! Important: If this story reminds you of a different fanfiction you've read before, don't be surprised! Please read my Disclaimer (Chapter 1)
###
Chapter 48: Ogata's late Relization
Ogata wondered what sort of person Fujiwara would become as he regained more of his memories. The other man was currently staring out of the window, watching the traffic and people passing by down the street with great interest. Almost certainly, Fujiwara wouldn't retain such a level of childlike fascination with the world. And for his own sake, Fujiwara hopefully wouldn't remain quite so naïve: the man still hadn't noticed any of the sidelong glances he'd been getting from some of the other passengers. Ogata had been expecting Fujiwara to draw attention – Tokyo had its fair share of colorful and odd natives, like all metropolitan cities – but a young, beautiful man with such long hair was still an anomaly. As intelligent as Fujiwara was, Ogata was beginning to suspect that the man was rather blissfully wrapped up in his own interpretation of the world. Fujiwara had taken to him quickly with little apparent reservation or wariness. Had Fujiwara always been such a trusting person, or was it a result of having no memories of negative experiences, no memories of betrayal, no memories of exactly how rotten humans could be? Somehow, Ogata suspected that if he himself were to lose his own memories, he'd become more suspicious, not less.
After getting a glass of water in the kitchen, Ogata walked into the living room.
Fujiwara had eschewed the couch again in favor of sitting in seiza in front of the balcony's sliding glass doors. He did not look up as Ogata settled onto the couch, completely focused on the recording paper in his hand, his pen moving deftly over the kifu without pause. Neat stacks of kifu were spread around his knees.
Remembering Dr. Yamada's advice, Ogata had encouraged Fujiwara to take time and record all the games he could rememberFujiwara had attacked the task with the same single-mindedness and tenacity that he approached his journaling with, spending hours writing move numbers in black and red ink. Apparently, Fujiwara's recall was flawless; he never hesitated while working on a kifu but maintained a steady, even pace. . Now Ogata squinted at the stacks, trying to estimate the number of kifu. There were probably at least a hundred kifu. He wondered how many more kifu Fujiwara would record. The first night they had played, Fujiwara had told him that he remembered "hundreds" of games. Ogata had assumed Fujiwara was simply speaking figuratively until Fujiwara's nonchalant demonstration of his photographic ability during the train ride. A seasoned pro could remember a few dozen games in their entirety, but then again, Fujiwara was hardly average.
With a rustle, Fujiwara turned the current kifu over and frowned at the blank back, tapping the pen against his lips. His eyes took on an unfocused cast, as if he were reaching deep into his memory for an elusive answer. Finally the other man gave a little sigh, and scratched a few characters onto the kifu before sorting it into the largest stack. Then Fujiwara picked up his fan and set it on his knees, turning his head towards the balcony, his expression pensive as he stared at the bright, flickering lights of Shinjuku's nightscape.
It wasn't the first time Fujiwara had been drawn into a reverie. Ogata had noticed that when Fujiwara fell silent like this, he became completely unaware of his surroundings or company, even if he'd been chattering away just a moment before. Such behavior would have normally annoyed Ogata, but he knew Fujiwara wasn't simply being inattentive. Not with that look on his face - a wistful, lost expression that was incongruous with his usual energetic and optimistic attitude. At these moments, Fujiwara seemed almost... breakable.
Ogata had never been comfortable handling things that shattered easily. So he simply watched as usual, waiting for Fujiwara to emerge from whatever melancholy had seized him. I can remember games down to the stone but can't even remember a single face, Fujiwara had said that first night. Perhaps Fujiwara had been trying to remember his opponent for that game he had just recorded.
Ogata wondered how many opponents those kifu on the floor represented, opponents with forgotten faces. For Fujiwara to have developed such strength, he must have played many opponents over the course of many years, which made it even more seemingly impossible for Fujiwara to exist as an unknown: where were all those opponents? His teacher or teachers? Why hadn't they come forward? Surely they'd have noticed his disappearance, and Ogata found it difficult to understand why his inquiries hadn't been met with even a single reply, or why the police investigation had turned up nothing. The world of go, after all, was one with an intricate network of connections.
Naturally, Ogata was intensely curious about the kifu, but Fujiwara had been oddly reluctant to share them. Whenever Fujiwara wasn't working on the recordings, he slid them back into clear files and tucked them away inside his room as if hoarding treasured photographs or love letters. "I'd rather wait until I can tell you about the games properly," Fujiwara had said apologetically, his eyes lowered as he clutched the clear files to his chest. Despite his disappointment, Ogata could understand that sentiment, wanting to have ownership over one's own memories. The kifu, after all, were the most direct link Fujiwara had to his past.
Ogata set his empty glass on the table with a clink, and Fujiwara turned at the noise with an exclamation. "Oh, I hope you haven't been sitting there long! I didn't notice you."
With a shrug, Ogata said, "I didn't want to interrupt you. But if you're finished for now, would you like to play a game?"
"Yes, of course!" Fujiwara spoke a little too quickly, as if he were desperate for a diversion from whatever he'd been brooding about.
Ogata placed the goban and goke on the floor, then snagged a pillow from the couch. He settled on the pillow cross-legged. Ogata loathed sitting in seiza because he'd never managed the trick of keeping his feet from falling painfully asleep, whereas Fujiwara seemed capable of holding the pose for hours with no visible discomfort.
Fujiwara won Black, so Ogata dedicated his early hands towards hindering Fujiwara's plans. Ogata had always possessed a tendency to play defensively during the beginning stages of the game, preferring to reserve his attacks for later stages when he had more of a framework to support him. (Not that he wouldn't attack early if a tempting opening invited it, but the only "tempting openings" Fujiwara played were invariably traps.)
Ogata furrowed his brow as Fujiwara skillfully danced around Ogata's protective moves to forge a vexing formation in Ogata's lower left corner. Always talented, Fujiwara particularly shone while playing Black because his play was naturally aggressive and able to fully capitalize on the advantage of first move. Ogata had only come to appreciate the level of Fujiwara's aggressiveness, however, after playing him repeatedly. His moves were elegant and always well-planned and executed, which belied the underlying risk-taking nature of his game. A Go game was comprised of hundreds of moves, so it was very difficult for aggressive players to avoid some sloppiness and occasional slip-ups over a course of an entire game, although the more skilled ones could capitalize on the pay-offs from their risks enough to balance out the mistakes.
Fujiwara did not make mistakes. None that Ogata had seen yet, and Ogata knew he was very good at spotting his opponents' mistakes. Yes, there were the occasional stones sacrificed and territory ceded, but the sacrifices usually made Fujiwara's position stronger. A game with Fujiwara always left Ogata a bit shaken and drained, as if he had been engaged in battle with an ancient, fearless warlord instead of his young, gentle instructor. Every ounce of Ogata's ability and strength had to be marshalled to keep Fujiwara from simply overrunning his territory.
Finally, Ogata decided to ignore the vexing formation in favor of an offensive attack against a key Black group. His instincts told him the group was spread thin, but Ogata laid his attack out carefully, keenly aware that "thinness" in Fujiwara's stones could translate to a flexibility which Fujiwara would instantly turn against Ogata if he erred. If defending his own territory required all Ogata's talent, then invading Fujiwara's required him to reach above what he knew his own natural limits were.
It was an absolutely exhilarating experience.
Ogata finished White's attack and looked across the board, where Fujiwara hovered his opened fan in front of his face. "Have I progressed much?"
Only Fujiwara's eyes, round with coyness, were visible. By now, Ogata knew Fujiwara's fan concealed a smile that was either proudly beaming at his student's good move, or curved in predatory anticipation of a vulnerable target. "Part of progression is being able to recognize the advancement of one's own abilities. What do you think?"
"Don't go all Socratean on me. I'm not interested in what I think," Ogata said, crossing his arms and glowering at the other man. He just knew that Fujiwara was laughing at him behind that fan by now.
Fujiwara picked up a stone and placed it into position in another area of the board, then he snapped his fan shut. He was smiling, and Ogata realized that Fujiwara was acknowledging the inevitable death of that Black group Ogata had attacked.
###
Ogata looked down on the Go board, studied that last stone. And right then, a lightning stroke his heart. He has found Fujiwara's style somewhat familiar, somewhat like Shindou's style with much more elegance and adequacy, or somewhat like Shuusaku…as if Shuusaku learnt modern Go…
NO, IT CAN'T BE!
WHY THE HELL DID IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO SEE?!
FUJIWARA is…
