The Ghost Belonged to Me (Hikago, 6/8)
The Ghost Belonged to Me
~ A Hikaru no Go Fanfiction ~
by aishuu
Pairing: Akira/Hikaru, eventually
Summary: After Touya Kouya dies, Akira begins to have visitations from his father's spirit. There's more than one lesson the Meijin still needs to teach his son.
Notes: So after being stuck for two years, one five minute conversation with februaryfour helps me finish this in half an hour. Go figure. And yes, I've added one additional part...
Earlier Parts: Here
Part Six:
Shindou's ultimatum was still ringing in my head as I went to bed that night. I wasn't sure if I was more angry or relieved to hear it.
Shindou had thrown a challenge in my face, and I'd never been able to resist it when he baited me. It was the main reason I hadn't gotten in touch with him since leaving Japan. I knew that since he asked, I would find it impossible not to think seriously about returning.
Traveling the world had distanced me from my issues, but none of my problems had been solved. I hadn't reconciled myself to my father's death or my mother's new life... and I still didn't have the urge to play Go. I was anchor-less, examining life through a glass pane, observing but not participating.
I still hadn't cried.
Should I go back and pretend everything was all right, pretend that I wanted the life I'd previously led? Could I be content with mediocre Go and a life without ambition?
I didn't know. But I had two weeks to choose, two weeks to make it to the Meijin Tournament and defend my last title. The title which had meant so much to me once was painful to think about, since my father had died the day I'd been crowned.
While staying in a hotel room was appealing, I knew it wouldn't be wise to allow myself that indulgence. I needed to be surrounded by crowds, by people, or else I would become lost in my own depression. Even though I had little interest in my surroundings, going through the motions was better than sinking further into apathy.
I packed up my two suitcases that afternoon and decided to head for Paris itself. The cost of signing into a decent room in an unreserved hotel at six p.m. was exorbitant, but I could visit the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe. Taking pictures would distract me from the decision I needed to make soon.
Paris was a beautiful city, and I didn't know where to start. The hotel I had randomly selected was located in the 5th arrondissement, also known as the Latin Quarter. It wasn't too close to most of the fabled tourist attractions of the city, and I was too tired to want to travel far. The hotel concierge assured me there were plenty of good cafes located within walking distance, and I couldn't go wrong by just picking one.
The crowds were a mix of businessmen and students as I walked through the streets, window shopping. There were plenty of restaurants and several niche boutiques, but I wandered past most of them, looking for a restaurant where English might be spoken. While my English was of middling level, my French skills were nonexistent.
I almost missed the small bookstore-slash-cafe that sat squished between a larger restaurant and what looked like a student housing building. The store appeared old, but what caught my eye was the signs in the window advertising the menu in several languages, including Japanese.
The doorbell rang pleasantly as I pushed it open. The cafe was small, seating less than thirty, and the scent of strong coffee filled the air. The seats were clustered around small tables, and I immediately felt nostalgic for the Go parlor where I'd spent much of my life. Although this was a different country, halfway around the world, this shop took me back to the place I had grown up.
While the place was mostly empty, several of the tables were occupied by a weird mix of people, mostly male but not entirely so. They were leaning over game boards, and the familiar pa-chi! pachi! rang through my head.
These people were playing Go.
It was the last thing I expected, so far from Go's strongholds in Asia. While Go did have a worldwide following, western countries were much more interested in chess, and it was a novelty game. I wasn't sure if I believed in such a thing as fate, but it was hard to deny the odds of wandering into one of the few Go-playing businesses in Europe. For a second, I struggled to breathe, but the sound of someone speaking caught my attention.
Bienvenue!
I blinked as a tired-looking college student shuffled over to stand beside me, a pad in his hand.
"I don't speak French," I said in English. Then, remembering the signs which had lured me in, I asked, "Nihongo ga dekimasu ka?"
The server shook his head. "No. But the owner does," he replied in English. He called something over his shoulder to one of the men at the table.
A man who had been observing a game between two college-aged students lifted his head, his wild eyebrows lifting on his forehead. Seeing me, he pushed himself away from the table and came up. The server, determining his job complete, turned away before I could insist it wasn't necessary.
I was of average height for a Japanese man, but this older man was tall enough that I had to bend my neck to meet his eyes. He was older, perhaps in his fifties, and had a beak-like nose and startling pale blue eyes. He moved like a man much younger than he was, with a bounce in his step.
"Welcome, welcome," he said in Japanese, offering a slight bow to indicate respect. It wasn't a natural gesture for the man, and came off as gawky, but I appreciated the attempt. It had been too long since I'd seen the courtesy. "Are you here for Go night?" he asked.
I shook my head. "I was just looking for somewhere to eat, and I saw your signs in the window."
The man laughed, putting his hand behind his head. "Wishful thinking on my part. I was hoping since you were Japanese, you might be a player. My apologies, I shouldn't have assumed."
"I am a player," I replied, the words popping out of my mouth without thinking on it. Playing Go had been my identity for so long that I couldn't lie about it.
"Really?" The man's face shifted into an expression of delight. "Would you do me the courtesy of offering me a game? I'm looking for a new opponent, since I'm studying to enter the French Meijin Tournament."
His words were like a punch to the gut. I wasn't sure if I believed in higher powers, but the coincidence was just too ironic to dismiss out of hand. While I wanted to reject the invitation, doing so wouldn't be polite. Besides, I was still undecided about what to do about Shindou's challenge, and playing a casual game might help me make that decision. If I played poorly against this amateur, that might prove answer enough. I was looking for an excuse to avoid defending the Meijin title, the small little voice of conscience that had been quiet for far too long pointed out.
"I'll play," I agreed.
"Good! In return, I will treat you to dinner!" The man clapped his hands enthusiastically. He was very Gallic, full of sweeping gestures and wearing his expressions openly, which struck me as very exotic.
"There's no need," I demurred, but he was having none of it.
"No, no, I insist. What would you like to eat?"
I shrugged. It didn't really matter, since food hadn't been tasting like much of anything lately. "Anything's fine."
The man frowned at me, before stroking his chin. "I see," he said, a slight frown appearing before he dismissed it. He called the waiter over and had a brief conversation in French before leading me over to a table at the farthest end of the room. A couple of heads turned, but most paid attention to either their games or the books they had open in front of them. It was a sign how serious they were about their studies.
The goban looked a bit strange, sitting on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth, but I didn't comment. The chairs squeaked as we pulled them out and settled ourselves in.
"What kind of handicap would you like?" he asked.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd played a handicap game, or anyone had offered one to me - no, correction. I remembered playing my father with a handicap until I'd become a professional. Since I'd entered the pro world at thirteen, everyone had been aware of my skill level and no one would have been foolish enough to underestimate, since I was Touya-Meijin's son.
The anonymity was novel, and my lips twitched in what might have been an involuntary smile. I hadn't smiled in so long I'd forgotten how to.
"There's no need. I'm good," I said.
"Have you been playing long?" he asked.
"All my life," I said, before adding, "my father taught me."
The man nodded and picked up one of the go kes. "I'm a bit envious of you Japanese, in that regard. Go wasn't brought to France until the sixties, and I didn't learn until I was in college. It's best to learn the game younger."
"Perhaps, but I've known several retired men who've picked it up fairly well," I said as I grabbed the other go ke so we could nigiri for black. I had always known learning at the feet of my father had given me an advantage, but I had never thought of my culture being another step up. Go was very Asian in nature, I knew, and part of my birth nation's heritage. If I hadn't been born in Japan, I might never have learned it. And my life would have been much poorer. It's strange how fate works out.
"Better to learn later than not at all," he said, lifting the lid and finding the white stones. He picked up a small handful and placed them on the table, to which I replied with one stone. After counting his stones, we switched go kes and started the game.
I wish I could say something profound about how touching the stones made me immediately decide I'd missed the game. But the cheap plastic stones didn't summon that kind of emotion from me. Instead, it was like picking up a book I'd set down a couple of months ago and trying to remember where I was.
The man was decent for an amateur, I recognized about ten hands in, but very conventional and would not pose a challenge. For someone at my level, the only people who were unique were complete amateurs (who had little idea of the conventions and thus could pull out some shocking, unpredictable moves), or masters of the game. His shape was solid but not inspired, and I found myself replying automatically, as though I'd been hired to play a game of shidougo. He had said he was studying for a tournament, and I had nothing riding on this. I could lose, if it helped him make himself stronger.
About halfway through the game, a plate with a sandwich was placed at my elbow, but I ignored it. I never ate when playing; it struck me as disrespectful.
My opponent's concentration on the board was laudable as I let him build a moyo, only to chop it to pieces five hands in. He glanced up at me, nodding, before returning to try to recover. He still had plenty of territory, but I planned to play a thick game, fighting for every moku. I let him take me into the endgame, even though I could have roared back a couple of times after he played less-than-optimal hands.
Finally we laid the last stone, setting back from the board. My sharp eyes noted I'd lost by two moku with komi, but I obligingly pushed the stones so we could officially make the count.
"I've lost," I murmured simply, dropping a brief bow of my head. It was no pain to my ego, since I'd been the one to control the outcome of the match. I hadn't wanted to win.
The older man sat back, heaving a sigh. "Thank you for the game, young man." He ran a hand through his hair. "And I would say you only lost because you didn't care if you won. You're the finest player I've ever met."
"Thank you," I murmured. "You're the best I've played in a while." That was the truth, since I hadn't played in a while.
"Ah," the man said, but didn't add anymore. "Are you going to eat?"
I picked up the crepe which was filled with cheese and fruit. The texture wasn't exactly the same as a crepe I would have purchased in Japan, but it was closer than most of the food I'd been sampling as part of my travels. Crepes were a French invention, and the opportunity to try a genuine one was something many tourists enjoyed.
I felt his eyes on me as I ate. The food was adequate, but I didn't really taste it, instead distracted by my disappointment. I hadn't known until I'd played this game that a part of me had believed I would magically be cured of my apathy.
"Could I could persuade you to tutor me for the next week or so?" the man said after a long silence. "I'd be willing to pay."
I shook my head. "I'm just passing through."
"I figured that might be the case," he said, sighing. "I suppose I shouldn't be greedy."
"It's never greedy to want to play a good game," I said automatically, even though I knew I was lying. My father had played against Sai and hadn't been satisfied with that one golden opportunity. He'd spent his life trying to recapture that moment. Luckily, it had worked out well for him since it'd truly expanded his horizons, but it could have easily turned into a living nightmare.
The kind of nightmare I was now living, wandering without finding satisfaction in what I was doing.
"Would you be willing to play another game right now, then? Since you're leaving?"
I was still disappointed that the game hadn't fired up my own desire to play, and I opened my mouth to make a polite excuse before something in his eyes made me stop. It was a wistfulness that's hard to describe.
This man was going to be attending a competitive tournament, and he was smart enough to recognize that playing against me would help him prepare. If my lazy game had been the best he'd played in a while, I felt sorry for him.
"Sure," I said finally. "I think I can make time.
The man broke into a smile, and for a second I saw Shindou's face superimposed over his. His innocent pleasure at playing another game with me finally shook something loose inside me. I knew, even as we cleared the board, that I would be catching a flight back to Japan within the next couple days.
I might not have the desire to win anymore, but that didn't matter right now. I didn't need to play for myself. I would return to play for Shindou's sake, since he needed me. It might very well be our last game, but I owed it to him to face him in person.
~ A Hikaru no Go Fanfiction ~
by aishuu
Pairing: Akira/Hikaru, eventually
Summary: After Touya Kouya dies, Akira begins to have visitations from his father's spirit. There's more than one lesson the Meijin still needs to teach his son.
Notes: So after being stuck for two years, one five minute conversation with februaryfour helps me finish this in half an hour. Go figure. And yes, I've added one additional part...
Earlier Parts: Here
Part Six:
Shindou's ultimatum was still ringing in my head as I went to bed that night. I wasn't sure if I was more angry or relieved to hear it.
Shindou had thrown a challenge in my face, and I'd never been able to resist it when he baited me. It was the main reason I hadn't gotten in touch with him since leaving Japan. I knew that since he asked, I would find it impossible not to think seriously about returning.
Traveling the world had distanced me from my issues, but none of my problems had been solved. I hadn't reconciled myself to my father's death or my mother's new life... and I still didn't have the urge to play Go. I was anchor-less, examining life through a glass pane, observing but not participating.
I still hadn't cried.
Should I go back and pretend everything was all right, pretend that I wanted the life I'd previously led? Could I be content with mediocre Go and a life without ambition?
I didn't know. But I had two weeks to choose, two weeks to make it to the Meijin Tournament and defend my last title. The title which had meant so much to me once was painful to think about, since my father had died the day I'd been crowned.
While staying in a hotel room was appealing, I knew it wouldn't be wise to allow myself that indulgence. I needed to be surrounded by crowds, by people, or else I would become lost in my own depression. Even though I had little interest in my surroundings, going through the motions was better than sinking further into apathy.
I packed up my two suitcases that afternoon and decided to head for Paris itself. The cost of signing into a decent room in an unreserved hotel at six p.m. was exorbitant, but I could visit the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe. Taking pictures would distract me from the decision I needed to make soon.
Paris was a beautiful city, and I didn't know where to start. The hotel I had randomly selected was located in the 5th arrondissement, also known as the Latin Quarter. It wasn't too close to most of the fabled tourist attractions of the city, and I was too tired to want to travel far. The hotel concierge assured me there were plenty of good cafes located within walking distance, and I couldn't go wrong by just picking one.
The crowds were a mix of businessmen and students as I walked through the streets, window shopping. There were plenty of restaurants and several niche boutiques, but I wandered past most of them, looking for a restaurant where English might be spoken. While my English was of middling level, my French skills were nonexistent.
I almost missed the small bookstore-slash-cafe that sat squished between a larger restaurant and what looked like a student housing building. The store appeared old, but what caught my eye was the signs in the window advertising the menu in several languages, including Japanese.
The doorbell rang pleasantly as I pushed it open. The cafe was small, seating less than thirty, and the scent of strong coffee filled the air. The seats were clustered around small tables, and I immediately felt nostalgic for the Go parlor where I'd spent much of my life. Although this was a different country, halfway around the world, this shop took me back to the place I had grown up.
While the place was mostly empty, several of the tables were occupied by a weird mix of people, mostly male but not entirely so. They were leaning over game boards, and the familiar pa-chi! pachi! rang through my head.
These people were playing Go.
It was the last thing I expected, so far from Go's strongholds in Asia. While Go did have a worldwide following, western countries were much more interested in chess, and it was a novelty game. I wasn't sure if I believed in such a thing as fate, but it was hard to deny the odds of wandering into one of the few Go-playing businesses in Europe. For a second, I struggled to breathe, but the sound of someone speaking caught my attention.
Bienvenue!
I blinked as a tired-looking college student shuffled over to stand beside me, a pad in his hand.
"I don't speak French," I said in English. Then, remembering the signs which had lured me in, I asked, "Nihongo ga dekimasu ka?"
The server shook his head. "No. But the owner does," he replied in English. He called something over his shoulder to one of the men at the table.
A man who had been observing a game between two college-aged students lifted his head, his wild eyebrows lifting on his forehead. Seeing me, he pushed himself away from the table and came up. The server, determining his job complete, turned away before I could insist it wasn't necessary.
I was of average height for a Japanese man, but this older man was tall enough that I had to bend my neck to meet his eyes. He was older, perhaps in his fifties, and had a beak-like nose and startling pale blue eyes. He moved like a man much younger than he was, with a bounce in his step.
"Welcome, welcome," he said in Japanese, offering a slight bow to indicate respect. It wasn't a natural gesture for the man, and came off as gawky, but I appreciated the attempt. It had been too long since I'd seen the courtesy. "Are you here for Go night?" he asked.
I shook my head. "I was just looking for somewhere to eat, and I saw your signs in the window."
The man laughed, putting his hand behind his head. "Wishful thinking on my part. I was hoping since you were Japanese, you might be a player. My apologies, I shouldn't have assumed."
"I am a player," I replied, the words popping out of my mouth without thinking on it. Playing Go had been my identity for so long that I couldn't lie about it.
"Really?" The man's face shifted into an expression of delight. "Would you do me the courtesy of offering me a game? I'm looking for a new opponent, since I'm studying to enter the French Meijin Tournament."
His words were like a punch to the gut. I wasn't sure if I believed in higher powers, but the coincidence was just too ironic to dismiss out of hand. While I wanted to reject the invitation, doing so wouldn't be polite. Besides, I was still undecided about what to do about Shindou's challenge, and playing a casual game might help me make that decision. If I played poorly against this amateur, that might prove answer enough. I was looking for an excuse to avoid defending the Meijin title, the small little voice of conscience that had been quiet for far too long pointed out.
"I'll play," I agreed.
"Good! In return, I will treat you to dinner!" The man clapped his hands enthusiastically. He was very Gallic, full of sweeping gestures and wearing his expressions openly, which struck me as very exotic.
"There's no need," I demurred, but he was having none of it.
"No, no, I insist. What would you like to eat?"
I shrugged. It didn't really matter, since food hadn't been tasting like much of anything lately. "Anything's fine."
The man frowned at me, before stroking his chin. "I see," he said, a slight frown appearing before he dismissed it. He called the waiter over and had a brief conversation in French before leading me over to a table at the farthest end of the room. A couple of heads turned, but most paid attention to either their games or the books they had open in front of them. It was a sign how serious they were about their studies.
The goban looked a bit strange, sitting on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth, but I didn't comment. The chairs squeaked as we pulled them out and settled ourselves in.
"What kind of handicap would you like?" he asked.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd played a handicap game, or anyone had offered one to me - no, correction. I remembered playing my father with a handicap until I'd become a professional. Since I'd entered the pro world at thirteen, everyone had been aware of my skill level and no one would have been foolish enough to underestimate, since I was Touya-Meijin's son.
The anonymity was novel, and my lips twitched in what might have been an involuntary smile. I hadn't smiled in so long I'd forgotten how to.
"There's no need. I'm good," I said.
"Have you been playing long?" he asked.
"All my life," I said, before adding, "my father taught me."
The man nodded and picked up one of the go kes. "I'm a bit envious of you Japanese, in that regard. Go wasn't brought to France until the sixties, and I didn't learn until I was in college. It's best to learn the game younger."
"Perhaps, but I've known several retired men who've picked it up fairly well," I said as I grabbed the other go ke so we could nigiri for black. I had always known learning at the feet of my father had given me an advantage, but I had never thought of my culture being another step up. Go was very Asian in nature, I knew, and part of my birth nation's heritage. If I hadn't been born in Japan, I might never have learned it. And my life would have been much poorer. It's strange how fate works out.
"Better to learn later than not at all," he said, lifting the lid and finding the white stones. He picked up a small handful and placed them on the table, to which I replied with one stone. After counting his stones, we switched go kes and started the game.
I wish I could say something profound about how touching the stones made me immediately decide I'd missed the game. But the cheap plastic stones didn't summon that kind of emotion from me. Instead, it was like picking up a book I'd set down a couple of months ago and trying to remember where I was.
The man was decent for an amateur, I recognized about ten hands in, but very conventional and would not pose a challenge. For someone at my level, the only people who were unique were complete amateurs (who had little idea of the conventions and thus could pull out some shocking, unpredictable moves), or masters of the game. His shape was solid but not inspired, and I found myself replying automatically, as though I'd been hired to play a game of shidougo. He had said he was studying for a tournament, and I had nothing riding on this. I could lose, if it helped him make himself stronger.
About halfway through the game, a plate with a sandwich was placed at my elbow, but I ignored it. I never ate when playing; it struck me as disrespectful.
My opponent's concentration on the board was laudable as I let him build a moyo, only to chop it to pieces five hands in. He glanced up at me, nodding, before returning to try to recover. He still had plenty of territory, but I planned to play a thick game, fighting for every moku. I let him take me into the endgame, even though I could have roared back a couple of times after he played less-than-optimal hands.
Finally we laid the last stone, setting back from the board. My sharp eyes noted I'd lost by two moku with komi, but I obligingly pushed the stones so we could officially make the count.
"I've lost," I murmured simply, dropping a brief bow of my head. It was no pain to my ego, since I'd been the one to control the outcome of the match. I hadn't wanted to win.
The older man sat back, heaving a sigh. "Thank you for the game, young man." He ran a hand through his hair. "And I would say you only lost because you didn't care if you won. You're the finest player I've ever met."
"Thank you," I murmured. "You're the best I've played in a while." That was the truth, since I hadn't played in a while.
"Ah," the man said, but didn't add anymore. "Are you going to eat?"
I picked up the crepe which was filled with cheese and fruit. The texture wasn't exactly the same as a crepe I would have purchased in Japan, but it was closer than most of the food I'd been sampling as part of my travels. Crepes were a French invention, and the opportunity to try a genuine one was something many tourists enjoyed.
I felt his eyes on me as I ate. The food was adequate, but I didn't really taste it, instead distracted by my disappointment. I hadn't known until I'd played this game that a part of me had believed I would magically be cured of my apathy.
"Could I could persuade you to tutor me for the next week or so?" the man said after a long silence. "I'd be willing to pay."
I shook my head. "I'm just passing through."
"I figured that might be the case," he said, sighing. "I suppose I shouldn't be greedy."
"It's never greedy to want to play a good game," I said automatically, even though I knew I was lying. My father had played against Sai and hadn't been satisfied with that one golden opportunity. He'd spent his life trying to recapture that moment. Luckily, it had worked out well for him since it'd truly expanded his horizons, but it could have easily turned into a living nightmare.
The kind of nightmare I was now living, wandering without finding satisfaction in what I was doing.
"Would you be willing to play another game right now, then? Since you're leaving?"
I was still disappointed that the game hadn't fired up my own desire to play, and I opened my mouth to make a polite excuse before something in his eyes made me stop. It was a wistfulness that's hard to describe.
This man was going to be attending a competitive tournament, and he was smart enough to recognize that playing against me would help him prepare. If my lazy game had been the best he'd played in a while, I felt sorry for him.
"Sure," I said finally. "I think I can make time.
The man broke into a smile, and for a second I saw Shindou's face superimposed over his. His innocent pleasure at playing another game with me finally shook something loose inside me. I knew, even as we cleared the board, that I would be catching a flight back to Japan within the next couple days.
I might not have the desire to win anymore, but that didn't matter right now. I didn't need to play for myself. I would return to play for Shindou's sake, since he needed me. It might very well be our last game, but I owed it to him to face him in person.