Disclaimer: I don't own Hikaru No Go, never did and never will. :)

Authors Notes: Just a fic I did to practice writing again. It's been ages since I've written so I think I'm rusty and probably got the characterizations all screwed. Done in second person POV (I wanted to try it out).

Comments are greatly appreciated.

Living in the Institute

You, Yang Hai, are irresistibly cool. And you know that.

It shows in the way the girls look at you out of the corner of your eye, regarding you coquettishly as they giggle flirtatiously in those impossibly high voices. Of course you do try to flash a polite smile in return – it's only commonplace courtesy, and who knows, may actually lead to something later on. Not that you mind.

You know you have a certain kind of charm, and you have no qualms about using it. Oh sure, it's not the gravity and calm of Japan's Touya Akira, nor is it the dashing haughtiness of Korea's Ko Yeongha, but it's charm all the same; more a sort of friendly casualness that shows itself in your vivacious personality. You're not sure what, but you're sure there's definitely something.

As a Weiqi player you don't get to interact with women much, save for those in your profession, and they're normally so fixated with the black and white stones on the board that they scarcely notice your face, let alone give you a second thought. To be frank, you don't really care about them either. They're just women, after all.

Oh, it's well known round the institute that you have posters of women tacked to the walls in you room; full-bodied, titillating, baring themselves to scrutiny, sex sirens posing with fleshy lips parted under half-lidded, mascara-drawn eyes. Everybody knows where to go when they want a little relief from the lonely, celibate institute boarding rooms. Heh.

No one takes action against you, since you are Yang Hai after all, and a sound rap to their heads will soon set things right. Your room's your private space, and woe befall anyone who dares to comment on your furnishing. A computer unceremoniously piled atop a desk, a stack of kifu littering the bedside table, a cork board hung up on one wall. All these made you feel perfectly at home, not that you suffer from home-sickness, since you've outgrown that phase.

But there's always the matter about your bed sheets; floral, pink and utterly feminine. It stands out starkly too, in the room fill of masculine order and neatness, although the same cannot be said of you approach to housekeeping.

You only attack the floor with a mop and broom furiously after the congealed layer of dust, dirt and whatever else builds up, leaving you panting and griping to yourself about how inept you are a housework and how you ought to have done it sooner, before the dust settled in permanently.

But the computer is always spotless and clean, its surface lovingly wiped by you with a soft cloth dipped in cleaning fluid. The same goes for the bed sheets since you make sure that they are washed at least once a week, leaving them at the least clean, if slightly worn. You've got questions before fro m fools who've stepped into you room and had the audacity to ask about your choice of bed sheets.

'What?' you snapped, slightly irked as soon as you saw the question coming. 'Yang Hai,' they'd said, 'since you've got two sets of bed sheets, why not use the sensible blue one for yourself and let the guest bed be adorned with the pink one?'

You became really annoyed then and resisted the urge to tell them the real reason; that Isumi liked blue. Inwardly cursing, you change the frown forming on your face into one of polite interest, accompanying your well- schooled features with an appropriate comment. 'Because I like pink,' you'd said, and they laughed, thinking it a joke.

You're like a big-brother figure to most people in the statute: you're old enough, high-ranking enough, and feared enough. You have that easy camaraderie that endears you to the young ones—alright, so maybe 'endear' isn't the correct word, but it'd do just the same—and the level of skill to hold your own with the older pros. You think that that's enough to let you get away with whatever you do, since people tend to close one eye if it's you. You're Yang Hai, after all.

Life in the institute isn't really bad; just bland and boring, because apart from matches just about the only amusement is playing friendly games and using your beloved computer. Oh, and it's not like you haven't heard the rumours round the institute on what you've been doing on your computer. If you were really addicted to porn, would you actually still have the mental energy to concentrate on your playing? The idiots.

But then your normal, somewhat structured lifestyle had been broken by the entrance of that Japanese pro. Not his fault really, you were the one who invited him to stay with you after all, and when he first refused you felt the pang of disappointment spring through but said nothing, only making a lame excuse that staying in a hotel outside would be much more costly, which was true; but somehow him coming to stay in your room for that reason doesn't feel quite the same.

He's stayed with you for almost a month now. The scent of his deodorant lingers faintly in the bathroom after he's finished in the morning and you've taken to getting up earlier now, not waiting in the bed for at least an hour after he's gone to change. He uses your soap and shampoo, and the scent of the familiar smell on someone else's hair gives you an odd feeling in the pit of your stomach.

You notice how neat he is; the way he makes sure that no hair is left in the shower after he's done, and how he sweeps the room at least one a week. At least you don't have to worry about that aspect any longer, but what are you going to do after he's left?

He doesn't say it, but you can see it in his soft grey eyes; he's more comfortable with you than anyone else in the institute, which is natural, since you're the only one who speaks Japanese and the only one he can speak freely to. To everyone else he smiles and gestures, polite and courteous. People like him for who he is, even without hearing the words from his mouth. He is Isumi after all.

You're amused by the tales he told you of Waya, apparently Le Ping's twin counterpart in Japan, and the mischievous antics that the both of them are capable of. He's Waya's keeper, and you, Le Ping's, although you'd die before admitting that. Sometimes you wonder of that means something too.

You're amused by other things as well, like the way his soft hair is mussed in the morning, the way his shift is rumpled and hitched up well beyond the waist when he sleeps and the soft expression of puzzlement when he catches you staring at him when he wakes. Fascinated, you watch those delicate features as they form into an ethereal beauty, innocent yet refined, as he turns over and sleeps off the last vestiges of slumber.

You partake of the same meals with him; seated at the same table, mechanically spooning the mouthfuls of rice and chicken into your mouth and making small talk. It gives you a chance to practice your Japanese and him a time to speak of home. You're not jealous that he thinks of Japan, of course, who wouldn't of you were stranded in a foreign country where everybody spoke in a native tongue that you couldn't understand?

You're just mildly amused by the way he often stops himself in the middle of his speech, apologising profusely for boring you and assuring you that you've been a wonderful host and mentor, and no one could ask for better.

You thought he'd just said that for the sake of decorum, but when you'd rather brusquely told him to dispense with formality, he lowered his eyes and started fidgeting, telling you in that softly seductive voice that he'd meant every word he'd said. You smiled, and hoped that he'd meant more than that.

It wasn't easy, having him live in your room and share your things, occupying the empty space you originally had to dump you books now taken up by his belongings. Plus there was the casually dropped hint from people, a subtle comment on Isumi's presence or a slight reminder that only institute members were permitted to stay in the rooms.

Isumi would then smile and how deeply, holding the position for two seconds before smiling embarrassedly and apologising. You'd pointedly ignore the person while dragging Isumi away; throwing a look over your shoulder that would shut the person up for a while longer.

Later, Isumi will ask you in a serious, concerned voice whether he's an unnecessary burden, because of he is, he'd gladly move out to a hotel, no problem at all. You see the worry in his soft grey eyes and attempt to soothe him, fumbling around for words, reassuring him that it is actually your privilege to have him with you. Those etiquette lessons your mother drilled you in as a kid do have some use in the real world.

You'd have liked to tell him how much you're indebted to him for coming over to stay with you, but the words are stuck in our throat and all you can do is turn the half-formed words at the tip of our tongue into a request for a causal game.

You like how he doesn't comment on the way you sleep in nothing but your singlet and underpants, preferring instead to quietly acknowledge the fact, gradually overcoming his initial awkwardness with the arrangement. He's grown used to it and so have you, becoming comfortable enough to shed your singlet and sleep in your underpants, enjoying the coo lair as it brushes across your chest in the night.

Although sometimes you wish that instead of the chilly caress of the night you'd feel yourself wrapped in a warm embrace, with the feel of a pulsating heartbeat beneath the cotton cloth, and a familiar pressure beneath denim jeans. You wonder how long till that happens, or whether it's just another blind fantasy, thriving only in the depths of your mind.

The posters, the bed sheets, the computer, the rumours; you wish he'd manage to see past these false facades to what you truly are beneath the lewd presumptions. You need those facades to be there, hampering though they may be, because they protect you from real suspicion, since all young men between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five are lust-crazed lunatics anyway, Weiqi players not exempted.

But truly, you wish that he'd see through the think veil of disguise that you've put up, and recognise the throbbing passion within: passion not just for Weiqi but for other less pure and more transient pleasure. You hope he's perceptive enough, and with a shudder you realise that he probably is; being a Weiqi player and such trains your mental acuity to a certain level.

So all you do is wait patiently, praying with a fervent hope that he doesn't leave too soon leaving you with your unfulfilled desires and your wild, desperate longing in a place that's become alien and unfamiliar in his absence.

You shake your head, clearing your thoughts and bringing the reverie to an end, and as you so, the scent of your shampoo, tinged with another fragrance you can only call his assaults your nostril as you feel the gentle pressure on your stomach and heat on your bare skin. A low sensual voice in your ear whispers your name over and over again, an oddly pleasant sound in the still darkness.

The night breeze flits over your back as your flip round, feeling the coolness and the warmth mix together in a dizzying spin before you lose yourself completely.

And you can't help but smile and wish for this to happen more often.