The Ghost Belonged to Me

by aishuu

Notes: Credit to svzinsanity for helping me iron this out.

Part Three:

I spent that night in the Go room, studying kifu of games of Kurata Atsushi 8-dan had played recently. In less than two months, I would have to defend the Kisei title from him. I knew he was hungry for the win, and I needed to play my best, which meant lots of preparation for the match. I studied until my vision started to blur and finally I fell asleep.

"How are you doing, Akira?" Father asked. He sat across the goban, his hands tucked into his sleeves. He was looking directly at me, the way he did when he wanted a reply immediately.

I stared at the goban, which was half-full from the game I'd been recreating. I couldn't bear to look at him, so I started to lay the rest of the stones. "Not well. Was I a bad son?" I asked.

"You were my pride," Father said. "What would make you think you were a bad son?"

"Mother's leaving. She said that with you gone, there's nothing left for her," I replied. Three more hands, removing a stone which was captured by white, securing the lower left side...

"There's not much left for a parent after a child grows up. A good parent learns to let their children live on their own," Father replied. "We let you go when you moved out."

"I wanted to take care of her for you," I said, confessing what was really bothering me. I looked up, meeting his eyes squarely.

My father was good about reading expressions, and he sighed, shaking his head. "I think you're doing her a disservice. Your mother is a strong woman, and still young. She deserves a chance to find her own life, and maybe even someone else to love her."

"You wouldn't be upset?" For my entire life, my father and mother had been an institution, solid against the divorces that many of my friends' parents indulged in. I had never really given much thought to their relationship, but the idea that he wanted her to move on was upsetting.

"No. That would be selfish of me. Love isn't something that fades. Akiko will always love me, but there is room in the heart to love more than one person in a lifetime," Father replied. "I love her enough to wish her happiness."

Black played a daring move, taking a decisive chance, but white found the counter. There were another ten moves left to the game, as black thrashed in its death throws, but the victory had been decided.

"Why can't she find it here?" I asked. "I don't... I don't want to be left alone."

"You will always have your Go. It is my legacy to you," Father answered. "Through it, you will never be alone. You will meet the people who will fill out your life, if you remain open to the possibilities." He seemed to be hinting at something, but my father had a way of being obscure. I needed to be able to read beneath his words, but I couldn't. I was just too tired.

"I see," I said neutrally. I wanted to argue about how no one would ever take his place, but that would not go over well. Instead, I played white's final move, removing a stone that had been captured. I drew my hand back, casually dropping the slate stone in the go ke with the smooth movement.

Father looked with interest at the board. "This is one of Kurata-kun's games, isn't it? Playing... young Waya?"

"Yes," I said. "Waya's improving, but it'll be a while before he's a serious threat to the top players." He'd never defeated me, which tended to make me a bit smug. I wasn't fond of him, since he'd taken a dislike for me early in our careers and wasn't afraid of griping about me. Shindou claimed he was a cool guy, but Shindou was better about forming friendships than I ever could hope to be.

"I wouldn't underestimate him," Father cautioned. "Many Go players don't come into their full strength until their thirties."

"I guess I'm just an exception, aren't I?" I asked, unsure if I was being sarcastic or bitter.

"No. You aren't." His words, spoken in a staccato tone, made me jerk my head up to stare at his face. A smile lingered around his mouth. "For you, the best is yet to come."

I accepted the house from my mother the next day, although I asked that she decorate my old room to her liking. It would be there to serve as her place when she came to visit, and I hinted I hoped she would.

She had smiled at me, and simply murmured "thank you." I understood that her gratitude extended beyond the dedicated room. She was relieved I hadn't decided to make a fuss about her leaving.

It was strange for me to move into the bedroom that had been my parents', but it was the largest and it made sense. The house was mine, and leaving the space unused wasn't practical. I had rarely been inside, since the territory had been theirs. That meant I had few associations of my father in it.

Life did go on, but I was in a curious state of suspension. I went to my games and played, but rarely did I feel the inspiration to play the truly aggressive moves that had been one of my most famous characteristics. My play was still powerful, but uninspired. I was in limbo, and it seemed that was how I would continue. I knew that I wasn't playing up to my standards, but I didn't have the fire anymore to want to push myself.

I was self-aware enough to realize I was probably clinically depressed – but I didn't care.

I did not take Shindou's offer up. A couple of times he hinted that he'd be happy to talk, whether about my father, or Go, or just life in general, but I blew him off. We didn't resume the lunches that were our tradition when we were on good terms, but neither did we ignore each other entirely. It was a strange place for our relationship, but I was unable to work up the energy to explore what it meant.

Once, back when we were teenagers, Shindou had tentatively broached the idea of exploring what existed between us, but I had shot him down before he'd even gotten the question out. It wasn't that I wasn't interested in him physically – I was. Throughout my teens, I had always felt a frisson of awareness whenever we accidentally touched. I was more attracted to him than anyone I had ever met.

But he was my rival, and I would not let us be more. I did not want him to rule every aspect of my life. I knew if I let him in the last door of my life, I would never be able to think about anything else. So I had declined, citing my reasoning.

Sometimes I wondered if I had made a mistake. He had waved my rejection off like it had been a joke, but I knew my coarseness had hurt him. I was very tempted to throw caution to the wind, especially now, and lose myself in him. I wanted the fire and passion that was Shindou to burn away any vestige of pain.

I was too strong to give into the temptation. Consoling myself by turning to another would do no good in the long run. It would be best for me to come to terms with the loss of my father, and the disappearance of my mother from my life. Time means change, after all.

I found myself caring less about the little things. I couldn't get worked up into excitement about a Go discussion, and I found the concerns of my students petty in the scheme of things. Gradually I began to accept the distance I was acquiring from those around me. I did not try to continue the study group that my father had led for decades, although it was my right. The people I had grown up playing started to visit less, and Ogata started to hold meetings at the Institute for them. I was invited, but after turning them down for a month, the invitations stopped coming.

The only thing that felt real to me didn't exist. At night I would dream of my father, recreating games I had played. I would lay the stones and he would comment on my recent games, pointing out insights that even I, a three-title champion, hadn't seen. A couple of years ago, I had started to wonder if I was approaching the pinnacle of my skill, but those discussions with my father convinced me I still had a long ways to go.

My father had been a quiet man, and even in death, he didn't waste words. I felt like he was trying to tell me something important, but I couldn't read deeply enough to understand. Go analogies sometimes get rather cheesy and trite when talking about life, but it was the way I had been taught to think.

My denseness would have been frustrating in most cases, but I needed those dreams. If I figured out what he was trying to tell me, I might never see him again. The thought of losing my final connection to my father terrified me.

Three months after Father's death, I lost the Kisei title. It was the first title I had claimed, back when I was seventeen, and one I had defended for over a decade. It should have bothered me to lose it to Kurata, but it did not. Instead I felt overwhelmed by a sense of the inevitable; all things must pass, everything in life is transitory.

I didn't play poorly, but Kurata went above me. I could feel his desire for victory in every hand he played, and my own resolve to win failed. I did manage to take him through all seven games, alternating wins, but on the last game he forced me to resign halfway through.

After the final match, Kurata was not his usual self. He didn't bother to gloat, but instead looked at me with something resembling pity, combined with disappointment. He made no offer to give me his autograph, and said nothing smug.

Instead he rubbed his brow, where a line of wrinkles were starting to form, and I realized abruptly that he was over forty. I had always considered Kurata one of the "young" pros, but suddenly that didn't seem the case. While I hadn't been paying attention, he had gotten old.

"Congratulations, Kurata-Kisei," I murmured, bowing my head in acknowledgment of his status. He'd been hunting a title for over a decade, always falling short. He had to be thrilled to finally claim one.

"I didn't want to win like this," he told me. "I don't want a title I didn't earn, Touya-Meijin."

I had nothing to say to that. I rose to my feet and left the room, rudely ignoring the post game discussion. I needed to find some space, somewhere I could find air to breathe. I was feeling claustrophobic in that room, and I didn't want to deal with the press. Iijima could call me later – he had my cell number – if he needed a quote.

I went out, but instead of taking the the elevator to the lobby and leaving, I climbed the stairs to the roof. It was my favorite place to relax since not many pros went there, especially during the colder months of the year. I should have grabbed my jacket, because although it was March, winter lingered in the air.

Sunset was still an hour off, but the sky was dark from the overhanging clouds. I wrapped my arms around my body in a frail attempt to keep warm as I stepped toward the fence. I wondered what I could tell my father that night when he asked about the game. I hoped he wouldn't be too disappointed in me.

"Just because you lost a title isn't any reason to throw yourself off the roof," an unexpected voice said from behind me. "There's always a chance to win it back."

I started, swinging around to catch sight of the intruder. Shindou Hikaru stood leaning against the wall. I had walked within a foot of him, so distracted by my thoughts that I hadn't noted his presence.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I know you," Shindou said, shrugging. He wore a long black jacket that went to his calves, and he looked pretty warm. "Whenever you lose, you want to find a place to be by yourself for a while, and this is one of the only places no one would think to follow you."

"You always go out and eat," I murmured. "Ramen, preferably beef."

Shindou chuckled, although it didn't sound sincere. "We've known each other for fifteen years," Shindou replied. "I think I know you better than I know anyone else."

"Do you," I murmured, although it wasn't a question. "Fifteen years, eh?"

"Seems short, doesn't it?"

"I was thinking it was an eternity," I replied.

"Is that supposed to be an insult? Because if it is, it's pretty lame," Shindou said.

"It's just a statement of fact," I replied. It was the truth; I could barely remember how life had been before Shindou. The only other person who had such prominence in my mind was my father.

"I see." He was quiet for a long moment. "Aren't you cold?"

"I like this weather," I told him. I could feel the goosebumps on my arms, but at least I was feeling something. In another couple of minutes, my skin would go numb. That would be pleasant, too, I thought.

"I see," he said again. "Touya, I was watching the game in the observation room."

"I'm not surprised," I answered. I waited for him to release his condemnation, knowing I'd earned it. Losing the title which had defined me for so long definitely deserved his ire.

"Touya, are you okay?" he asked.

It wasn't the question I was expecting. "I'll be okay," I assured him. "It's not the first time I've lost a game, Shindou."

His eyes narrowed and he closed the ten feet between us. My shoulders went rigid as he invaded my space. "Touya, that's not what I mean. Touya, are you doing okay? You weren't playing with your heart – your game was the most mechanical piece of crap I've seen except from that computer simulator Ogata's trying to get to work."

The insult was obvious. Ogata had been involved in the development of a Go playing computer for the last ten years, and the results had been less than encouraging. While it could challenge some amateurs, all the go professionals who'd played it had defeated it easily. There's something to be said about the power of human instinct.

"I see," I replied. In the past, Shindou's comment would have infuriated me, but I couldn't work up the anger. I was resigned, as surely as I had resigned the game to Kurata an hour before. Maybe I lost more than just my title in that match.

"Touya?" he reached out, clutching me by the shoulder. "Touya, this isn't like you. I'm worried, and I want to help."

I stepped back from him, breaking his hold on me. "You know what you can do?" I asked him, my voice brittle even to my own ears. "Leave me alone."

I saw the fear in his eyes, and the hurt my coldness had brought to him. I forced myself to turn away, heading for the door "Touya-" he started, but I wasn't going to listen anymore. I already knew what he was going to say, and saw no point in wasting my time listening to him talk about my grief and how I was letting it affect me.

I heard Shindou calling for me to stop, but I ignored him as I went back inside. The sound of the latch as it clicked shut echoed ominously through my mind, but I didn't turn back.