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runicloreWorking title: One Last Blessing
By: Amber Michelle //![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
myaru
Words:
Rating: K
Warnings: n/a
Cliches used:
Sai is resurrected, fatal traffic accidents, go as a metaphor, the second Hokuto Cup
Notes: this was my second try for the Blind Go cliche round, which I ditched when a) it showed signs of getting long, and b) when the lameness of the fic was too much to deal with. Also, I was sick. No idea if someone else has already written this same concept, but they probably have.
First the unfinished story, then the notes on what would have happened and why I stopped writing.
.................................................................
If one judged all ramen shops by the specimens Sai had seen in his unlife, they would be noisy (people talking around and over but never to him, vending machine chiming, dishes stacking, pots clanging) and crowded, the handwriting on the menu boards messy and hard to recognize (was that chashu, which Hikaru had always liked, or was it some abbreviation for a foreign food?), the workers at such a place closer to what he would have known in his own life as uneducated commons. The Heian era had nothing like this; food was served privately, and it never included meat. Fish, maybe. Rice in broth. Porridge. He remembered the way Hikaru's mouth twisted when he said that, and took his turn at the vending machine: thin noodles, slices of pork and boiled eggs. He could smell the broth, but it was unfamiliar - salty, like brine, like seaweed. Sai was skilled at that once, at taking a deep breath, and knowing the composition of an incense blend, a flower arrangement, without even looking.
He gave his tickets to the girl at the counter, smiled at her when he took his bowl, and turned to find a seat. Necessity seated him at the counter on a stool when all the booths were full, and he balanced on the cushion, looked down at the rich brown broth and hint of curled noodles underneath.
What does it taste like? He could hear himself asking, see Hikaru's sour expression reflected in his soup. Sai knew how to eat it - he'd seen it many times with Hikaru, and since waking up - but the chopsticks felt insubstantial. They were held differently now. They were light and rough, not the lacquered wood he remembered. What is this? He'd pointed at the pot of crushed ginger, and his finger had passed through the glass. What is that? Hikaru?
Shoyu splashed the big five on his t-shirt when the noodles slipped from his sticks and fell back into the soup. Sai stuffed them into his mouth and chewed, and missed the weight of his hair on his back, the silk of his robe. His fringe dangled over his eyes, black, still streaked lighter in spots. The noodles didn't taste like very much. Nothing ever did. He'd heard it said one could not taste or smell in dreams because the spirit did not have a body, but spirits couldn't eat either, and here he was, eating noodles, and slurping them up the way Hikaru used to while Sai scolded him for being messy.
How did he keep his shirt clean while doing that? Or maybe he didn't. They were always so brightly colored. Who would notice a tiny grease spot on a bright yellow shirt worn by a twelve-year-old child?
But he wasn't twelve anymore - sixteen. Hikaru would have been sixteen. Sai was now sixteen, his elbows sticking out, his knees hitting the underside of the counter, lacking grace in Hikaru's jeans and Hikaru's shirt, Hikaru's sneakers and socks. The plain fan was in his pocket. His own fan, even if it wasn't silk or handmade paper, it was the only thing that belonged to him in this place, this time, but he wasn't supposed to take it back--
Something dropped into his soup. Sai blinked twice before he realized his cheeks were wet.
"Um..."
He looked up.
"Can I..." It was the girl who took his tickets, the name of the shop printed across her shirt. She held up a white rectangle napkin.
Sai laughed. It came out choked.
~* *~
.
.
blood is excessive for such a wound
.
.
He remembered white, and it wasn't the walls - those were beige when he opened his eyes, but he hadn't yet, not yet. He thought-- perhaps it was the white of his robes, because it was soft and cool. He felt the weave beneath his fingertips when they twitched.
It must be silk. Sai only felt materials when he summoned his living memory of such things - polished wood, plum petals, grains of rice, and hair. Silk was the only fabric ever to touch his skin; when he was born, they swaddled him in an old robe of his mother's, a kurenai red as deep as the petals of a camellia blossom. No one dreamed of clothing him in anything less.
He should have felt his hair, at least with one hand, or perhaps the pull on his scalp where it was twisted aside.
.
.
was going too fast, forty kilometers per hour
fluid in the brain, but we'll keep him here for twenty-four
.
Shindou-san.
.
Light warmed his eyelids, made the darkness red and brown, a touch of pink, as if the sun were shining on his face. Breathing sounds roused him, made him want to blink, and a high-pitched beep-beep beep-beep reminding Sai of vending machines and the noise they made when Hikaru slid his coins in and pressed number combinations for the items he wanted.
Shindou-san.
It was rare anyone called him Shindou-san, however, because something about Hikaru made the adults of his time balk and bark out his full name: you there-- Shindou Hikaru, why are you trying to bring a soda into the tournament room? Throw it away!
Sai always thought it must be the hair. They crossed paths with other children wearing similar styles when walking in the city - bleached bangs, bleached streaks, bleached tips or roots, or stripes - and they always stood out among their contemporaries and bore their marks with pride, though others cast them sidelong glances, sometimes even frowned. Nobody children, without rank or family, perhaps not even money, yet they had such confidence.
But rank and family meant so little now. His Japan was a fantasy - a television drama.
Shindou-san, I think he's waking up.
Nothing would focus when he opened his eyes. The muscles in his forehead felt strained, as if the action had forced him to raise his brows as far as they would go just to pull the lids up. Two pale faces leaned over him; two heads of black hair, one pinned neatly, the other pulled back in a messy ponytail that frizzed around her head and slithered over her shoulder. She was wearing an apron, holding Sai's hand with both of hers.
He blinked. She looked familiar. He blinked again, squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again, saw her holding his hand, felt her squeeze.
Ah, now he recognized her - the shape of her eyebrows gave her away, and the compressed frown that wrinkled her chin a little bit. He'd seen that expression so many times over his shoulder. "Shindou-san," he said.
The skin around her eyes tightened. Her head jerked sideways to look at the other woman.
*
*
*
The basic idea was this: Hikaru was fatally injured by a drive-by on his way to the Go Institute, and said the right thing to the right gods - so his body was allowed to live, and he switched out with Sai. So now Sai is trying to live Hikaru's life, and he gets to play go, but he's figuring out that's not really what he wants.
The second scene was almost over. Third section would be recovery at home and gradual acquaintance with Hikaru's mom, his friends, the kids at the Institute, all of whom he knows, but not really. Fourth section involved his "return" to the go world in the form of a game, though it was mostly about feeling guilty about the sympathy he got as Hikaru. Part five was the Hokuto Cup and a (naturally) stunning defeat of Ko Yeoung-ha, in which Sai echoes the manga and tries to find Hikaru in his go. It's ONE BIG TRAGEDY.
So again, I stopped because I was sick, and I thought it was kind of stupid, and I wasn't writing it that well. It seemed really melodramatic. However, if I finish any of these, I suppose it might be this one, just to finish it. It has more potential than the others, but still, eh.
.
By: Amber Michelle //
myaruWords:
Rating: K
Warnings: n/a
Cliches used:
Sai is resurrected, fatal traffic accidents, go as a metaphor, the second Hokuto Cup
Notes: this was my second try for the Blind Go cliche round, which I ditched when a) it showed signs of getting long, and b) when the lameness of the fic was too much to deal with. Also, I was sick. No idea if someone else has already written this same concept, but they probably have.
First the unfinished story, then the notes on what would have happened and why I stopped writing.
.................................................................
If one judged all ramen shops by the specimens Sai had seen in his unlife, they would be noisy (people talking around and over but never to him, vending machine chiming, dishes stacking, pots clanging) and crowded, the handwriting on the menu boards messy and hard to recognize (was that chashu, which Hikaru had always liked, or was it some abbreviation for a foreign food?), the workers at such a place closer to what he would have known in his own life as uneducated commons. The Heian era had nothing like this; food was served privately, and it never included meat. Fish, maybe. Rice in broth. Porridge. He remembered the way Hikaru's mouth twisted when he said that, and took his turn at the vending machine: thin noodles, slices of pork and boiled eggs. He could smell the broth, but it was unfamiliar - salty, like brine, like seaweed. Sai was skilled at that once, at taking a deep breath, and knowing the composition of an incense blend, a flower arrangement, without even looking.
He gave his tickets to the girl at the counter, smiled at her when he took his bowl, and turned to find a seat. Necessity seated him at the counter on a stool when all the booths were full, and he balanced on the cushion, looked down at the rich brown broth and hint of curled noodles underneath.
What does it taste like? He could hear himself asking, see Hikaru's sour expression reflected in his soup. Sai knew how to eat it - he'd seen it many times with Hikaru, and since waking up - but the chopsticks felt insubstantial. They were held differently now. They were light and rough, not the lacquered wood he remembered. What is this? He'd pointed at the pot of crushed ginger, and his finger had passed through the glass. What is that? Hikaru?
Shoyu splashed the big five on his t-shirt when the noodles slipped from his sticks and fell back into the soup. Sai stuffed them into his mouth and chewed, and missed the weight of his hair on his back, the silk of his robe. His fringe dangled over his eyes, black, still streaked lighter in spots. The noodles didn't taste like very much. Nothing ever did. He'd heard it said one could not taste or smell in dreams because the spirit did not have a body, but spirits couldn't eat either, and here he was, eating noodles, and slurping them up the way Hikaru used to while Sai scolded him for being messy.
How did he keep his shirt clean while doing that? Or maybe he didn't. They were always so brightly colored. Who would notice a tiny grease spot on a bright yellow shirt worn by a twelve-year-old child?
But he wasn't twelve anymore - sixteen. Hikaru would have been sixteen. Sai was now sixteen, his elbows sticking out, his knees hitting the underside of the counter, lacking grace in Hikaru's jeans and Hikaru's shirt, Hikaru's sneakers and socks. The plain fan was in his pocket. His own fan, even if it wasn't silk or handmade paper, it was the only thing that belonged to him in this place, this time, but he wasn't supposed to take it back--
Something dropped into his soup. Sai blinked twice before he realized his cheeks were wet.
"Um..."
He looked up.
"Can I..." It was the girl who took his tickets, the name of the shop printed across her shirt. She held up a white rectangle napkin.
Sai laughed. It came out choked.
~* *~
.
.
blood is excessive for such a wound
.
.
He remembered white, and it wasn't the walls - those were beige when he opened his eyes, but he hadn't yet, not yet. He thought-- perhaps it was the white of his robes, because it was soft and cool. He felt the weave beneath his fingertips when they twitched.
It must be silk. Sai only felt materials when he summoned his living memory of such things - polished wood, plum petals, grains of rice, and hair. Silk was the only fabric ever to touch his skin; when he was born, they swaddled him in an old robe of his mother's, a kurenai red as deep as the petals of a camellia blossom. No one dreamed of clothing him in anything less.
He should have felt his hair, at least with one hand, or perhaps the pull on his scalp where it was twisted aside.
.
.
was going too fast, forty kilometers per hour
fluid in the brain, but we'll keep him here for twenty-four
.
Shindou-san.
.
Light warmed his eyelids, made the darkness red and brown, a touch of pink, as if the sun were shining on his face. Breathing sounds roused him, made him want to blink, and a high-pitched beep-beep beep-beep reminding Sai of vending machines and the noise they made when Hikaru slid his coins in and pressed number combinations for the items he wanted.
Shindou-san.
It was rare anyone called him Shindou-san, however, because something about Hikaru made the adults of his time balk and bark out his full name: you there-- Shindou Hikaru, why are you trying to bring a soda into the tournament room? Throw it away!
Sai always thought it must be the hair. They crossed paths with other children wearing similar styles when walking in the city - bleached bangs, bleached streaks, bleached tips or roots, or stripes - and they always stood out among their contemporaries and bore their marks with pride, though others cast them sidelong glances, sometimes even frowned. Nobody children, without rank or family, perhaps not even money, yet they had such confidence.
But rank and family meant so little now. His Japan was a fantasy - a television drama.
Shindou-san, I think he's waking up.
Nothing would focus when he opened his eyes. The muscles in his forehead felt strained, as if the action had forced him to raise his brows as far as they would go just to pull the lids up. Two pale faces leaned over him; two heads of black hair, one pinned neatly, the other pulled back in a messy ponytail that frizzed around her head and slithered over her shoulder. She was wearing an apron, holding Sai's hand with both of hers.
He blinked. She looked familiar. He blinked again, squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again, saw her holding his hand, felt her squeeze.
Ah, now he recognized her - the shape of her eyebrows gave her away, and the compressed frown that wrinkled her chin a little bit. He'd seen that expression so many times over his shoulder. "Shindou-san," he said.
The skin around her eyes tightened. Her head jerked sideways to look at the other woman.
*
*
*
The basic idea was this: Hikaru was fatally injured by a drive-by on his way to the Go Institute, and said the right thing to the right gods - so his body was allowed to live, and he switched out with Sai. So now Sai is trying to live Hikaru's life, and he gets to play go, but he's figuring out that's not really what he wants.
The second scene was almost over. Third section would be recovery at home and gradual acquaintance with Hikaru's mom, his friends, the kids at the Institute, all of whom he knows, but not really. Fourth section involved his "return" to the go world in the form of a game, though it was mostly about feeling guilty about the sympathy he got as Hikaru. Part five was the Hokuto Cup and a (naturally) stunning defeat of Ko Yeoung-ha, in which Sai echoes the manga and tries to find Hikaru in his go. It's ONE BIG TRAGEDY.
So again, I stopped because I was sick, and I thought it was kind of stupid, and I wasn't writing it that well. It seemed really melodramatic. However, if I finish any of these, I suppose it might be this one, just to finish it. It has more potential than the others, but still, eh.
.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-10-05 01:10 pm (UTC)It's hard putting a new spin on a cliche, but I think this really does it. I hope you do finish it eventually!
no subject
Date: 2009-10-06 01:15 am (UTC)I like the prose and the melancholy and Sai's sense of disconnect. Very good.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-06 04:27 am (UTC)I think I read that fic of hers. Really, I should go and start reading more HnG stuff.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-06 04:25 am (UTC)It's looking a little more attractive to finish. Ironically, considering the stuff going on in life right now.