[Tremadoc]
by meiface
I'll Take My Chances While You Take Your Time
Isumi hadn't been looking for a casual one-night stand. It wasn't that he couldn't risk it with his career - for the most part the only thing that mattered was how well you played - but it was frowned upon all the same. He'd had some vague idea of a fairy tale romance, too, inveigled upon him by the media while growing up. Love went something like that: a girl who'd catch your eye, make you want to be her world. A girl who'd blush sweetly under your kiss and hold your hand in the first snow. It went something like that, when he bothered to think about it.
He hadn't been thinking of anything in particular when he went out that night, romance or hooking up. None of them had time for much outside of Go these days, and whatever lingering distractions from the outside world had remained through their insei period - even those now peeled off in crumbling layers. It wasn't impossible to keep in touch, but it was hard.
Sometimes Isumi felt guilty, so he tried to reach out. That night was one of those nights, an uncomfortable venture across a decrepit bridge Isumi was reluctant to burn. Old friends were getting together for food and then karaoke; he would tag along and make awkward conversation, then go home feeling relieved and resigned, and maybe play a game with Waya before bed.
There were new faces in the old crowd. Isumi smiled politely and introduced himself. They knew who he was not because they followed Go, but because his old friends had talked about him.
One girl was curious about what life was like as a professional player. Her father enjoyed Go, she explained. Her interest seemed genuine, and Isumi felt himself relax under her clear eyes, her bright attention.
He kissed her in the dark corner of the karaoke box, her mouth sweet under his.
::
"Hey. Mind if I smoke?"
Isumi turned his head, pillow scraping against his cheek. "It's fine," he murmured, eyes half-lidded.
Her name was Kurosaki Reiko and she'd tasted like sake and cigarettes when he kissed her. He watched her bend naked over the pile of abandoned jeans on the floor and rifle through for her cigarettes and lighter. The curve of her collarbone gleamed in the low lamplight as she straightened.
Her spine relaxed, rippling, with the first inhale. She looked at him, a smile on her lips. "That wasn't your first time, was it?"
Isumi was spread out like a sloppily scrawled comma, curved and stark against the white hotel sheets. They'd fucked in the dark, finding each other with sweaty fingers and impatient gropes, shadows among shadows. They didn't need to see each other. It was probably better that they don't. He wondered what his face looked like. It was probably something nobody at the Go Institute could imagine.
"No," he said simply.
He didn't think he owed it to tell her his first time had been with a girl he'd known for all of five hours, someone sweet and open he thought he might have fallen in love with, given a chance. He smiled ruefully to himself as he rolled over. He hadn't had that chance, in the end, but it was a sweet memory all the same. A personal one.
He stretched against the bed, feeling comfortably sore. He could feel Reiko's gaze sweeping over to him, watching the long lines of his body appreciatively.
"You're hot."
Isumi laughed, a little embarrassed. "Thanks. You're not bad yourself."
A half-grin hooked on that mouth that was so recently on Isumi's body, leaving hot kisses against his collarbone and throat. "We're well-matched. If you ever want to hook up again," she said, "let me know. I'll give you my number." Cigarette dangling from her lips, she returned to the edge of the bed and used the hotel pen to scratch a number on the complimentary pad. She tears the sheet off and folds it, then tucks it into Isumi's bag.
He allowed it without a word, keeping his reservations to himself. Instead, he wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and drew her back to him, bringing their mouths together.
She sank against him, pliant and welcoming. Isumi didn't think she had high expectations of seeing him again - one night stands were usually better without the awkwardness of having to meet up again - but still felt a tug of guilt when he threw out her number on his way home.
He wasn't going to see her again. He wasn't going to see any of them again. He liked them where they were: alive under his fingers and his mouth, and then carefully locked away in his memories.
He rode the subways smelling of sex and looking decidedly less polished than he had when he left for the night. He didn't meet anyone's eye.
It was past three by the time he let himself into the apartment, slipping inside silently and toeing off his shoes. Waya was probably asleep, the apartment dark and quiet but for the hum of the A/C in the sticky summer heat. Isumi stunk of smoke and sweat and sex; he scrubbed himself under the hot spray of the shower and fell into bed for a dreamless four-hour sleep.
::
Isumi didn't know what he was doing or what he wanted from it.
These girls, these one-night stands, they were like old photographs: fading in vividness but always capable of stirring something in him. Some kind of longing or nostalgia, perhaps. Maybe it was the thrill of having a secret, of something that didn't belong body and soul to the game or the profession.
Isumi wouldn't say he wasn't happy. He had great friends. He liked and respected his competitors. He could never put his love of Go into words - but the closest might be thirst. He knew he was lucky to be where he was, doing what he was.
But Isumi wasn't satisfied.
Isumi was young, everyone said. He was part of the fierce, young generation of Go players, the new wave. He felt old, though, like he'd missed the most important parts of his life while looking only at Go.
Something itched under his skin, a niggling feeling that he was missing something, forgetting something: that, out there, there was something more, and he needed it.
::
A few months in, Isumi began to suspect that Waya knew or at the very least suspected. It was probably due in part to the fact that Isumi went out frequently without Waya these days, when he hadn't been so accustomed in the past. Once or twice every few months, in an effort to salvage falling bridges, was expected. Nearly every week, when he didn't have matches in the morning? Waya was starting to look at Isumi funny, even though he had yet to say anything.
The morning after the latest night, Isumi felt good. He felt positive, cheerful, like he could face the world without regrets, despite his secrets and his uncertainties and his guilt. They were pushed to the back of his mind, where they would inevitably surface again in the future, but for now Isumi could grin at Waya over breakfast and ask about how Ochi is doing just to hear Waya grumble. There was something to be said for sex as stress relief.
"He'll never change," Waya muttered into his cereal. "He's still harping on his latest game with Touya."
"And Touya still refuses to give him the attention he desperately wants?"
"Bingo."
Isumi thought about Ochi, who always seemed like he something to prove. He was good; that was undeniable. He was four-dan now, to Isumi's two. He was talked about a lot, among the older generation of pros, among the younger generation, too, and among the interested media parties that followed their world. It didn't seem enough for him.
It was strange to feel a pang of sympathy, but Isumi could relate to that dissatisfaction. He realized, after a moment, that he had been contemplating his bowl. Looking up, Waya was regarding him with an unreadable expression.
"You were out late last night."
The sentence titled up towards the end, turning it into a question. Isumi said, "Yes."
His calm reply belied the way his stomach roiled, abruptly. It felt like guilt, but that was irrational - he didn't owe Waya anything. Isumi was an adult. Having sex was nothing to be ashamed about.
Waya was quiet, as if he expected Isumi to say more. When Isumi failed to deliver, Waya's mouth twisted, unhappy, a sudden flash of annoyance and hurt. "Okay, yeah, well. Don't wear yourself out, Isumi. You have to stay focused during your matches."
"I know."
Waya left the table and dumped his bowl in the sink. Isumi waited until he left the kitchen before rubbing at his eyes, tiredly.
Instead of the table in front of him, bowl and spoon, half-empty glass of juice, pile of Go magazines in a corner under a stack of napkins, he saw a girl's face, flushed and sweaty. Her mouth was swollen and red, hissing his name between gritted teeth as he touched her.
Takanaga Mayuri.
He stood and gathered his bowl and cup, clearing the table. He didn't have a match today but he had a tutoring session, kifus to study, and errands to run.
::
Jounichi was too good to him. Of all of Isumi's old friends, he was the one Isumi was closest to after all these years. Jounichi had raised his eyebrows and made a few lewd jokes when he found out about Isumi's extra-curricular activities, but he was a good guy otherwise; he didn't demand explanations. He said, seriously, "I don't know what your crazy life is like, Isumi. But if you ever need someone outside of all of that just to hang out or whatever, you know, not go crazy - let me know. You're a cool guy."
Isumi was touched at the unexpected overture. He thought about bridges and the mending of them, about people who would understand without asking questions. Waya's anger was fresh in his mind.
At dinner that night, Jounichi grinned and said, over beer and food, "Let me introduce you to my friend, Ozuki."
Ozuki Ena had long, slender fingers that combed through Isumi's hair as Isumi rocked himself into her. Her palms were hot on Isumi's back as she folded back onto the bed and wrapped a hand around him, guiding him into her, slick and hot between her thighs. Isumi moaned and panted into her hair, fingers twisting on her hips, fisting in the sheets, as he swallowed his groans. She whispered please, please, please in a high, breathless voice. Isumi took his time.
Isumi got home at two-thirty, bone-weary and aching, but immensely well-fucked. He fell into bed and passes out without a shower, satisfied.
::
Waya said, "You were out all night fucking."
It was a slap to the face, a straightforward accusation.
"Isumi-"
Waya looked away from the bed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "If you have a girlfriend, I don't know why you feel like you have to hide it," he said at last. The tension had drained from his voice, leaving nothing but weariness and raw hurt.
Isumi couldn't lift his head from the pillow. He looked at Way through his straggly bangs.
"I thought we were friends."
"Waya..."
"I gotta go. I have to meet with Morishita-sensei." The door slammed not too long after, and Isumi sighed.
He was left alone in his room with his dirty clothes and his thoughts. The early morning sun crept across his floor.
::
He didn't know how to apologize without saying It's not about you. He didn't want to see the expression on Waya's face if that was what came out of his mouth.
There had to be other ways to explain, somehow.
If only Isumi knew what he was doing in the first place.
::
The thing was, though, that it wasn't about Waya. Not as much as it was about everyone, this whole world. Isumi thought about Shindou and Touya, whose whole worlds were Go, and each other. He envied them that focus sometimes, that clear direction in their lives, with little room for anything else. He couldn't imagine wanting it for himself, at other times, the weight of that pressure so inescapable.
He thought about Waya, too, and Ochi, who grumbled and bit at the rein, but who were, all the same, sure of their place and their desires.
He thought about Fukui and Nase, Yang Hai and Le Ping, who were his peers and his friends, his colleagues and his competitors.
It was a small world. It felt claustrophobic sometimes.
He wasn't unhappy; he didn't want to quit. After all he'd been through to get to this point, Isumi would never turn back. He just wanted something different, occasionally: the option of something more than this, something foreign. Outside of this world. Grounding and familiar, breathtakingly normal.
He wondered if any of the others understood, what it was like to want freedom from a world you'd been striving half your life to enter, to want to fling away the embrace that held you up.
::
Isumi came home at nine that night, staggeringly early for him. He had been out again, dinner with friends, laughing and having a good time. Jounichi had been there, eyes knowing he nudged Isumi towards the girls he'd brought along. Good-looking girls, well-dressed, definitely interested, if the subtle nudges of knees against his under the table were any indication. Isumi had thought about it. He'd smiled and chatted and leaned against one of the girls, with short hair and a ready laugh. He'd let her put her hand on his hip and rub her thumb along the crease of his thigh through his jeans. He'd thought about rolling her under him on a bed, cradling her face as he kissed her slow, lazy.
He thought about saying yes, about taking her hand. It was tempting-
But he thought about Waya and the argument they hadn't resolved - and the apology he hadn't given - and said no in the end.
He returned early, easing the door open. Standing in the entranceway, the smell of barbecue smoke and perfume still clinging to his clothes, he looked down the hallway to see Waya in front of the TV, his phone tucked against his ear. He was talking loudly, complaining. Isumi heard Touya and figured he was probably talking to Shindou.
"Hey," Isumi said when entered the living room.
Waya looked startled, then surly. "I thought you went out tonight."
"Came back early," he replied easily. He tried a tentative smile, apologetic at the edges, and Waya's expression eased slightly. Leaving him to his conversation for the moment, Isumi stepped into the kitchen to make some tea.
A few minutes later, Waya appeared, leaning against the counter. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets. "Did you bring me any food back?"
"Sorry." Isumi's smile was affectionate. "Next time?" He paused at that and then altered it, as he shakes loose tea leaves into his mug: "Actually, why don't you come along next time? Jounichi's been after meeting you for ages. Says I always tall about you."
It was a tentative peace offering.
Waya actually looked surprised, and the guilt Isumi had been battling resurged within him. No matter what uncertainties he was going through in his own life, he should have never taken them out on Waya, even inadvertently.
"That'd be...cool," Waya said cautiously.
When the water boiled, Isumi made two cups of tea and followed Waya back to the living room. Walking behind Waya, Isumi studied him: his black t-shirt and his baggy, comfortable jeans, the way his hair curled over his ear, familiar. The way he walked was familiar too, and that questioning look he shot at Isumi when he half-turned and caught him looking.
Isumi had known Waya for a long time. They were close enough friends to live together, when they'd both decided they needed to move out from their respective houses. Waya had been his friend, Isumi realized, for longer than the people he kept trying to mend bridges with. They'd known him only up until he'd lost himself in the world of Go, before they'd fallen out of touch, on two separate paths in life that would rarely, if ever, intersect.
Waya was keeping pace.
Waya was here.
Waya was-
"You're my best friend," Isumi said as they sat down. "I'm sorry about the way I've been the past few months. I'm not trying to keep secrets from you."
Waya frowned. "I just- I mean, you don't have to tell me everything, you know. I get that people have secrets. But if you have a girlfriend, you don't have to hide that. Unless, like, you think I'll hate you for it or something, which I won't-"
"I don't have a girlfriend." Isumi snickered a little. Waya was...Waya.
In front of them, the TV was still on, some kind of drama unfolding on screen. Isumi ignored the flickering images to focus on Waya instead. He said, hesitantly, "I have been having sex, but I don't have a girlfriend."
Isumi was an adult. He could have sex if he wanted. He didn't necessarily owe anyone an explanation about what he chose to do in his private time. He looked across the distance at his best friend.
Isumi told Waya about Reiko, and Mayuri, and Ena. He told him about his first, the girl with the sweet mouth and interest in Go. He told him about Jounichi, who sort of understood, who never asked questions. He told him about feeling suffocated by a world he loved and wanting something new, just for a moment, like a breath of fresh air. He'd never leave, Isumi said. I just felt like I was missing something.
Waya didn't have the answers to Isumi's questions, or a solution for the fitful yearnings he couldn't explain. He sipped at his tea and listened, though, as Isumi tried to explain. He cracked the odd joke to make them laugh and asked questions Isumi thought he didn't want to hear, but realized he didn't mind answering.
"I'm not sure I get it," Waya said at length. "But hey, I'm not you." He paused. "You player."
He hit Isumi in the arm with a rolled-up magazine.
"It's not, I'm not," protested Isumi, laughing. He wrested the magazine away with a disapproving downturn of his mouth. "It's just sex. It's not like I'm dating five different girls and promising them each forever."
"At least you're an honest player." Waya grinned.
They talked more, into the night, not only about Isumi but about Waya too. Ochi came up again, with more grumbling. They talked about Go, and Ogata's latest match, and Touya and Shindou's latest fight. They watched TV and Isumi commented on the poor plot while Waya complained that the ads made him hungry. They had a midnight snack before getting ready for bed.
"See you in the morning."
Waya patted his hip, toothbrush foaming in his mouth. "G'night, Isumi."
::
Isumi would go to sleep and wake up with the same itch under his skin; maybe it would disappear in a few months, or maybe it would stay. Not that much had changed. He would probably still sleep with girls who were willing, searching for some kind of breathing space. Maybe one of them would turn out to be something unexpected, the girl who wouldn't be the casual one-night stand he was looking for. Maybe one day he'd get to have the fairy tale romance he'd grown up thinking would come some day. It was hard to say.
Isumi was not as young as he once was, blindly naive and hopeful, living on the dream that propelled him to where was now. He saw the world a little clearer than he used to, and was a little more experienced, even if he didn't have all the answers. He didn't need to have all the answers. For now, he had firm, steady bridges, those mended and those which had never faltered. He had sex, uncomplicated. He had Go.
I'll Take My Chances While You Take Your Time
Isumi hadn't been looking for a casual one-night stand. It wasn't that he couldn't risk it with his career - for the most part the only thing that mattered was how well you played - but it was frowned upon all the same. He'd had some vague idea of a fairy tale romance, too, inveigled upon him by the media while growing up. Love went something like that: a girl who'd catch your eye, make you want to be her world. A girl who'd blush sweetly under your kiss and hold your hand in the first snow. It went something like that, when he bothered to think about it.
He hadn't been thinking of anything in particular when he went out that night, romance or hooking up. None of them had time for much outside of Go these days, and whatever lingering distractions from the outside world had remained through their insei period - even those now peeled off in crumbling layers. It wasn't impossible to keep in touch, but it was hard.
Sometimes Isumi felt guilty, so he tried to reach out. That night was one of those nights, an uncomfortable venture across a decrepit bridge Isumi was reluctant to burn. Old friends were getting together for food and then karaoke; he would tag along and make awkward conversation, then go home feeling relieved and resigned, and maybe play a game with Waya before bed.
There were new faces in the old crowd. Isumi smiled politely and introduced himself. They knew who he was not because they followed Go, but because his old friends had talked about him.
One girl was curious about what life was like as a professional player. Her father enjoyed Go, she explained. Her interest seemed genuine, and Isumi felt himself relax under her clear eyes, her bright attention.
He kissed her in the dark corner of the karaoke box, her mouth sweet under his.
::
"Hey. Mind if I smoke?"
Isumi turned his head, pillow scraping against his cheek. "It's fine," he murmured, eyes half-lidded.
Her name was Kurosaki Reiko and she'd tasted like sake and cigarettes when he kissed her. He watched her bend naked over the pile of abandoned jeans on the floor and rifle through for her cigarettes and lighter. The curve of her collarbone gleamed in the low lamplight as she straightened.
Her spine relaxed, rippling, with the first inhale. She looked at him, a smile on her lips. "That wasn't your first time, was it?"
Isumi was spread out like a sloppily scrawled comma, curved and stark against the white hotel sheets. They'd fucked in the dark, finding each other with sweaty fingers and impatient gropes, shadows among shadows. They didn't need to see each other. It was probably better that they don't. He wondered what his face looked like. It was probably something nobody at the Go Institute could imagine.
"No," he said simply.
He didn't think he owed it to tell her his first time had been with a girl he'd known for all of five hours, someone sweet and open he thought he might have fallen in love with, given a chance. He smiled ruefully to himself as he rolled over. He hadn't had that chance, in the end, but it was a sweet memory all the same. A personal one.
He stretched against the bed, feeling comfortably sore. He could feel Reiko's gaze sweeping over to him, watching the long lines of his body appreciatively.
"You're hot."
Isumi laughed, a little embarrassed. "Thanks. You're not bad yourself."
A half-grin hooked on that mouth that was so recently on Isumi's body, leaving hot kisses against his collarbone and throat. "We're well-matched. If you ever want to hook up again," she said, "let me know. I'll give you my number." Cigarette dangling from her lips, she returned to the edge of the bed and used the hotel pen to scratch a number on the complimentary pad. She tears the sheet off and folds it, then tucks it into Isumi's bag.
He allowed it without a word, keeping his reservations to himself. Instead, he wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and drew her back to him, bringing their mouths together.
She sank against him, pliant and welcoming. Isumi didn't think she had high expectations of seeing him again - one night stands were usually better without the awkwardness of having to meet up again - but still felt a tug of guilt when he threw out her number on his way home.
He wasn't going to see her again. He wasn't going to see any of them again. He liked them where they were: alive under his fingers and his mouth, and then carefully locked away in his memories.
He rode the subways smelling of sex and looking decidedly less polished than he had when he left for the night. He didn't meet anyone's eye.
It was past three by the time he let himself into the apartment, slipping inside silently and toeing off his shoes. Waya was probably asleep, the apartment dark and quiet but for the hum of the A/C in the sticky summer heat. Isumi stunk of smoke and sweat and sex; he scrubbed himself under the hot spray of the shower and fell into bed for a dreamless four-hour sleep.
::
Isumi didn't know what he was doing or what he wanted from it.
These girls, these one-night stands, they were like old photographs: fading in vividness but always capable of stirring something in him. Some kind of longing or nostalgia, perhaps. Maybe it was the thrill of having a secret, of something that didn't belong body and soul to the game or the profession.
Isumi wouldn't say he wasn't happy. He had great friends. He liked and respected his competitors. He could never put his love of Go into words - but the closest might be thirst. He knew he was lucky to be where he was, doing what he was.
But Isumi wasn't satisfied.
Isumi was young, everyone said. He was part of the fierce, young generation of Go players, the new wave. He felt old, though, like he'd missed the most important parts of his life while looking only at Go.
Something itched under his skin, a niggling feeling that he was missing something, forgetting something: that, out there, there was something more, and he needed it.
::
A few months in, Isumi began to suspect that Waya knew or at the very least suspected. It was probably due in part to the fact that Isumi went out frequently without Waya these days, when he hadn't been so accustomed in the past. Once or twice every few months, in an effort to salvage falling bridges, was expected. Nearly every week, when he didn't have matches in the morning? Waya was starting to look at Isumi funny, even though he had yet to say anything.
The morning after the latest night, Isumi felt good. He felt positive, cheerful, like he could face the world without regrets, despite his secrets and his uncertainties and his guilt. They were pushed to the back of his mind, where they would inevitably surface again in the future, but for now Isumi could grin at Waya over breakfast and ask about how Ochi is doing just to hear Waya grumble. There was something to be said for sex as stress relief.
"He'll never change," Waya muttered into his cereal. "He's still harping on his latest game with Touya."
"And Touya still refuses to give him the attention he desperately wants?"
"Bingo."
Isumi thought about Ochi, who always seemed like he something to prove. He was good; that was undeniable. He was four-dan now, to Isumi's two. He was talked about a lot, among the older generation of pros, among the younger generation, too, and among the interested media parties that followed their world. It didn't seem enough for him.
It was strange to feel a pang of sympathy, but Isumi could relate to that dissatisfaction. He realized, after a moment, that he had been contemplating his bowl. Looking up, Waya was regarding him with an unreadable expression.
"You were out late last night."
The sentence titled up towards the end, turning it into a question. Isumi said, "Yes."
His calm reply belied the way his stomach roiled, abruptly. It felt like guilt, but that was irrational - he didn't owe Waya anything. Isumi was an adult. Having sex was nothing to be ashamed about.
Waya was quiet, as if he expected Isumi to say more. When Isumi failed to deliver, Waya's mouth twisted, unhappy, a sudden flash of annoyance and hurt. "Okay, yeah, well. Don't wear yourself out, Isumi. You have to stay focused during your matches."
"I know."
Waya left the table and dumped his bowl in the sink. Isumi waited until he left the kitchen before rubbing at his eyes, tiredly.
Instead of the table in front of him, bowl and spoon, half-empty glass of juice, pile of Go magazines in a corner under a stack of napkins, he saw a girl's face, flushed and sweaty. Her mouth was swollen and red, hissing his name between gritted teeth as he touched her.
Takanaga Mayuri.
He stood and gathered his bowl and cup, clearing the table. He didn't have a match today but he had a tutoring session, kifus to study, and errands to run.
::
Jounichi was too good to him. Of all of Isumi's old friends, he was the one Isumi was closest to after all these years. Jounichi had raised his eyebrows and made a few lewd jokes when he found out about Isumi's extra-curricular activities, but he was a good guy otherwise; he didn't demand explanations. He said, seriously, "I don't know what your crazy life is like, Isumi. But if you ever need someone outside of all of that just to hang out or whatever, you know, not go crazy - let me know. You're a cool guy."
Isumi was touched at the unexpected overture. He thought about bridges and the mending of them, about people who would understand without asking questions. Waya's anger was fresh in his mind.
At dinner that night, Jounichi grinned and said, over beer and food, "Let me introduce you to my friend, Ozuki."
Ozuki Ena had long, slender fingers that combed through Isumi's hair as Isumi rocked himself into her. Her palms were hot on Isumi's back as she folded back onto the bed and wrapped a hand around him, guiding him into her, slick and hot between her thighs. Isumi moaned and panted into her hair, fingers twisting on her hips, fisting in the sheets, as he swallowed his groans. She whispered please, please, please in a high, breathless voice. Isumi took his time.
Isumi got home at two-thirty, bone-weary and aching, but immensely well-fucked. He fell into bed and passes out without a shower, satisfied.
::
Waya said, "You were out all night fucking."
It was a slap to the face, a straightforward accusation.
"Isumi-"
Waya looked away from the bed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "If you have a girlfriend, I don't know why you feel like you have to hide it," he said at last. The tension had drained from his voice, leaving nothing but weariness and raw hurt.
Isumi couldn't lift his head from the pillow. He looked at Way through his straggly bangs.
"I thought we were friends."
"Waya..."
"I gotta go. I have to meet with Morishita-sensei." The door slammed not too long after, and Isumi sighed.
He was left alone in his room with his dirty clothes and his thoughts. The early morning sun crept across his floor.
::
He didn't know how to apologize without saying It's not about you. He didn't want to see the expression on Waya's face if that was what came out of his mouth.
There had to be other ways to explain, somehow.
If only Isumi knew what he was doing in the first place.
::
The thing was, though, that it wasn't about Waya. Not as much as it was about everyone, this whole world. Isumi thought about Shindou and Touya, whose whole worlds were Go, and each other. He envied them that focus sometimes, that clear direction in their lives, with little room for anything else. He couldn't imagine wanting it for himself, at other times, the weight of that pressure so inescapable.
He thought about Waya, too, and Ochi, who grumbled and bit at the rein, but who were, all the same, sure of their place and their desires.
He thought about Fukui and Nase, Yang Hai and Le Ping, who were his peers and his friends, his colleagues and his competitors.
It was a small world. It felt claustrophobic sometimes.
He wasn't unhappy; he didn't want to quit. After all he'd been through to get to this point, Isumi would never turn back. He just wanted something different, occasionally: the option of something more than this, something foreign. Outside of this world. Grounding and familiar, breathtakingly normal.
He wondered if any of the others understood, what it was like to want freedom from a world you'd been striving half your life to enter, to want to fling away the embrace that held you up.
::
Isumi came home at nine that night, staggeringly early for him. He had been out again, dinner with friends, laughing and having a good time. Jounichi had been there, eyes knowing he nudged Isumi towards the girls he'd brought along. Good-looking girls, well-dressed, definitely interested, if the subtle nudges of knees against his under the table were any indication. Isumi had thought about it. He'd smiled and chatted and leaned against one of the girls, with short hair and a ready laugh. He'd let her put her hand on his hip and rub her thumb along the crease of his thigh through his jeans. He'd thought about rolling her under him on a bed, cradling her face as he kissed her slow, lazy.
He thought about saying yes, about taking her hand. It was tempting-
But he thought about Waya and the argument they hadn't resolved - and the apology he hadn't given - and said no in the end.
He returned early, easing the door open. Standing in the entranceway, the smell of barbecue smoke and perfume still clinging to his clothes, he looked down the hallway to see Waya in front of the TV, his phone tucked against his ear. He was talking loudly, complaining. Isumi heard Touya and figured he was probably talking to Shindou.
"Hey," Isumi said when entered the living room.
Waya looked startled, then surly. "I thought you went out tonight."
"Came back early," he replied easily. He tried a tentative smile, apologetic at the edges, and Waya's expression eased slightly. Leaving him to his conversation for the moment, Isumi stepped into the kitchen to make some tea.
A few minutes later, Waya appeared, leaning against the counter. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets. "Did you bring me any food back?"
"Sorry." Isumi's smile was affectionate. "Next time?" He paused at that and then altered it, as he shakes loose tea leaves into his mug: "Actually, why don't you come along next time? Jounichi's been after meeting you for ages. Says I always tall about you."
It was a tentative peace offering.
Waya actually looked surprised, and the guilt Isumi had been battling resurged within him. No matter what uncertainties he was going through in his own life, he should have never taken them out on Waya, even inadvertently.
"That'd be...cool," Waya said cautiously.
When the water boiled, Isumi made two cups of tea and followed Waya back to the living room. Walking behind Waya, Isumi studied him: his black t-shirt and his baggy, comfortable jeans, the way his hair curled over his ear, familiar. The way he walked was familiar too, and that questioning look he shot at Isumi when he half-turned and caught him looking.
Isumi had known Waya for a long time. They were close enough friends to live together, when they'd both decided they needed to move out from their respective houses. Waya had been his friend, Isumi realized, for longer than the people he kept trying to mend bridges with. They'd known him only up until he'd lost himself in the world of Go, before they'd fallen out of touch, on two separate paths in life that would rarely, if ever, intersect.
Waya was keeping pace.
Waya was here.
Waya was-
"You're my best friend," Isumi said as they sat down. "I'm sorry about the way I've been the past few months. I'm not trying to keep secrets from you."
Waya frowned. "I just- I mean, you don't have to tell me everything, you know. I get that people have secrets. But if you have a girlfriend, you don't have to hide that. Unless, like, you think I'll hate you for it or something, which I won't-"
"I don't have a girlfriend." Isumi snickered a little. Waya was...Waya.
In front of them, the TV was still on, some kind of drama unfolding on screen. Isumi ignored the flickering images to focus on Waya instead. He said, hesitantly, "I have been having sex, but I don't have a girlfriend."
Isumi was an adult. He could have sex if he wanted. He didn't necessarily owe anyone an explanation about what he chose to do in his private time. He looked across the distance at his best friend.
Isumi told Waya about Reiko, and Mayuri, and Ena. He told him about his first, the girl with the sweet mouth and interest in Go. He told him about Jounichi, who sort of understood, who never asked questions. He told him about feeling suffocated by a world he loved and wanting something new, just for a moment, like a breath of fresh air. He'd never leave, Isumi said. I just felt like I was missing something.
Waya didn't have the answers to Isumi's questions, or a solution for the fitful yearnings he couldn't explain. He sipped at his tea and listened, though, as Isumi tried to explain. He cracked the odd joke to make them laugh and asked questions Isumi thought he didn't want to hear, but realized he didn't mind answering.
"I'm not sure I get it," Waya said at length. "But hey, I'm not you." He paused. "You player."
He hit Isumi in the arm with a rolled-up magazine.
"It's not, I'm not," protested Isumi, laughing. He wrested the magazine away with a disapproving downturn of his mouth. "It's just sex. It's not like I'm dating five different girls and promising them each forever."
"At least you're an honest player." Waya grinned.
They talked more, into the night, not only about Isumi but about Waya too. Ochi came up again, with more grumbling. They talked about Go, and Ogata's latest match, and Touya and Shindou's latest fight. They watched TV and Isumi commented on the poor plot while Waya complained that the ads made him hungry. They had a midnight snack before getting ready for bed.
"See you in the morning."
Waya patted his hip, toothbrush foaming in his mouth. "G'night, Isumi."
::
Isumi would go to sleep and wake up with the same itch under his skin; maybe it would disappear in a few months, or maybe it would stay. Not that much had changed. He would probably still sleep with girls who were willing, searching for some kind of breathing space. Maybe one of them would turn out to be something unexpected, the girl who wouldn't be the casual one-night stand he was looking for. Maybe one day he'd get to have the fairy tale romance he'd grown up thinking would come some day. It was hard to say.
Isumi was not as young as he once was, blindly naive and hopeful, living on the dream that propelled him to where was now. He saw the world a little clearer than he used to, and was a little more experienced, even if he didn't have all the answers. He didn't need to have all the answers. For now, he had firm, steady bridges, those mended and those which had never faltered. He had sex, uncomplicated. He had Go.