[Havel]
by Shirono
Obscurity
“It's not over yet,” he hisses at the wall of the bathroom stall, tapping out with his fingers all the ways he could have beaten Shindou during today’s game. But even he's starting to wonder if he believes it anymore.
Ochi Kousuke is seventeen, and even though he’s one of the best young players in the country, he still feels invisible, shrouded from view by Shindou Hikaru’s shadow. The shadow falls wide and far, and though it’s obscured many of his peers as well, Ochi has never been all that sympathetic to others when it comes to go. He's focused. He doesn't have time to worry about how many others are getting lost behind Shindou. He's got to look out for himself.
Ochi wants to be seen.
He wants Touya Akira to see him.
It’s not about Touya specifically, Ochi tells himself. He doesn’t care particularly for Touya’s individual praise or acknowledgement. Touya’s just been his goal. The closest thing he’s had to a formidable peer, and he's cherished that. And his goal isn’t to beat him, no. It’s just to not be invisible to him. The shadow obscuring him has been there, he’s learned, since long before Ochi appeared to Touya in the first place. Shindou was in his way, in Touya’s line of sight, before he even had a chance.
“Excellent game,” Touya says, leaning over Ochi’s shoulder. Touya is friendlier now, when his rival is around. He smiles.
“Not many people can give Shindou a run for his money during yose.”
He’s talking down to him, still, but he accepts it because Akira has never stopped being his sensei even though that's not what he calls him anymore, and Ochi’s heart would have swelled a little then at the compliment, if only Hikaru didn’t immediately respond, “Hah! Jealous of him, Touya?”
And suddenly it doesn’t feel like he’s won at all. It’s always been like this. Even when Akira’s looking at Ochi, all he is seeing is Shindou’s game.
Ochi waits for the day when Touya finally looks at him, truly sees him for his own go, and not how his go compares to Shindou’s. But it’s hard - harder - now that Touya and Shindou are so close.
Rather, it hurts in a way that suggests that maybe he does want Touya’s praise, specifically, after all.
Many times, he’s wondered if he should give up. If he should just stop.
Many times. If he just stopped fixating on becoming visible to Touya by surpassing Shindou, maybe aimed for recognition someone else. Waya has always feared him, but Isumi has never considered him threat for a day in his life. Becoming visible to Isumi would be a much more attainable goal-
-but he knows it wouldn’t work. He can’t just stop caring about a goal he’s been pursuing for such a large part of his life. And really, it’s not a bad idea to aim higher than you can reach- that's what Touya taught him and it’s carried him quite far. He is feared by his peers, and even some of those who were once his superiors.
But.
He’s not feared by the one he wants to have fear him.
No matter how many times he beats Shindou, it doesn’t matter if Akira just smiles at him, encouraging him, afterwards. Encouragement is not what he wants. He doesn’t want Touya to beckon him closer. He wants Akira to be afraid. To feel threatened. To look at their game and be frightened that he’s being pursued.
But he’s not afraid. Touya’s not afraid of Ochi, but it's not because he isn't fearsome (his determination and his pride are his strong points, he’s been told, and he knows this to be true.) Rather, it's because Touya’s not looking at him in the first place. Is never looking at him. No matter who Touya plays, he’s only looking at Shindou.
It’s Touya’s weakness, actually. His preoccupation with his rival. But somehow it's also his strength.
It makes his chest ache, when he thinks about it. Is Shindou really the one thing standing between him and his goals?
“Huh,” Isumi says in the middle of a casual game with him. “It’s funny, that move reminds me of one Shindou would make.”
Ochi reviews his hand. Sure enough, it’s exactly like one Shindou would make. Completely outrageous to anyone unfamiliar with that man’s style of play, but those who know him recognize it for the threat it is.
It really is brilliant, the things Shindou does, he thinks. The moves he makes. The mysteries he carries with him.
He’s studied Shindou’s games. And Touya’s games. And Shuusaku’s games. And his game still can’t shine brightly enough to overcome Shindou’s shadow.
Or.
Is it not his shadow, but his brilliance that has everyone blinded?
Ochi meditates on this. He’s never been one for that kind of poetry, those sorts of irrelevant semantics.
He’s been told that the climb is, in fact, the destination.
But that’s something he will never accept.
Ochi Kosuke is seventeen, and as strong as he is, he may never realize that if he wants Touya's eyes on him, he'd better take his eyes off of Touya.
Ochi has always looked beyond his goals.
He would do far better to look in front of them instead.
Obscurity
“It's not over yet,” he hisses at the wall of the bathroom stall, tapping out with his fingers all the ways he could have beaten Shindou during today’s game. But even he's starting to wonder if he believes it anymore.
Ochi Kousuke is seventeen, and even though he’s one of the best young players in the country, he still feels invisible, shrouded from view by Shindou Hikaru’s shadow. The shadow falls wide and far, and though it’s obscured many of his peers as well, Ochi has never been all that sympathetic to others when it comes to go. He's focused. He doesn't have time to worry about how many others are getting lost behind Shindou. He's got to look out for himself.
Ochi wants to be seen.
He wants Touya Akira to see him.
It’s not about Touya specifically, Ochi tells himself. He doesn’t care particularly for Touya’s individual praise or acknowledgement. Touya’s just been his goal. The closest thing he’s had to a formidable peer, and he's cherished that. And his goal isn’t to beat him, no. It’s just to not be invisible to him. The shadow obscuring him has been there, he’s learned, since long before Ochi appeared to Touya in the first place. Shindou was in his way, in Touya’s line of sight, before he even had a chance.
“Excellent game,” Touya says, leaning over Ochi’s shoulder. Touya is friendlier now, when his rival is around. He smiles.
“Not many people can give Shindou a run for his money during yose.”
He’s talking down to him, still, but he accepts it because Akira has never stopped being his sensei even though that's not what he calls him anymore, and Ochi’s heart would have swelled a little then at the compliment, if only Hikaru didn’t immediately respond, “Hah! Jealous of him, Touya?”
And suddenly it doesn’t feel like he’s won at all. It’s always been like this. Even when Akira’s looking at Ochi, all he is seeing is Shindou’s game.
Ochi waits for the day when Touya finally looks at him, truly sees him for his own go, and not how his go compares to Shindou’s. But it’s hard - harder - now that Touya and Shindou are so close.
Rather, it hurts in a way that suggests that maybe he does want Touya’s praise, specifically, after all.
Many times, he’s wondered if he should give up. If he should just stop.
Many times. If he just stopped fixating on becoming visible to Touya by surpassing Shindou, maybe aimed for recognition someone else. Waya has always feared him, but Isumi has never considered him threat for a day in his life. Becoming visible to Isumi would be a much more attainable goal-
-but he knows it wouldn’t work. He can’t just stop caring about a goal he’s been pursuing for such a large part of his life. And really, it’s not a bad idea to aim higher than you can reach- that's what Touya taught him and it’s carried him quite far. He is feared by his peers, and even some of those who were once his superiors.
But.
He’s not feared by the one he wants to have fear him.
No matter how many times he beats Shindou, it doesn’t matter if Akira just smiles at him, encouraging him, afterwards. Encouragement is not what he wants. He doesn’t want Touya to beckon him closer. He wants Akira to be afraid. To feel threatened. To look at their game and be frightened that he’s being pursued.
But he’s not afraid. Touya’s not afraid of Ochi, but it's not because he isn't fearsome (his determination and his pride are his strong points, he’s been told, and he knows this to be true.) Rather, it's because Touya’s not looking at him in the first place. Is never looking at him. No matter who Touya plays, he’s only looking at Shindou.
It’s Touya’s weakness, actually. His preoccupation with his rival. But somehow it's also his strength.
It makes his chest ache, when he thinks about it. Is Shindou really the one thing standing between him and his goals?
“Huh,” Isumi says in the middle of a casual game with him. “It’s funny, that move reminds me of one Shindou would make.”
Ochi reviews his hand. Sure enough, it’s exactly like one Shindou would make. Completely outrageous to anyone unfamiliar with that man’s style of play, but those who know him recognize it for the threat it is.
It really is brilliant, the things Shindou does, he thinks. The moves he makes. The mysteries he carries with him.
He’s studied Shindou’s games. And Touya’s games. And Shuusaku’s games. And his game still can’t shine brightly enough to overcome Shindou’s shadow.
Or.
Is it not his shadow, but his brilliance that has everyone blinded?
Ochi meditates on this. He’s never been one for that kind of poetry, those sorts of irrelevant semantics.
He’s been told that the climb is, in fact, the destination.
But that’s something he will never accept.
Ochi Kosuke is seventeen, and as strong as he is, he may never realize that if he wants Touya's eyes on him, he'd better take his eyes off of Touya.
Ochi has always looked beyond his goals.
He would do far better to look in front of them instead.