted. "Even though he goes out."

Then he wanted to kick himself. That had nothing to do with anything that would help him defeat Ashiwara's Go.

Morishita let his breath out in a satisfied Hah. His eyes gleamed. "Keeping a clear head and a pure body," he said. "That important. You'll have to stop drinking alcohol."

Saeki's mouth fell open. "Wha ... I don't. Not more than one or two glasses every now and then."

"One or two glasses is more than that Ashiwara has," Morishita said. He tapped his teeth again, his gaze inward-focused and ferocious. "We can't be beaten by them, Saeki-kun."

*

Ashiwara won his fourth consecutive oteai game the next week. He'd made 5-dan two months earlier than Saeki had, to Morishita's apoplectic rage, and at this rate it looked as though he was on the path to making 6-dan first too.

Saeki watched from where he knelt by his own completed game while Ashiwara brightly thanked his opponent – that little odd boy, Ochi-kun, who'd passed at the same time as Waya and Shindou, and who was currently staring at his interlocked hands as though he wanted to cut them off. Ochi looked up and met Ashiwara's brightness with a scowl. Ashiwara gentled his expression and said something that Saeki, kneeling and pretending to still be counting his change to see whether he had enough for lunch, couldn't catch. Ochi gave Ashiwara a suspicious look, but apparently couldn't find anything suspicious in his smile. The boy stood and bowed, an abrupt, truncated movement, then turned on his heel.

Ashiwara leaned back on his elbows, smiling at the ceiling, and Saeki dropped his gaze.

Nobody was that nice all the time. Did Ashiwara not know that they were all in competition with each other?

Or did he not care about winning, somehow? He seemed to have no intensity or drive at all; just that smile and that niceness.

The smile was a bit wonderful, if Saeki was honest, but that had nothing to do with Go.

*

Saeki sat at a booth in the back of the cafe opposite the Institute, shielding his face with a copy of Go Weekly. Ashiwara was having lunch with a young woman who looked as though she must be his sister, or maybe cousin, four tables away. He'd just fallen out of the Honinbou League – Saeki knew because he'd fallen out in the same round – and his sister-or-cousin was apparently commiserating with him.

Ashiwara ran his hand through his hair, making a face, then looked up. He shrugged and said something to his companion, with an easy, sweet smile.

Saeki lowered his paper a bit, frowning. Ashiwara was acting as though the loss didn't matter very much. He was being nice – again.

His sister laughed, her eyes squinting up, and reached over to ruffle Ashiwara's hair. Ashiwara rubbed his hand over the back of his head, turning his face to the side in a self-deprecating gesture. For a moment he was looking at Saeki. Saeki whipped his head away, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. He lifted the paper again, focusing furiously on it.

He heard the young woman laugh again, but when he chanced a look around they didn't seem to be looking at him.

Ashiwara and his sister finished their lunch and stood. The sister ruffled Ashiwara's hair again as they left; Ashiwara ducked his head and protested, laughing.

Saeki went to the doorway, his Go Weekly in his hand, and watched as they said goodbye and the young woman turned down the street. She was pulling a book out of her bag as she went, and she'd started reading it, holding it close to her face, before she reached the corner.

Ashiwara looked as though he was about to go in the other direction, but he stopped to greet Shindou and Touya-kun as they came out of the Institute. Waya was a few steps behind them, talking to Isumi-kun in the doorway.

Shindou was almost walking on air, his smile glowing bright as the sun. Touya-kun, walking beside him, looked an odd mix of satisfied and irritated out of his skin.

"Good afternoon, Ashiwara-san!" Shindou called.

"Hello, Shindou-kun," Ashiwara said. His eyes slid to Touya, then back to Shindou. "I take it you won," he said, his eyes crinkling.

The jumpy irritable portion of Touya's expression became more pronounced. He bowed. "Ashiwara-san."

"Totally dominated him in the endgame," Shindou agreed, stretching his arms above his head with a lazy, brilliant grin.

Saeki wasn't exactly a stickler for formality, but he still winced a bit for the public profile of his study group.

"He's going to come along to Waya's place for his Sunday study session tonight!" Shindou added, dropping his arms. "He has to, because he lost. Ooh, you should come, Ashiwara-san!"

Ashiwara blinked. "If you'd like," he said doubtfully. His eyes flicked to Waya, still in the doorway. Waya had broken off his conversation with Isumi-kun when he heard his name. He looked a bit blank, but he gave Ashiwara a fairly gracious smile. "Of course," he said. Beside him, Isumi-kun hid a smile.

Shindou grinned and interlocked his hands behind his head. "Don't worry," he said. "Waya has plenty of room."

Touya was giving Shindou a look that Saeki thought was supposed to be appalled, but was kind of coming across as fond.

Shindou noticed Saeki standing in the doorway, still half pretending to read his magazine. He waved an arm above his head. "Saeki-san! You're coming tonight too, right? Otherwise Ashiwara-san might be bored because everybody's young!"

Saeki blinked. "Oh!" he called. "Um. Yeah, of course." He glanced at Waya, who rolled his eyes and shrugged.

"What is with you today?" Saeki heard Waya saying as they walked away. "No more invitations! You've already invited half of Tokyo to my flat!"

*

Shindou had said that Waya had "plenty of room". Saeki knew Waya's place, and roomy wasn't the first word he would have used to describe it. He didn't realise the full extent of Shindou's shaky grasp on spatial reasoning until he reached the top of the stairs to Waya's apartment, though. The door was gaping open and people were spilling out, animatedly having post-game discussions and, in one case, playing a game on a magnetic goban propped between the window frame and someone's hip.

Saeki squeezed his way inside, threading through knots of people. The press was warm and awkward, and the people grouped around games on the carpet seemed to all have limbs spilling out into any space you might have wanted to walk. After a few minutes he found Shindou and Touya on the floor in the doorway to the kitchen, focusing utterly on the goban between them.

Waya came up behind Saeki and gave him a harried nod before descending on Shindou.

"You!" Shindou looked up, blinking. Waya narrowed his eyes. "How many people did you invite?"

Shindou looked around, seeming to notice the crowd for the first time. "Oh, Kawai-san!" he called, his face splitting in a sunny smile. "You came!"

This seemed to be directed at a man with dark glasses and stubble playing ferocious speed Go on the other side of the room. He looked up briefly and gave Shindou a wolfish grin and a wave.

Waya slumped against the wall behind him.

A girl Saeki thought had been one of this year's new pros turned from a conversation with Isumi-kun and another boy. She nudged Waya with her hip. "What are you going to complain about, Waya?" she asked. She gave him a cheeky grin. "That all these people have ruined your meticulously arranged pattern of strewn clothes on the floor? That we're going to eat you out of the frozen packet of noodles and the half a lemon that you have in your fridge?"

"Nase ..." Waya started, his voice dangerous.

Isumi-kun hid a smile again and took his arm. "Come and have a game with me, Waya-kun," he said.

Waya hesitated, his eyes meeting the older boy's. Then he lowered his eyes for a moment, a tiny smile tugging at his mouth. He shook his head and looked up. "Fine, whatever." He shot a look at the girl who'd teased him, giving her a grin with a wild edge to it and throwing his finger out. He took a step backwards. "But don't you touch that lemon! I'm saving it!" He linked his arm through Isumi's and they picked their across the carpet to another room where Saeki could see the edge of a futon, and some empty carpet space.

Nase and her remaining companion looked at each other and collapsed into snickers.

Saeki didn't realise Ashiwara had come up beside him until he heard the low, good-natured laugh in his ear.

"Your Waya-kun is a good boy," Ashiwara said, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

Saeki gave him a startled glance, then tried a smile. It came out slightly shaky. "Yeah," he said. "He tries to hide it, but he's always had a soft spot for Shindou-kun, I think."

Ashiwara's eyes strayed to Shindou and Touya sitting in the kitchen doorway, almost obscured by people's knees now. They'd started yelling at each other. Saeki couldn't make out much of what the argument was, over the babble of other voices and the pa-chi of stones.

Ashiwara's eyes moved to the room beyond them. "Oh, look," he said. "A goban has opened up." He turned and met Saeki's eyes, his gaze dark and unreadable for a moment. Then he smiled that Ashiwara smile again. "Will you play me, Saeki-kun?"

Saeki was saying yes before he realised he'd even opened his mouth.

There was a goban, but there wasn't actually room on both sides of it. Saeki and Ashiwara looked at each other and shrugged, then sat down side by side against the wall, their knees pushed awkwardly to the side so that they could reach the goke.

Ashiwara's thigh was pressing against the length of Saeki's. It was distracting. Saeki could feel the warm of his skin; could feel the soft scrape of material whenever Ashiwara shifted. When Ashiwara leaned forward to uncap the goke, his curly dark hair brushed Saeki's shoulder. Saeki tried to ignore the warm shiver that danced down his neck.

"Nigiri, Saeki-kun," Ashiwara said. Saeki won black.

They started slow. Saeki had played Ashiwara before – as Insei in the Pro Test, in title league games, in the oteai – but he still wasn't sure that he quite knew the rhythm of Ashiwara's play. And it felt strange, playing from the side, brushing Ashiwara's shoulder when he leaned forward to lay a stone. So he was cautious, working on establishing a strong foundation for the midgame, rather than striking out into the centre as he might have done if he'd been more confident.

Sometime around the sixteenth hand, Saeki looked over to find Ashiwara meeting his gaze. Ashiwara's brown eyes were still and thoughtful, but there was a golden flash somewhere deep down. Saeki felt as though something inside him was trying to leap up to answer it; something that made the breath catch in his throat; made it impossible to look away.

He dragged his eyes down, back to the goban, and to the black stone held between the first and second fingers of his right hand. He'd already played ahead another eight hands in his mind, planned the solidification of his bottom left corner formation. But he could see how Ashiwara's last hand had opened up a new, tenuous possibility for extending across into a new formation. It was a move that held just as much chance of being ultimately favourable to Ashiwara as it had of being favourable for Saeki, but if it did work ...

Saeki moved, setting the stone into the new position. He heard Ashiwara let his breath out and glanced up, the movement almost involuntary. Ashiwara met his eyes for a moment, the smile on his lips matching the golden flash in his eyes. Then he tilted his head back to the goban, and moved his next stone out to meet Saeki's.

*

In the end, Saeki lost by one and a half moku, including komi.

He stared at the stones; at the intricate, daring formations stretching across the board. He didn't think he'd ever played a game like that before. Even though he'd lost, he felt that he wanted to show it to everybody, to Morishita-sensei and everybody else; to say: "Look, this is my Go; this is what it can do."

He looked up, and saw that same awareness, and flash of something sparking deep down, in Ashiwara's expression.

Then Ashiwara ducked his head and smiled. "Thank you, Saeki-kun," he said formally.

"Thank you." Saeki tried to bow, awkwardly around their legs. Ashiwara caught his eye and they both laughed.

"I think I have a cramp," Ashiwara admitted. He used both hands to shift his thigh out of the position it had been in while they played, and winced.

Looking around, Saeki realised that the crowd had thinned at some point. Shindou was over near the door, Waya behind him with a hand clamped over his shoulder. Shindou, laughing uncomfortably, was suggesting to the participants and watchers of one of the games still in progress that it might be time for them all to leave.

Ashiwara caught Saeki's eyes. "Do you want to share a taxi?" he asked. His smile was easy and sweet.

Saeki didn't ask how Ashiwara knew that they lived in the same direction. "Sure," he said.

*

The back of the taxi was dark, and somehow, even though they didn't need to sit so close, the line of Ashiwara's thigh was pressing warmly against Saeki's again.

Ashiwara yawned as he gave the driver directions, his hand fluttering over his mouth. He leaned back, tilting his head to give Saeki a sleepily apologetic smile. His face was lit by a bright shop front for a moment, then it slid into shadow again. His eyes slipped shut at the same time; half open and then shut again.

Saeki glanced down at him, smiling slightly as he settled back in his seat. Ashiwara yawned again, not opening his eyes, and let his head slide sideways a bit, until it was just resting against Saeki's shoulder.

Saeki went still, casting a startled look at the top of Ashiwara's head. The dark curls were disarrayed again, pushed out of place by the seat back and Saeki's shoulder.

It was dark back here, and Ashiwara was probably too sleepy to notice anything Saeki did. Saeki hesitated, then carefully worked his free arm around and smoothed back the heavy curls. He kept his touch as light as possible.

Ashiwara made a pleased, mumbling sound, and turned his face further in towards Saeki's shoulder. Saeki could feel Ashiwara's breath, warm against the sensitive skin of his collarbone. He hesitated, then touched his fingers to Ashiwara's hair again.

He didn't know what he was doing, only that the car was dark and Ashiwara was a warm weight against him and had made a pleased humming sound against his shoulder; and that tonight in Waya's noisy, over-crowded apartment, with the goban at the wrong angle and his legs all in the way, he'd played the best Go of his career.

"Saeki-kun?" Ashiwara murmured. He lifted his head a little way, his hair brushing Saeki's cheek. His eyes were very, very close, and Saeki thought he saw a flash of gold again in their depths. Ashiwara's voice was low, with a sleepy, husky edge to it. From this close, in the uneven slide of light and shadow from the street, his smile wasn't the same easy, polite form; there was intention behind it.

Saeki still had his hand on Ashiwara's head. He couldn't seem to move it. He curled his fingers, slightly, the tips brushing against Ashiwara's scalp. Ashiwara shivered and dipped his head, his nose pressing lightly against Saeki's neck. And that could have been accidental, but the faint brush of his mouth over the pulse there a moment later certainly wasn't.

"I know that you've been following me, you know," Ashiwara said, his voice quiet.

It took a moment for the words to penetrate the haze of sensation in Saeki's mind.

"What?"

Ashiwara laughed softly and lifted his head. His eyelids were still heavy, but he definitely wasn't asleep. "Blinding silver hair is a bit hard to miss," he said. "Even in a dark bar, or behind a magazine."

Saeki could feel his cheeks beginning to burn.

Morishita-sensei was Saeki's punishment for a misdeed in a previous life; he'd never been so sure of it.

"Oh," he said.

The taxi was pulling up to the curb, he realised. They must have reached Ashiwara's place.

"I was particularly impressed when you chased me all over Tokyo last Monday," Ashiwara said. He smiled, his eyes crinkling. "I had so many errands that day!"

He pulled away and leaned toward the front to pay his half of the amount to the taxi driver.

Saeki screwed his eyes shut and bowed from the waist. "I'm sorry! It was very rude of me to follow you like that!"

After a moment he opened his eyes and found Ashiwara watching him, one hand on the door handle on his side of the car.

"It's all right," he said when Saeki met his eyes. His voice was sunny. "We can have lunch this week instead, if you want."

He opened the door while Saeki was still trying to collect himself to answer. Once he was out, he paused again, and leaned back through the open door. He caught Saeki's gaze, his eyes dark and unreadable.

His expression was serious. "Don't stop chasing me," he said. His voice was low; a promise. "And I won't stop chasing you."

Saeki gaped for a moment. Then he scrambled across the seat and leaned out of the car.

"You did know about the rivalry!"

Ashiwara was already most of the way up his steps. He threw a smile and a wave over his shoulder, his door keys glinting in his hand. "Good night, Saeki-kun!"

Saeki watched him disappear inside the flat. Then, slowly, he settled back inside the taxi. He gave the driver his address, distractedly.

Don't stop chasing me.

Saeki rubbed his shoulder, feeling the soft slide of mussed curls against it. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to smile, or if he wanted to clench his fingers in determination.

He ducked his head. I've only just started, he thought. He bit his lip. Suddenly there was a path stretching before him – of games like tonight's, of Go that tugged him in new directions, that stretched and changed him. Of Ashiwara's head drooping sleepily on his shoulder in the backs of taxis; of the glint of gold and determination that Ashiwara didn't show to the world at large. Saeki's mouth slipped into a smile he couldn't help.

I promise I won't stop now.

He curled his arms around his knee, leaning forward in the darkness.

Fin

Fic: Mirror Games, Isumi/Waya, Le Ping/Zhao Shi

2008-05-10T12:11:03Z

Title: Mirror Games
Fandom: Hikaru no Go
Pairing: Isumi/Waya, Le Ping/Zhao Shi
Rating: PG
Length: 3600 words
Summary: Shindou dropped his chopsticks with a clatter. "Waya," he said, his eyes huge, "don't look now, but there's another of you."
Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to Hotta and Obata. No money is being made from this fic.
Dedication: This is for tangledtale, without whom I would not have even remembered who Zhao Shi was, let alone have written fic for him.
Acknowledgements: Thanks go to bookshop, whose second Five Things Meme of Hikaru no Go Love was directly responsible for this fic.

Mirror Games

Waya's memories of the Chinese pro Yang Hai weren't especially warm. Yang Hai had spent too much time last year with his arm around Isumi's shoulder, talking in fourteen languages about complex computer programming and advanced astrophysics. That had been when he wasn't grinning and checking out the line of Waya's jeans while making unnervingly lecherous comparisons to his own pint-sized Waya back home.

Still, Waya wouldn't have wished on him whatever was causing the white, harrowed cast to his face.

Isumi, walking beside Waya, exclaimed and started forward. "Yang Hai-san! What's happened! Is everybody on your team all right?"

Yang Hai was standing with two of the members of the Chinese Hokuto Cup team in the foyer of the hotel. He tottered a bit as Isumi came up.

"Le Ping," he said, his voice blank. "He stowed away this year. He actually succeeded in stealing away in my luggage." Yang Hai raised his eyes to Isumi's face. "He could have died. I want to kill him."

"Oh," Isumi said. He bit his lip. "I guess he didn't know how dangerous it was."

Yang Hai's expression hardened. He seemed to have at least twice as much jaw as usual, Waya thought vaguely. "He knew how dangerous I was," Yang Hai said.

*

Waya had once more failed to make the Hokuto Cup team this year; although this time he'd at least beaten Ochi, and only lost to Shindou. Still, Isumi had wanted to see the Chinese players, and Waya was happy to spend the three days of the tournament watching the games and wandering around the hotel. Also, he was a little bit unwilling to leave Isumi alone with Yang Hai, although he wasn't examining that very closely.

Le Ping was apparently avoiding Yang Hai – which Waya didn't blame him for in the least. Waya and Isumi didn't get a glimpse of him until Yang Hai had gone to sleep off his tension headache in his room. Le Ping must have been lurking around the doorway, because he skidded into the room they were in the instant Yang Hai was gone.

Waya didn't need any introduction. Looking at this skinny boy with the wild hair and the huge grin was like looking through a photograph album of his childhood.

"Isumi-kun! Isumi-kun!" Le Ping shouted, dragging another boy forward by the hand.

A really, really hyperactive photograph album. Waya narrowed his eyes.

"Oh!" Isumi rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, giving the photograph album a smile. "Hello, Le Ping-kun."

Le Ping stared at him for a moment, then dropped his friend's hand and hugged Isumi around the middle. Isumi lost his air in a gasp.

"Hello, Isumi-kun! I learned Japanese!"

Isumi's face fell into a wide smile and he dropped his hands onto the younger boy's shoulders, pushing him back a bit. "Really?"

Le Ping nodded, his eyes huge, and unleashed a string of rapid Mandarin. Then he stopped, took a deep breath, and said carefully, "I'm very good. Much better than Zhao."

Waya glanced at the other boy, recognising him for the first time. Zhao Shi, who'd been on China's team last year, and was on it again this year.

Zhao Shi could almost have been dressed up specifically to contrast with Le Ping. Le Ping's shirt was untucked and there was a stain of some kind on his cheek – it might have been ink. He was vibrating with excitement, and his voice was far too loud. Zhao Shi was clean and neatly dressed, the rosette crisp and straight where it was pinned onto his shirt. He stood still behind Le Ping, not saying a word. He looked a little bit lost; his eyes were nervously moving between Isumi and Le Ping. Waya knew from the tournament information that he was thirteen, but with his wide eyes and sweet face, he looked more like ten.

"Oh!" Isumi said. "Hello, Zhao Shi-kun! I didn't see you at first. Are you well?"

Zhao Shi opened his mouth to speak, but Le Ping beat him to it. "Don't mind!" he said crossly. "It's not important!"

Isumi frowned at him. "That's not polite, Le Ping-kun." He smiled at Zhao Shi, who gave him a wan smile back.

"You didn't come!" Le Ping said, staring up at Isumi with accusing eyes. "Yang Hai said you would come with him. With Waya. But you didn't. I learned Japanese because you would come!"

Isumi looked stricken. "I'm sorry," he said. "Our schedules were very busy. We still hope to come this year."

It was doubtful how much of that Le Ping heard or understood. He'd looked over at Waya for the first time. His eyes narrowed, consideringly, and he said something in Mandarin that shocked Zhao Shi, from his expression.

"That's him?" Le Ping said.

"This is my friend Waya-san," Isumi agreed. He looked from one to the other of them, then took a discrete step back so that he could look at both of them at once. His eyes danced, his mouth twitching a bit. Waya sort of hated him.

"Hello, Le Ping-kun," Waya said. He could hear the coolness in his voice.

Le Ping's eyes took on a gleam, and he dashed forward. Waya stepped back, flailing and letting out a shout as the younger boy barrelled into him, knocking him to the floor.

"You little twerp, what are you doing?" Waya cried. Lee Ping grabbed Waya's shirt and leaned back, lifting it up. Waya pushed him away. "What the hell!"

Waya scrambled back, pushing his shirt back down. Le Ping was looking triumphant and saying something in Mandarin. Waya, his eyes stretched wide in shock, looked at Isumi.

Both Isumi and Zhao Shi were laughing. Zhao Shi had apparently got over part of his shyness, because he was actually doubled over and hiccoughing with giggles.

"I think he was checking whether you have an outy bellybutton," Isumi said, gasping. He glanced at Le Ping, who was standing with his hands on his hips and a broad smile on his face. "I assume that you don't."

Waya jumped to his feet and grabbed Le Ping's shirt, bending over him. "Don't you ever do that again, you cheap little imitation!"

"Isumi-kun! Isumi-kun!" Le Ping cried, squirming.

Isumi was laughing too much to respond.

Waya let go of Le Ping, dusting his hands. "I think Yang Hai-san's coming back in a moment," he said.

Le Ping froze, his eyes darting around. "Zhao Shi!" he cried. "Let's play on the stairs!"

Zhao Shi gave him an uncomprehending look, and Le Ping repeated what he'd said in Mandarin. Zhao Shi nodded, his face happy and bright, and let himself be tugged away by the hand again.

"That was a lie, Waya-kun," Isumi said gravely.

Waya looked at him. Isumi started laughing again, his fringe tickling his forehead as he shook. Waya dropped into one of the hotel armchairs and rubbed his forehead.

*

Waya overheard some hotel staff complaining about having to chase two boys off the main staircase a bit later; they'd been getting in the way of guests by sliding on the bannister. Apparently one of them had stayed behind to apologise over and over; the housemaid recounting this seemed to have decided he was the cutest thing ever as a result.

Waya thought at first that maybe he wouldn't be confronted by the annoying mini-Waya again as long as the boy thought Yang Hai might appear beside them at any moment. Le Ping showed up again at lunchtime, though. Isumi and Waya had just sat down to eat with Shindou and Yashiro, who'd made second and third chair again this year. Waya was lifting his chopsticks to his mouth when he heard Le Ping's voice in his ear, shouting for Isumi's attention.

Waya jumped in his chair and turned around to find Le Ping tugging on Isumi's arm, squeezed into the space between them. Zhao Shi was hanging back behind him. His rosette was a bit less perfectly straight and his shirt a bit less neatly tucked in than it had been before.

"Isumi-kun! Isumi-kun! Why are you eating lunch with them? You should eat lunch with me!"

Zhao Shi looked distressed. He touched his friend's arm. "Le Ping," he said quietly, when Le Ping looked around.

Le Ping bit his lip, held by Zhao Shi's earnest gaze.

Shindou had dropped his chopsticks with a clatter. "Waya," he said, his eyes huge, "don't look now, but there's another of you."

"Oh my god," Waya said, leaning back and shutting his eyes.

"Are you brothers or something?" Yashiro asked, only faintly curious.

Waya snapped his eyes open. "He's Chinese," he said.

"Oh, right," Yashiro said. He frowned, and chewed on his food. "That's weird."

"He's exactly like you," Shindou said, leaning forward. "He's another you. It's like the opposite of having two different people in one body."

Waya glared at him. "He's nothing like me. He's a brat." He shook his head. "Also, that is really random, Shindou."

Le Ping didn't appear to have been following very well, but apparently he got that he'd been insulted, because he head butted Waya's shoulder.

"You little –!" Waya shouted, turning on him. Isumi reached past Le Ping and touched Waya's shoulder, restraining him.

"Waya-kun," he said quietly. Waya hesitated, his gaze caught by Isumi's for a moment. Isumi's eyes were very black, the feathery-soft ends of his fringe just touching his lashes. His face was still, his eyes searching Waya's. Waya took a breath, his chest suddenly tight, and leaned back. And didn't strangle Le Ping.

"I'm sorry, Le Ping-kun," Isumi said, turning back to him. "I can't eat lunch with you now. Maybe tomorrow."

Le Ping scowled, then brightened. "Tomorrow we can play a game!" he said. "I'll beat you, Isumi-kun. A lot."

Waya twisted out of his chair to shout after the brat not to be so impertinent to Isumi-san. Shindou snickered.

Zhao Shi stopped at the door to bow to them several times, before running after Le Ping.

*

Waya convinced Isumi to slip out of the opening ceremony partway through, that evening. He remembered the ceremony from last time, and honestly, it felt even longer this time round. Possibly it was more interesting if you were actually in it, but Waya doubted it.

The hotel had been booked out by the tournament organisers, and everybody associated with the tournament was in the event hall, so there were only a few members of staff about in the corridors.

Waya checked that Isumi had followed him out, and fell back to walk beside him. "Did you get the date for your last Honinbou second preliminary match?" he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Not yet," Isumi said. "It probably won't be for another couple of weeks, though. I wouldn't have come to this if I thought I needed to be at home studying."

Waya shot him a look. "We could study now," he said. "We're not doing anything, and there are gobans laid out in the foyer. Do you want to recreate some games?"

Isumi gave him a warm smile. "Sure."

Waya tried not to bask in the smile, because how lame, seriously. He curled his hands in his pockets instead, feeling the denim scrape the calluses on his fingers, and grinned back.

The ceremony went on for another hour. Waya and Isumi stayed curled up on one of the couches behind a leafy palm in the foyer, analysing the recreated games on the goban between them.

The first sign that the ceremony must have finished was Le Ping creeping into the foyer from another entrance, checking behind him to make sure that Zhao Shi had followed. Waya was absolutely sure that Zhao Shi wouldn't have skipped out on a ceremony he was a part of.

Le Ping took Zhao Shi's elbow, looking around again. He spotted Isumi and Waya and pulled Zhao Shi over to them.

"You're playing Go," Le Ping said, his face scrunched up.

Isumi laughed. "It's something we do a lot."

Le Ping looked between the two of them, curled up comfortably on the hotel couch, and his face twisted with jealousy.

He gabbled something to Zhao Shi, taking hold of him and pushing him towards Waya. Then he grabbed Isumi's arm and pulled him out of his seat.

"Switch!" Le Ping said.

"W-what?" Isumi protested.

"Switch! Zhao wants to stay with Waya!"

Waya, catching sight of Zhao Shi's alarmed face, found this unlikely. "Hey!" he said. He couldn't get out of his seat because Zhao Shi had been shoved in front of him.

Isumi gave him a shrug and let himself be towed away, laughing a bit as he told Le Ping to slow down.

Waya had no idea where Isumi got this idea that Le Ping was funny or cute. "Hey!" he said. Le Ping threw a cheeky grin over his shoulder, then pushed Isumi out of the door in front of him.

"Um." Waya looked at Zhao Shi. "Hi."

"Hello," Zhao Shi said. He stepped back, twisting his hands together, and gave the door Le Ping and Isumi had just disappeared through a longing look.

Waya had no idea how to talk to him.

"You're ... a Chinese pro, then," he said.

Zhao Shi gave him a doubtful look. "Chinese," he agreed.

"Right," Waya said. He looked at the other door, where a few other people were drifting in from the ceremony. He couldn't see anybody else from the Chinese contingent who might save him. "I'm a Japanese pro," he said.

God, he was so glad nobody was recording this conversation.

Zhao Shi gave him a polite, somewhat mournful smile.

Waya looked at him helplessly. He was so ... polite, and well-scrubbed, and sweet-faced and polite. His best friend had just abandoned him here, and he looked as though his world might crumple at any moment, but he smiled at Waya. His mouth trembled.

Waya didn't know whether it was just the Le Ping thing that was making him think this, but right now Zhao Shi reminded Waya of a picture Isumi's mother had shown him once, of Isumi when he was about nine or ten, overwhelmed and trying not to bolt at his own birthday party. He'd been wearing a suit and tie, and a party hat. Maybe it was Zhao Shi's crooked rosette that was making Waya think of it.

"Do you ... want to play Go?" Waya asked eventually. He gave the goban a nudge with his elbow to show what he meant.

Zhao Shi nodded, slowly. "Please," he said. Then, carefully, "Waya-san."

Waya grinned, budging up on the couch, and swept the stones off the board. Zhao Shi sat down and helped him sort them. "Nigiri, then," Waya said.

*

Waya didn't really expect to win, and he didn't, but it was an unexpectedly good game. Zhao Shi in front of a goban was a very different creature to the Zhao Shi who let himself be dragged around the hotel by his bratty friend. He settled, his face going still and calm, his focus absolute; except for the times when he still lifted his head to look at the door Le Ping had gone through.

Waya didn't think Zhao Shi would take the game very seriously, given that he had an official game the next morning that he would need to give his whole attention to. But Zhao Shi didn't seem to know how to give a game less than his whole attention. Waya felt himself rising to the occasion too, focusing inward, on the pa-chi of the stones, the patterns on the board.

"You really are quite a lot like Isumi-san," he said at one point, quietly. Zhao Shi looked at him, hesitating with his stone, then laid it down; a defensive hand. "He has the same calm focus these days," Waya said, attaching in the top right corner.

"Isumi-san?" Zhao Shi asked.

Waya nodded. "He's the one I've always chased, you know." He grinned, ducking his head. "It was kind of awkward the year I was a pro and he wasn't. But then he didn't stand still during that year, so it was okay."

Zhao Shi looked at him earnestly. "I don't speak very good Japanese," he said.

Waya grinned again. "I know," he said. "You're pretty good at Go, though."

Zhao Shi smiled, cautiously, and played a hand that threatened to obliterate Waya's largest group. Waya settled down to save it, with a sharp thrill of enjoyment at the challenge.

He lost by three and a half moku. Zhao Shi immediately started talking about the game, pointing to the place where he'd misread something. Then he looked up and seemed to realise what he was doing, and laughed; a bright, hiccoughing laugh like the one he'd given when Le Ping tackled Waya earlier.

"Here, your rosette's crooked," Waya said, grinning and leaning forward. "Le Ping's making you look as scruffy as he is; you shouldn't let him do that." Zhao Shi looked a bit startled, but he smiled at Waya while Waya frowned over straightening the rosette.

Then he laughed again, a delighted sound. "Le Ping!"

Waya looked around. Le Ping had come back into the foyer with Isumi. He'd apparently been talking, since his mouth was still open, but he'd stopped to stare at Waya and Zhao Shi. Isumi looked startled too. There was an open, arrested expression on his face; one that Waya wasn't sure how to read. Isumi turned away and coughed.

Zhao Shi had jumped to his feet. He bowed to Waya, quickly. "Thank you for the game, Waya-san!"

Le Ping marched across the room, coming to a stop in front of Waya. "Switch," he said dangerously, taking hold of Zhao Shi's arm.

Zhao Shi started talking rapidly in Mandarin, gesturing at Waya every now and then and smiling brightly. Le Ping listened, his face grim and his eyes fixed on Waya. Then he nodded, sharply, and answered something in Mandarin, before turning and pulling Zhao Shi towards the door. Zhao Shi turned around and waved at Waya, and at Isumi. He looked a bit as though he'd been given back Christmas.

"There!" Waya turned around to see Shindou tugging Touya through the door. "Did you see? A little Waya!"

Touya frowned. "I didn't see anybody. Shindou, this is stupid; what am I supposed to be looking at?"

Waya turned away, determinedly ignoring them.

"Do you want to share a taxi?" Isumi asked, sitting on the arm of the couch. "It's getting quite late."

Waya twisted to look up at him. "Yeah, I guess."

Outside, they stood in the cold, blowing on their hands and waiting for a taxi to pull up at the rank; Waya knew they came pretty regularly. Isumi pushed his hands inside the pockets of his jacket, his breath making a mist in the air. Waya bumped him with his shoulder. "He's a lot like me, isn't he?" he said quietly.

"Le Ping?" Isumi asked. "I told you he was!"

"No, I mean ..." Waya shrugged, and shivered. "I think I might not be moving very much," he said, his voice low. "I just ... he's so much like me. And he's this kid. This really, really annoying kid."

"You're –" Isumi said, and then stopped. Waya glanced up, and Isumi cleared his throat, staring ahead. "You're not – that much like him," he said. His voice sounded strange. "Not in that way."

Waya rolled his eyes. "Well, yeah, I'm seventeen – but can anyone even tell?"

Isumi looked at him. The light from inside the hotel was catching his eyes, but most of his face was in shadow. "Waya-kun," he said. His voice was soft and strange. "You don't – seem like that."

Waya felt as he though he was caught, staring at Isumi helplessly. "Oh," he said.

Isumi was flushing; it took Waya a moment to see that, in the dim light. "So don't worry about it," Isumi finished, a bit randomly. Waya thought that he might not be sure what he was saying.

"Um." Waya shoved his hands in his pockets. There was a warm, happy feeling bubbling in his chest. "Yeah. Okay."

"Anyway," Isumi said eventually, looking ahead again. "Your Go would definitely beat him. If we go to China this year, you can play him and see for yourself."

"Good," Waya said. He tilted his head, yawning and happy. "Let's do it, then."

Isumi laughed. "If Le Ping's still alive," he said. "After Yang Hai catches up with him again."

"Nah," Waya said, grinning, "Yang Hai won't kill him. He's waiting for him to grow up and look like me."

"Waya!"

"What?" Waya gave him an innocent look. "You don't get all the conquests, you know."

"That is deeply disturbing, Waya-kun," Isumi said after a moment. He was flushing again.

Waya snickered and bumped his shoulder again. This time Isumi swayed back with him a bit, keeping their shoulders in contact through the wool of their coats.

Fin