Disclaimer: I do not own Hikaru no Go.

Ghost

You've told him everything, from the first memory you have of playing go with your father to that time the officials from the Young Lion's Tournament requested you to not play so as not to crush the hopes of others, and once more, as the two of you play a casual game in your father's go salon, you ask him to tell you something-- anything.

"I've told you everything," you protest, trying to wheedle information out of him, knowing his reluctance to delve into his past from former failed attempts. "Tell me how you became interested in go. That's all I'm asking."

He laughs, slapping a stone down hard. "The usual way. It's really not all that interesting," he says, smiling. "You wouldn't believe me anyway." He's lying, you can tell because his gray eyes are clouded and he's wearing his "all is well" expression that fools everyone but you.

"Then why won't you tell me anything?" you can't help but retort, arching your eyebrows in disbelief.

He doesn't reply; his next hand distracts you, forcing you to concentrate. Before you even know it, black is dead in the lower left corner of the board. White wins.

"Another game?" he asks.

You readily agree, he's the only one remotely close to your level and that's all that really matters.

(you find out that how he came about playing go is anything but ordinary and realize he was right, you wouldn't have believed him-- but you do now)

"But I have no intention of pursuing go."

He replies to your suggestion so matter-of-factly, as though merely commenting on today's weather or rattling off the daily specials from the ramen restaurant where he works. His expression turns to one of amusement when you sputter, obviously appalled, and beyond any hope of comprehending why.

He's good, no, he's brilliant. He plays better than most professionals you know, he plays you on a regular basis without any handicaps. The pro exam would be child's play for him.

"But why?" you can't help but ask.

"I like go and I like playing go with you," he says, running his fingers through his bangs, bright underneath the neon lights, shaking his head. "But I can't devote my life fully to go. It'd be too painful, it'd drive me crazy." You catch a glimpse of something fleeting in his eyes; they grew dark, as though speaking from personal experience, and something feels lodged in your throat, as though you were dry-swallowing a pill and it got stuck.

The moment pass, the world continues on, you can finally breathe again. He goes to take someone else's order, wearing a smile that doesn't seem to reach his eyes.

You rush off to catch the train, still mulling over his words.

It's his loss, you think, really none of your business.

(the box finds its way into your apartment, given to you by his parents, after informing you that it's mostly go-related materials; they are wrong though, there's a junior high school assignment in his distinctive scrawl hidden underneath the books of kifu that tells the tragic tale of an heian ghost, jealousy of rival go instructor, a set-up, and a drowning that is the first step of answering all your lingering questions)

He flinches at the slightest mention of ghosts.

You first brush it off, but then it happens again and again. You keep a mental tally, watching him out of the corner of your eye. You purposefully turn to a channel that's playing an old horror movie; one with avengeful spirits, stupid teenage girls, shrilled screams, and cliched twists.

"Can we watch something else?" he asks, grimacing at all the fake blood that splatters messily on the wall. "All the screaming is giving me a headache."

"Sure."

You hit a random number on the remote and now the two of you are watching a jdorama that stars some member of a popular Japanese boyband. You still watch him out of the corner of your eye; the light from the TV screen illuminates his features and you can tell by the tightness of his jaw and the glassy look in his eyes that he's staring without seeing anything.

You let him pretend because that's all you can do.

(the story ends there, the story of sai, but it seems very incomplete, as though there's ought to be more to be said)

You know you shouldn't have gone there; the little voice in the back of your head has all but said that you're an idiot and a bastard if you ask so you shouldn't, but you're curious, you're dying to know--

So you ask.

"Do you believe in ghosts?"

He nearly drops plate you hand him to dry.

"Why do you ask?"

His voice is tight, controlled, and sharp, and you can't see his face because you're staring at his white knuckles but you're willing to bet a month's salary that his face is just as pale.

You shouldn't press it.

You do, anyway.

"Nothing, it's just... you act strange whenever they're brought up," you say, wishing the words would stop tumbling out of your mouth because this is obviously a mistake, a big, big mistake-- "Did Ringu scar you for life or something?"

The room is silent, save for his shaky, erratic breaths. He never answers your question, only refusing to meet your eyes. He wipes off the last of the dishes before stomping to the foyer.

"You're out of milk," he offers, shrugging on a worn sweatshirt, slipping on his sneakers, and going out the door.

You wait. He doesn't come back until after midnight, covered in sweat. He collapses on your couch and passes out cold.

(it happens purely by accident, but you mention sai to his friend, fujisaki, and she gets a strange look on her face and comments she once heard him talk to someone named 'sai' in his room, but when she came in, no one else was there-- it takes you a while, but then it clicks, and everything falls into place-- sai is--was-- a ghost)

You watch as he clears the board, calloused hands neatly scooping up stones and placing them in their respective containers while you return with two mugs of hot tea.

"Thanks," he murmurs, flashing you a quick smile underneath thick lashes and taking a sip. He sets the mug down and reaches for a stray stone; he misses, it skids across the slippery laminated board, and you pick it up.

"You know," you start conversationally, "I have a lot of extra go boards at my house. I can lend--"

"No," he says softly, his back facing you, his shoulders taut and tense. "What I have is fine."

"But--" you bite your tongue, knowing this can't-- won't end well.

The air is still, the room fills with silence, so suddenly that it nearly drowns the both of you.

"I'm going for a walk," he says, and he is gone again, not even trying to make up an excuse this time.

(he has never bought a go board since sai left, whether it's out of respect or fear, even you are not certain)

You're one of the last to know.

Nobody thinks to call you, or maybe they were afraid to. You don't hear the news until one of of his friends call you, on your way to your match. You promptly get off at the next stop and call in sick, making up any excuse to get you out of playing, but somehow you don't think you're fooling anyone.

He wasn't looking where he was going.

You're the one who provoked him, a voice in the back of your mind whispers.

The driver was around your age, not very experienced. Couldn't react in time.

Somehow, you get it in your head that he probably did it on purpose. Maybe that's the answer to all your questions.

You wait for an invitation to the funeral.

(the grief has dulled, almost bearable now, the hole in your heart is slowly mending when you discover another box in front of your apartment with a taped note on the top he would have wanted you to have this; leaving you with a lump in the throat and a painful lurch in your stomach-- you wonder if it's somebody's sick idea of a joke before hauling it inside, tearing the top open and stare facing an old blood-stained go board)

His parents keep their distance from you, as though trying to erase your existence and his from their memories in order to move on - their own way of coping.

They don't blame you. It's not your fault, they say kindly, and you only nod, knowing they never want to see you again.

His grandfather is the opposite, encouraging you to come over and he would tell stories. Stories of him, stories of him playing go, stories that you've never heard before. He's the one who tells you about the old go board, mentioning how it might be haunted. You listen attentively.

“What about the blood stain?” you say, curious.

“What blood stain?” he asks quizzically, and you promptly change the subject.

(and in your dreams, you see the two of them playing, black and white patterns spread over the board, intricate and dizzying, he looks happier here than he ever was with you; sai's eyes flicker in your direction--or at least, you think so-- he flicks open his fan cover most of his face, his eyes soft, mysterious, kind, and you wake, breathless)

fin.

Author’s note: Formerly “Untitled” over on LJ. The bit about Hikaru being a ramen chef is inspired by Luce Red’s “Just Add Water” because she is brilliant. Please review if you enjoyed and constructive criticism is welcomed.