Flaws - Zamiel
Seiji Ogata oneshot
A/N: Out of convenience, I named the mystery woman from Ch.114 in Hikaru No Go "Yumiko." Ogata is telling her where to place stones, as he is studying tactics at her place in preparation for the Honinbo League finale.
I.
The squares blur across his eyes, a disjoined streak of black lines atop wood, the scattering of fluorescent light reflected on skin, the fold-out Go board, wooden floor. He pauses before taking off his glasses, pressing his eyes shut to drown out the noise before slowly returning to the world of those left awake. She remains seated across from him, her face a pale impressionistic blur before his nearly sightless eyes. Ogata gingerly places his glasses off to the side before continuing.
"16-4," he issues; from her end, a small, almost apologetic click falls into place. He browses through his mind for a suitable counterattack, blatantly ignoring Yumiko's stifled yawn. Her company, if he indulges too long in it, sooner or later never fails to irk him. And yet her apartment was the perfect sanctuary—isolated, set apart from distractions—the ideal haven in which he could plot snagging the Honinbo out of Old Man Kuwabara.
Ogata's mind reels with a few possible moves before the center of gravity in his reason gives way. Fighting a dizzy breath, he wearily rubs the back of his hand across his eyes. His pupils feel raw, if such a thing were possible. "I need a drink," he mutters.
"You need a break," corrects Yumiko, walking into the kitchen. "I need a break. I've been placing stones for the last six hours." He ignores the undercurrent whine in her voice, smirking with a condescending insolence when she thrusts a cup into his hands.
"Water?"
"There's also some juice."
"I could use a cold beer."
She shrugs lightly. "Too many calories."
For almost a week now, he had been reconstructing old Go games—those of Kuwabara's old battles as well as those of his sensei Touya Meijin. Quite forgetting Yumiko lacked Go faculties, he had given her several odd roughly documented kifus and when she had griped at him about his error, resorted to telling her move-by-move where to place the stones of Kuwabara and Touya Meijin. He had no need of kifus; those games were immortalized in his head, the ghosts of Old Man and sensei treading through his cranium. Yumiko, realizing this, had given him a look of scathing pity but he did not spare thought for this; disdain prevalently ran both ways.
She waits for him to move. "…Seiji?"
He despises the sound of his name on her lips. "I'm thinking." He takes a slow sip of water, bland against his tongue. "Be quiet for a few minutes."
The phrase seems to snap through her. "Fine." Her voice is sharp, dangerous. "I'll be in the shower. You can take all the time you want."
His eyes start to protest again and he closes them to ease the ache. He lets the sound of the running water from the shower drain out his fatigue before commencing. The sharp click of his stones against the wood greets him like an old accomplice.
She stands in front of him, a pink towel wrapped snugly around her body. She watches him place stones in succession before parting her lips.
"Seiji, do you love me?"
The answer is too mechanical, too cold. "Yes."
"Bastard." She fails to muffle all semblances of pain in her voice. She watches his fingers dance across the fold-out Go board, his body mercilessly occupied solely inside the 19x19 grid without room for other thoughts. A twinge of jealousy envelopes her as she observes the intensity of his gaze and mind focused on the Go board but she instantaneously shrugs the notion aside. Jealousy towards a Go board? How pathetically futile.
When he takes off his glasses again, she feels a small pang of triumph in watching him break, in witnessing him surrender to his fatigue as if the victory belongs to her alone.
"Go to sleep," he tells her, his eyes closed.
She hesitates, toeing the vague line between repulsion and hunger. Her body overtakes her. "Come with me."
"I'll be there in a minute." There is no emotion in his voice and for a second in time, it makes her stomach feel unbearably heavy, as if her body is being pulled underground. Mutely, she obeys, stifling a sob with a proud flick of her head. Not that man, she tells herself stoutly. I won't spare any shred of remorse for that man.
She hovers on the borders of sleep when he comes to her, pressing his body atop hers. Before she can open her mouth to say his name, he presses one finger to her lips. His mouth places itself on hers – the gentle nature of the act never fails to startle, then succumb her each time. Ogata starts to move, undressing her swiftly, turning a deaf ear to his name sewn thickly on her tongue. When he finally comes, her back arching her body into his chest so that their shadows blur and become one, the apathy remains – a feeling of profound Nothingness.
II.
He prefers the bars during late hours – it is past 3am when Ogata sets foot in Red Chaimovich. The bartender – an old man with some eerie resemblance to Kurata 9-dan – greets him with a nod. "Long day?"
A noncommittal grunt issues from Ogata's throat as he sits down, mouth itching for a cigarette. He digs a pack out of the pocket of his jacket, leaning forward for the bartender to generously light it. "Thanks."
"What brings you here this time of night?"
"I like it when things are quiet." He exhales, one long stream of smoke dancing ethereally through the air. "Mix me something. Strong, but not too strong."
The bartender complies, pulling ingredients off the shelves. "You just need a woman to go home to."
A cough of laughter racks through Ogata's chest. "I've been there just now." His teeth clamp down on the edge of his cig stick almost menacingly. "Sowed my seed and got the hell out of there." He takes the drink and downs it with one rough constriction of his throat. The empty glass stares forlornly at him until the bartender fills it again, the amber fluid glittering in the dim lights. It glimmers urgently as if trying to tell him something of importance until he seizes the glass between his fingers and relishes it lest its secret should consume him. His mind lingers briefly on Kuwabara, the stench of the old man's breath, his miserly desperate cling to his one honor. Tomorrow, thinks Ogata, slowly raking one heavy hand through the side of his hair. No, today. Today I will rob the old man and take what is mine.
The cool night air caresses his face when he steps outside, running her fingers across his skin. He smiles wanly as he recounts the bartender's words, turning his eyes upwards to the purple gauze clouding the sky like a thick bodybag enveloping the earth. "I can't imagine settling for smaller glories," he mutters to the empty space. Smoke disperses from between his lips, threading sinuously into the dark before melting out of sight.