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Balance	By : sailormac Category: +G to L > Hikaru no Go Views: 10858 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hikaru no Go, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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<i>According to authorities around the world, there are five diffe kin kinds of health that human beings strive for: Physical, Mental, Emotional, Spiritual and Social. A healthy, happy life results from keeping all these elements in balance.</i>

BALANCE
A Hikaru no Go Sekkushiaru Roman Series
By Sailor Mac

PART THREE: SOCIAL (3/4)

Down the hall in the Weekly Go office, Ishii was staring at the picture in the Daily Mirror, unable to take his eyes away. Because he was staring at his owin. &#> “I’ve seen enough to know what he’s about!” Waya said. “He’s cold, he doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself! He’s a Go robot! He’ll just use you!”

“How is he going to *use* me?” Hikaru nearly shouted, hands clenched in fists. “Waya, you have no right to say . . .”

“I have a right to not just sit here and watch you mess up your life!” Waya shouted, his unruly brown hair seeming to bristle as he clenched his own hands at his sides. Isumi just stood next to him, eyes flicking back and forth from Hikaru to Waya, seemingly not knowing what to do.

“I’m not messing it up!” Hikaru shouted in return, slamming his hand down on the table for emphasis. “I know what I’m doing!”

“Then why did you let someone take your picture *kissing* him last night?” Waya said, leaning toward Hikaru. “If you knew what you were doing, you’d know that those pictures could ruin you!”

“I didn’t CHOOSE to have that picture taken, dammit!” Hikaru nearly screamed. “What, do you think Touya *hired* that photographer?”

There was a pause, when Waya just stood there, looking at the floor, holding his arms around himself as if to hold his emotions in check.

Then, he said, “You really think you can have a *relationship* with someone like that, don’t you?”

“I don’t think I can,” Hikaru replied. “I *do.*”

“Fine,” Waya turned and started to leave the room. “Enjoy it.”

Isumi just followed Waya, rushing to keep up with him.

“Waya!” Hikaru rushed after them, but they were already in the elevator, heading down.

Hikaru stood rooted to the spot, head down, arms hanging at his sides, tears welling up in his eyes. In less than 24 hours, he’d destroyed his relationships with his mother and his two best friends.

He was more lost, alone and directionless than he’d been since that terrible period right after Sai had left.

*Sai,* he thought, *I thought that loving Akira was the best thing that happened to me in my life, other than meeting you. But now . . . what have I done?*

* * *

Akira hung up the phone, feeling almost numb inside.

He’d had students cancel lessons with him before, always for perfectly legitimate reasons. A family vacation, an illness, a death in the family . . .

But he knew very well why he’d gotten the call he just did. The mother on the other end had sounded uncomfortable, stammering and coughing. She said that her sons’ school was going to bring in a Go pro to advise their Go club, and he would be giving them lessons, so she didn’t have to have private tutoring any more.

What she wasn’t saying out loud was that she didn’t want to leave her 9- and 11-year-old boys alone with a gay man.

He sank into a chair, head down, feeling rage steadily boiling inside himself -- partly at the woman, but mostly at the photographer who’d taken the picture, and the editors who had allowed him to run it.

*What kind of newspaper,* he thought, *is in the business of ruining people’s lives?*

He hadn’t been to the Go Institute that day. He wondered what kind of a reception he was going to get there. Oh, if anyone tried to give him grief about this, he could just invite them to play a game and silence them at the board.

The house was quiet. He hadn’t seen his father that day. His mother, who he’d seen at breakfast, had been overly polite and chatted brightly about trivialities like the neighbors’ new washline. In other words, did everything pble ble to avoid the *real* subject of the day.

He started to head back to his room. As he passed the Go room, his father’s voice came from within. “Akira . . .”

Akira stopped short, a small amount of nervousness rising within him. Was his father willing to talk about it, hear him out?

“Yes, father?” he said, coming into the room.

Touya Koyou was seated at his board, a game being recreated in front of him. Akira recognized it as a game he’d played against him not too long ago. The former Meijin was holding himself at a stiff posture, every muscle in his body seeming rigid, his face set in a grim mask. His eyes looked empty and haunted. It was the look of someone who had just been given exceedingly bad news.

“Akira,” he said, “I want to let you know that I am deeply disappointed in your choice of lifestyle.”

Akira felt his stomach sink down to his feet like a rock. This was the last thing in the world he wanted to hear.

“I want to explain, father,” he said, quietly.

“There isn’t anything to explain,” Touya Koyou replied.

“Yes, there is,” Akira said, sitting on the other side of the goban. “Father, Shindou Hikaru and I are in love. We didn’t plan it, we weren’t expecting it, it just happened.”

“You have always considered this boy your rival, haven’t you?” his father said, fixing him with a piercing gaze.

“Yes,” Akira said, keeping his own eyes fixed on his father’s. Akira was not one to look away, even in a situation like this.

“Then you have grossly misinterpreted your rivalry. Emotions run strong in the game of Go, Akira. You have to learn to separate the game and the emotions.”

“I keep them separate,” Akira replied. “I know what involves Go and what doesn’t.”

“Do you?” Touya Koyou folded his arms over his chest, studying his son as if he were a particularly complex pattern of stones. “Then why did you take your rival as your lover?”

“Because we understand each other,” Akira said, one hand reaching out to lightly touch the surface of the stones in front of him. “We understand each other better than I ever thought possible. And isn’t that what love is?”

Touya Koyou reached into his go ke and placed a black stone on the board. “I want you to *think* about your life choices some more,” he said. “You’re still young.”

“I did think about this, father,” Akira said. “I didn’t go into this lightly!”

But there was no reply from the older man. Akira knew the discussion was over.

He got up and left the room, fighting back tears, and rushed for his own bedroom. All his life, approval from his father was one of the things he’d always desired the most, and now he’d lost that.

The rest of the Go world could go to hell when it came to this. But his father . . .

He sat at his desk, his head in his hands.

“He’ll calm down and talk to me later,” he said aloud. “He’s got to.”

And then, it occurred to him that this was the first morning for as far back as he could remember that his father didn’t ask him to play Go.

* * *

Ashiwara walked into the break room to see Ogata sitting at the table furthest from the door, staring fixedly out the window and smoking a cigarette.

It was hard to tell if he knew. Ogata definitely looked grim and thoughtful -- but then again, when *didn’t* he look grim and thoughtful?

The younger pro sat opposite the older one, wondering how best to bring the subject up. He couldn’t very well just blurt out, “Hey, did you hear what everyone in the building has been saying about Akira-kun?”

He didn’t have to say anything. Ogata said, without turning around, “Have you talked to him at all today?”

“Him?” Ashiwara rubbed the back of his head for a moment, confused, until he realized he and Ogata were thinking of exactly the same thing. “Oh, *him*! No, I haven’t. He hasn’t been around today.”

“Perhaps it’s best he not come here, then,” Ogata said, turning around slowly. “He hasn’t got a game scheduled for the next day or so.”

“Why do you say that?” Ashiwara said. “Nothing has really changed, has it?”

“As far as I’m concerned, no,” Ogata said.

Ashiwara breathed a sigh of relief. “I was afraid you’d be upset about this.”

“Why should I be?” Ogata tapped the ashes from his cigarette. “Akira’s personal life is no concern of mine, as long as it doesn’t affect his Go. And so far, it hasn’t.”

“A lot of other people don’t feel that way,” Ashiwara said. “Everywhere I go, it’s all everyone has been talking about. The insei, the pros, even the receptionist.”

He was interrupted by a voice from the doorway saying, “Excuse me?” Both men turned to see a guy in a rumpled brown suit, with close-cropped black hair and a straggly beard, holding a notebook and pen. “You’re Ogata 10-dan, right? Can I get a quote about Shindou and Touya?”

Ogata fixed him with an icy stare. “I have nothing to say at this time.”

“You sure?” the man said. “Plenty of other people have been talking.”

“I’m *very* sure,” Ogata said, narrowing his eyes at the man.

The reporter shrugged his shoulders and left. Ogata crushed out his cigarette.

“That’s the fourth one in the last hour,” he said. “I don’t know who he got to talk on the record, but I’m sure it’s none of the top-ranked pros.”

“Maybe he didn’t get anyone, and he’s lying,” Ashiwara said. “I hope nobody tries to talk to his father about this.”

There was a long pause. Ashiwara wondered if *Ogata* had talked to Touya Koyou about this. He imagined the former Meijin, a staunch traditionalist, would not be pleased.

“They’ll get nowhere if they do,” Ogata said, reaching for another cigarette.

At that moment, another intruder stormed into the break room. But this one wore no suit and carried no notebook. It was a well-muscled guy in a black tank top, jeans and a leather jacket, with untamed-looking black hair, a full beard and a motorcycle helmet under his arm.

“Oi!” he said. “Where’s Shindou?”

Ashiwara blinked. This person looked familiar, somehow . . . but what would someone like this have been doing around the Go Institute?

“Um, we don’t know where he is,” he stammered. “He was in the building earlier, but . . .”

“We have no idea whether he’s still here or if he left,” Ogata said

“Never mind, I’ll find him,” the newcomer said, turning to leave.

Ashiwara turned back to Ogata with a frown. “Who *was* that guy?”

“I believe he was a candidate for the pro exam a few times,” Ogata replied. “Didn’t make it very far.”

* * *

Hikaru leaned against the wall, closing his eyes, exhaling a long breath.

He’d ducked into a side corridor. He thanked all that was holy it was deserted.

After the debacle with Waya and Isumi, he’d had several clumps of insei pass him, whispering loudly and trying not to stare, he’d had two reporters trying to get quotes out of him (he firmly refused), and he’d been approached by a young female pro who was all too eager to tell him, in a fawning, near-squealing voice, how very, very cute he and Akira were together.

He had no doubt whatsoever that the last one had a secret stash of yaoi manga under her bed.

At least he was alone for a moment. He would have left, but he didn’t want to go home until he absolutely had to -- not after that disaster this morning. And he didn’t want to go to Akira’s place. He didn’t know whether he was ready to face him yet -- and he *knew* he wasn’t ready to face Akira’s father.

*Why the hell did I kiss him at the tournament?* he thought. *I should have known something like that could happen. Why didn’t we make sure the door was locked and latched?*

He briefly considered getting out his cell phone and calling his cousin. He’d been through something like this, he’d understand, he’d be someone to talk to . . .

And then he remembered that his cousin was probably the *last* person in the world you’d want to ask for advice.

He pushed away from the wall, slowthinthinking that maybe he’d just go for a walk for a little while.

And then, a voice behind him yelled, “SHINDOU!”

He turned around -- and there was a bulking, bearded figure he never thought he’d see again. “Tsu-Tsubaki-san?”

“Come on. We’re going out.”

“Um, now?”

“Yes, now!” Tsubaki started to walk toward the elevator with rapid, heavy strides, forcing Hikaru to rush to keep up with him. “What, do you have other plans for the evening?”

“Well . . . no,” Hikaru said. When the elevator arrived, Tsubaki nearly shoved him into it, and he found himself stumbling for a couple of steps.

“Well, then, let’s go!” Tsubaki stabbed at the lobby level button.

“But . . . where are we going?” Hikaru said.

“We’re going to have a *man’s* night out,” Tsubaki replied, reaching out and slapping Hikaru on the back so hard he nearly fell face-first on the floor.

“I don’t know if I need . . .”

“Of course you need it!” The elevator arrived on the bottom floor, and Tsubaki strode out, Hikaru following him. “You never had one, right?”

“No, but . . .”

“No buts!” He strode out to his motorcycle, grabbed a spare helmet from the back and tossed it to Hikaru. “We’re going!”

Hikaru sighed and put the helmet on. Tsubaki wasn’t exactly the kind of person you wanted to fight with.

He had no idea what he was in for. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

* * *

Akira lay on his back on the futon, hands folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

It was so hard to believe that a mere 24 hours ago, his life was still in balance, everything was going well and his private life was just that -- private.

One unethical photographer had blown that out of the water completely.

The call from the Go Institute had been the last straw. Apparently, the controversy was so out of hand that they were postponing the second round of the Young Stars Tournament and moving it out of Tokyo, just to get away from the media.

“We think it’ll be in Kyoto in about a week,” the voice at the other end of the phone had said to him. “We’ll call you when we know for sure.”

Akira brought one hand up so it was lying across his forehead and closed his eyes. He felt the beginnings of a headache coming on.

*I have to call Shindou,* he thought. *Maybe he was at the Go Institute today. Maybe he knows more about what’s going on.*

He reached for his cell phone and pushed the familiar speed-dial combination -- and got a recorded “I can’t come to the phone right now” message. He tossed the phone away.

*Leave it to him to not have his cell turned on at an important time,* he thought.

Briefly, he considered going to check his E-mail, but he knew all too well what he would find there. When he’d checked it earlier in the day, there had been five or six messages from reporters seeking quotes -- and about ten from girls and women. He had no idea how any of them had gotten his address.

*I wouldn’t be surprised if the tabloids employed their own hackers,* he thought.

The messages from the female senders had been the worst. Four of them were filled with happy-face emoticons and talked about how *wonderful* it was that he and Hikaru were together in such a manner that Akira could almost hear the words being read in a high-pitched, squealy voice.

There were another three messages -- he figured from the mothers of young players -- berating him, because “You are the future of Go, and you must set an example for the children who are just learning the game!”

But the remaining E-mails were the most disturbing. They were from women who decided that they wanted to cure him of his gayness, and they said just *how* they were going to do it in terms that left *nothing* to the imagination.

Just thinking about *that* made Akira’s head hurt more. He lay an arm across his eyes, as if to block out the memory.

A faraway banging noise made him sit up. Was that a knock on the front door? He turned and looked at the clock -- it was nearly midnight. Who would be coming here at that hour? His parents were both asleep.

When the banging came again, harder and more insistent, he rushed into the living room and opened the door. There stood a very agitated-looking Shindou Hikaru.

“Shindou!” Akira said, quietly.

Hikaru pushed by him into the house. “I’ve just had the worst 24 hours of my life.”

“So have I,” Akira replied, sitting down on the couch, wondering how he could be doing something so normal when everything had so completely gone to hell in a handbasket.

Hikaru flopped down in another chair. “My friends won’t talk to me, there’s reporters all over the place, they postponed the tournament --”

“I knew about the last one this afternoon,” Akira said. “They contacted me right after my lesson was canceled.”

“And then . . .” Hikaru sunk down in his seat. “My friend from the pro exam decided to de-gay me.”

Akira blinked, rapidly. “He did *what*?”

“You heard me.” Hikaru folded his arms over his chest. “Tsubaki-san came to see me at the Go Institute and dragged me out to a bar.”

* * *

Hikaru took a tiny sip out of the beer bottle Tsubaki had insisted on getting him. He wasn’t nuts about the taste of this stuff -- it was a bit like drinking liquified bread crumbs.

“You’ve got to chug it,” Tsubaki said. “That’s what *real* mean do!”

“I *am* real,” Hikaru grumbled, looking around at his surroundings. The whole place seemed kind of grubby and shabby. One of the neon beer signs over the bar was half-blown out, the round tables ranged haphazardly around the room were covered with scratch marks and gouges, and even the posters on the walls -- advertising prizefights and soccer games of the past -- were yellowed and faded.

The patrons were all male. While there were a few suited salarymen, they were the exception rather than the rule, and they stuck out like sore thumbs against the majority of the occupants. There were bikers in leather jackets and ripdenidenim, would-be bodybuilders in brief, tight tank tops, guys who looked like they hadn’t bathed in several days.

The only outstanding feature of the room was the stage, which sported a model-style runway which ran out into the audience. Indeed, the whole structure occupied about a third of the room.

*If they’re going to have a band,* Hikaru thought, *I wish they’d bring them out. I need something to distract me from . . .*

At that moment, a man with slicked-back dark hair and a pencil mustache, wearing a once-bright red but now sadly faded velvet smoking jacket, walked out onto the stage. The lights dimmed, and a loud “WHOOO!” went up from the expectant crowd.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “And now, the reason you all came here tonight . . .” More whooping. “Let’s bring them out! Starting with Momo-chan!”

A spotlight hit the stage, andoungoung woman with very long, pale-blonde hair was there, wearing what looked like a policewoman’s uniform. Except the blouse was cut way too low, the skirt was way too high and her footwear had heels so high Hikaru didn’t know how anyone could possibly walk on them.

“Um, Tsubaki-san,” he said, “what kind of . . .”

“Hey, just watch her!” Tsubaki said, clapping Hikaru on the back. “She’s hot, isn’t she?&;
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Balance