[wonton]
by trixie_chick
Expectations
Cholera was a horribly undignified way to die. He had been thinking that when he was just tending to the sick, but now, it was much worse. It had to be close to the end, though. Weak as he was, he had been able to wash himself up enough that he didn't think he smelled. He moved himself closer to the window, so he could see the sky.
His ghost watched over him, fretting.
Torajirou smiled gently. His wife had been sent away, far away, as soon as the outbreak began. She had begged him to leave with her, so perhaps this was some form of suicide. He enjoyed his life, though. He enjoyed being a vessel for amazing artistry. The art of go was, indeed, something glorious to behold, especially from the peculiar vantage point he had enjoyed his entire life. No, not quite entire, however. It seemed to Torajirou that his life began when he met his ghost.
He turned his face from the bright noon sky, and looked across at his ghost. He was hiding behind his sleeves, his whole ghostly body curled up into a corner. A few strands of hair rolled down his arms, but his eyes were hooded by his tall hat.
It was rather funny, really, but Torajirou did not have the strength to laugh.
"I suppose... there is not much time left. So. I should say something..." he said weakly. He closed his eyes, his vision blurring. His lips and tongue were both so dry, but he no longer had the strength to lift ladles of water to his mouth, and there were too many sick. Too many dying.
How must his ghost think of all this? He was dead himself, and through tragic and unfortunate means. And yet, in a way, he lived on, perhaps eternally. It seemed... tremendously sad to Torajirou. His ghost was beyond beautiful, with such a brilliant and gorgeous mind. Both childish and serious in the same moments. He was... joy.
Right now, Torajirou was the furthest thing from that, which just made his heart and body heavier. For a time, growing up, he'd really believed that he could be with his ghost forever. His ghost could live through him, and he would always have someone with him. It was the perfect, and most childish, love. That love only grew with time. His ghost became more alive than he was, and it was thrilling to watch. Because of his ghost's artistry, he was able to see amazing sights, meet amazing people, do amazing things. The world would mourn Honinbou Shuusaku, which was really a new name for his ghost. Torajirou would die only to his ghost.
When he had first met his wife, he had been so intensely embarrassed. More embarrassing still were the small pep talks his ghost attempted to give him. Do not worry, it is proper to take things slowly. It shows her respect. When I was married, it was unheard of for men and women to share chambers. At least, we never did. There is nothing wrong with you, it just takes time to become accustomed. Torajirou never could, because he always knew. His ghost was near him. His ghost, with such a flawless face, such carelessly beautiful hair, such delicate hands... always close, never touchable. He managed to complete his duties to his wife by keeping the room dark and thinking only of his ghost. He regretted... a bit... that he could not show his wife more ardour. She was a lovely person, and he enjoyed her company, but he was already in love. Destined to love only one, the one closer to him than anyone else could be.
Destined to love someone eternally out of reach.
Was this suicide? Was it kindness on his part that made him sit with the sick and contagious, and tend to them? Was it, instead, stupidity?
What reason did he have to want his life to end? And yet, what reason did he have to continue his life? Honinbou Shuusaku's legend grew minute by minute, but his ghost would sometimes quietly comment that he had expected go to have progressed further by this point. While Shuusaku had many admirable opponents, he lacked a rival. Shuwa said so many times. He intimidated people, and grew too quickly. No one could keep up.
His ghost... would not find the Hand of God with him.
A pang hit his chest, and he was not sure. Was that the disease, or something else?
"I suppose I want to say goodbye... I wish... I could have lived more... for you..." His ghost would misinterpret that, he was sure. Ever since he had begun to tend to the sick here, his ghost had become terribly sullen. Not that Torajirou could blame him. He would be sealed away, unable to play again.
"I... am sorry."
He hoped his ghost would understand, but that was a strange hope, as he barely understood it himself.
Expectations
Cholera was a horribly undignified way to die. He had been thinking that when he was just tending to the sick, but now, it was much worse. It had to be close to the end, though. Weak as he was, he had been able to wash himself up enough that he didn't think he smelled. He moved himself closer to the window, so he could see the sky.
His ghost watched over him, fretting.
Torajirou smiled gently. His wife had been sent away, far away, as soon as the outbreak began. She had begged him to leave with her, so perhaps this was some form of suicide. He enjoyed his life, though. He enjoyed being a vessel for amazing artistry. The art of go was, indeed, something glorious to behold, especially from the peculiar vantage point he had enjoyed his entire life. No, not quite entire, however. It seemed to Torajirou that his life began when he met his ghost.
He turned his face from the bright noon sky, and looked across at his ghost. He was hiding behind his sleeves, his whole ghostly body curled up into a corner. A few strands of hair rolled down his arms, but his eyes were hooded by his tall hat.
It was rather funny, really, but Torajirou did not have the strength to laugh.
"I suppose... there is not much time left. So. I should say something..." he said weakly. He closed his eyes, his vision blurring. His lips and tongue were both so dry, but he no longer had the strength to lift ladles of water to his mouth, and there were too many sick. Too many dying.
How must his ghost think of all this? He was dead himself, and through tragic and unfortunate means. And yet, in a way, he lived on, perhaps eternally. It seemed... tremendously sad to Torajirou. His ghost was beyond beautiful, with such a brilliant and gorgeous mind. Both childish and serious in the same moments. He was... joy.
Right now, Torajirou was the furthest thing from that, which just made his heart and body heavier. For a time, growing up, he'd really believed that he could be with his ghost forever. His ghost could live through him, and he would always have someone with him. It was the perfect, and most childish, love. That love only grew with time. His ghost became more alive than he was, and it was thrilling to watch. Because of his ghost's artistry, he was able to see amazing sights, meet amazing people, do amazing things. The world would mourn Honinbou Shuusaku, which was really a new name for his ghost. Torajirou would die only to his ghost.
When he had first met his wife, he had been so intensely embarrassed. More embarrassing still were the small pep talks his ghost attempted to give him. Do not worry, it is proper to take things slowly. It shows her respect. When I was married, it was unheard of for men and women to share chambers. At least, we never did. There is nothing wrong with you, it just takes time to become accustomed. Torajirou never could, because he always knew. His ghost was near him. His ghost, with such a flawless face, such carelessly beautiful hair, such delicate hands... always close, never touchable. He managed to complete his duties to his wife by keeping the room dark and thinking only of his ghost. He regretted... a bit... that he could not show his wife more ardour. She was a lovely person, and he enjoyed her company, but he was already in love. Destined to love only one, the one closer to him than anyone else could be.
Destined to love someone eternally out of reach.
Was this suicide? Was it kindness on his part that made him sit with the sick and contagious, and tend to them? Was it, instead, stupidity?
What reason did he have to want his life to end? And yet, what reason did he have to continue his life? Honinbou Shuusaku's legend grew minute by minute, but his ghost would sometimes quietly comment that he had expected go to have progressed further by this point. While Shuusaku had many admirable opponents, he lacked a rival. Shuwa said so many times. He intimidated people, and grew too quickly. No one could keep up.
His ghost... would not find the Hand of God with him.
A pang hit his chest, and he was not sure. Was that the disease, or something else?
"I suppose I want to say goodbye... I wish... I could have lived more... for you..." His ghost would misinterpret that, he was sure. Ever since he had begun to tend to the sick here, his ghost had become terribly sullen. Not that Torajirou could blame him. He would be sealed away, unable to play again.
"I... am sorry."
He hoped his ghost would understand, but that was a strange hope, as he barely understood it himself.