cold comforts
by bloodletter

cold comforts

bloodletter

Summary

Tsukishima knew if he didn't look now, he never would, so he steeled himself. “If you want to show me, then show me, sir.”

Tsurumi kept one hand on Tsukishima’s shoulder and pulled away the headplate with the other, setting it down on the bedside table.

Notes

Imported from Archive of Our Own. Original work id: 16404578.

Chapter One

Once Tsurumi regained command, there were innumerable issues vying for his attention. Mukden was won, the trenches being abandoned in favour of the city, and the rooms Tsurumi had commandeered for the 27th’s temporary headquarters were host to a ceaseless stream of officers and logistical personnel. Tsukishima, for his part, had a hundred-odd shell-shocked infantry growing tired and restless by the day, though there had been a renewed vigour to them since they’d watched Tsurumi rise from the grave and don his headplate before the men, his strength and grace not dimmed at all, despite the fact his face was now more fearsome than handsome, in the eyes of most.

Tsukishima had first seen that side of him many years ago, now, though at the time he hadn’t realized just how deep the steel ran. He knew the performance wasn’t for him, but he still could have sworn that, when Tsurumi turned around in front of the troops to let them see his face, he had sought out Tsukishima’s eye amidst the crowd.

He received the summons after dark, as fog rolled out over the remains of the day and the men turned in for lights-out. His boots crunched on the frozen ground as he made his way towards the first lieutenant’s office. He hesitated for a moment at the door; inside the light seeping out from within, he could make out the movement of shadows in the shape of pacing feet, and he took a deep breath before coming inside.

It was still novel just to see Tsurumi standing. For all the time they’d known each other, the time the first lieutenant had spent confined to a field hospital cot felt immeasurable. Tsurumi smiled at the sight of Tsukishima on the threshold, said, “I’m glad I was able to catch you still awake,” and Tsukishima swallowed, closed the door behind him.

“I’m usually up for a while yet, sir.”

Tsurumi set down the stack of correspondence he had been leafing through when Tsukishima came inside. “Word from Central is that there will be no more land battles after this. We’re to maintain present gains and let the navy have its time in the sun. Though who knows how long that will take.”

Tsukishima blinked. “That’s good. I’m not sure how much longer the men could last in siege.”

Tsurumi nodded. “Indeed. There’s nothing so dispiriting as waiting around for something to happen, is there?”

From there it was debriefings, supply reports and dispatches from other campaigns. All the sort of business a senior officer would have with a squad leader. Tsurumi had always kept Tsukishima in closer confidence than he’d strictly needed to; for a long time, it was something Tsukishima had held close to his chest, a sign of trust from the man to whom he owed his life. Now, he wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, besides confusing.

His hand tingled, still, with the phantom pain of his knuckles crashing across Tsurumi’s face. He’d hit Tsurumi with everything he had, back there on the battlefield, and Tsurumi had only smiled, hadn’t lifted a finger back at him, even though Tsukishima had seen him run men through without blinking. At some point during the confab, Tsurumi’s hand drifted to Tsukishima’s shoulder, at first just fluttering there like a bird on a post and then settling, heavy and warm against the cold air. Tsukishima’s heart sped up, greedily, to meet him.

Tsurumi pulled away his hand only when he turned away from Tsukishima to walk towards the back of the office. Tsurumi’s present quarters were just behind the second door; Tsukishima knew this, though he’d been trying not to think of it. Still talking about provision deliveries, Tsurumi turned to look back at Tsukishima over his shoulder, and though the ploy was childishly obvious, Tsukishima followed in Tsurumi’s wake.

Neither of them was getting any younger, but if his body were to be believed, he’d been ready for this since he’d answered Tsurumi’s summons. It came as only a dull surprise to Tsukishima that, for all his trepidation, it took no time at all to fall back into old patterns. As soon as they were both inside the glorified closet within which Tsurumi’d been sleeping, Tsukishima’s arms moved of their own accord to pin Tsurumi against the wall. Whatever aggressiveness could be read into it was negated by Tsurumi’s height advantage, and as their gazes met, a long-fingered hand settled against Tsukishima’s cheek. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it, Sergeant,” Tsurumi whispered, an aristocratic twinkle in his eye, the look of a man who was not accustomed to being denied, and maybe it was his muscle memory taking over the same way it did when Tsukishima affixed a bayonet or reloaded a gun, but it took no time at all for him to find himself in the same position he'd been in countless times, both during the war and before it.

The feeling of it, though, had changed. Tsurumi's bare flesh was so hot against his own it felt like it was burning him up inside, though it could be chalked up just to the deprivation that came from the weeks of Tsurumi's hospice and Tsukishima's wariness. They made it to the bed eventually. Tsurumi leaned over him, blocked out the light, ran his palms down Tsukishima's chest, approving, familiar, proprietary, and Tsukishima trembled with something that was not fear, though fear might have been wiser. He couldn’t meet Tsurumi’s eyes; it was too much. His blood rushed to the surface to reach Tsurumi’s touch. Tsurumi held him with arms gaunt from recovery but still wired with muscle enough for sabre or shotgun, and as Tsukishima felt Tsurumi's warmth envelop him, drowning out every reason Tsukishima had to keep his distance, his body surged into the touch until they spent, together, in Tsurumi's sheets.

Tsukishima kept his eyes squeezed tight even after, when he ended up lying atop Tsurumi with his face pressed against Tsurumi's breast, and gave into his own impulse to let their legs tangle together, his arm slide around Tsurumi's waist. Tsurumi's fingers scratched across his scalp, presumptuous but pleasant. They lay there like that a long time, and Tsukishima was attempting to pull together the strength to get up and return to his part of the barracks when Tsurumi murmured, the hot gust of breath across his ear making Tsukishima shiver: "Do you want to see it?"

Tsukishima blinked, and tilted his head up to ask, "See what?", before the words died on his tongue. Tsurumi's other hand, the one not touching Tsukishima, was reaching around the back of his head to unbuckle the strap of his headplate. Tsukishima's mouth almost fell open. He blinked, and then slowly nodded.

Beneath his moustache, Tsurumi's mouth twisted into a smile. "You don't need to. I just thought you might be curious."

Curious wasn't really the word, but Tsukishima knew if he didn't look now, he never would, so he steeled himself. “If you want to show me, then show me, sir.”

Tsurumi kept one hand on Tsukishima’s shoulder and pulled away the headplate with the other, setting it down on the bedside table. What it left behind was a ruin. A crater the size of a baby’s fist was carved into Tsurumi’s forehead, overtop of where his left eyebrow used to be. The skin was peeled back, burnt away until it looked more like red meat than anything else. A small rivulet of fluid dripped out of the hole, down towards Tsurumi’s temple. He blinked with all the care of a cat in the sun, and turned his head, slowly, so Tsukishima could survey the whole area.

"You don't have to be afraid. You can touch it."

Tsukishima’s mouth went dry. "I'm not afraid."

"Repulsed, then." Tsurumi was still smiling at him with no hint of accusation in his gaze.

He swallowed. "Not that, either." Cautiously, he extended one of his hands and brushed a thumb across his brow-ridge. He was never more aware than when they touched each other behind closed doors, like this, of how unremarkable his body was, and with his stubby fingers on Tsurumi’s face it was even more acute, but now—Tsukishima traced around the hole, watching for a flinch and finding none, and for the first time he didn’t feel like the ugliest thing in the room. Tsurumi watched him, heavy-lidded, and Tsukishima met his gaze when he pulled his hand back.

He'd thought—somehow—they'd crossed a line over which they couldn’t return. He was now beginning to think he was right, but instead of pushed away from Tsurumi he'd been pulled in closer to the centre of the web.

Tsukishima surprised himself, then, when he murmured, "This isn't how I thought my life would go."

Tsurumi tilted his head and regarded him. "What about it surprises you?"

Tsukishima muttered with his face turned away, and Tsurumi pinched his ear. “What’s that, Tsukishima?”

He sighed. "Never thought I'd be… the wife of some guy with a hole in his head, for one thing." His own voice sounded thin in the space between their bodies.

That made the skin at the corner of Tsurumi’s eyes crinkle, even ravaged as it was. "Who says you're the wife?"

"I do." All he felt from the admission was muted self-consciousness inside the hollow where shame might have once lived. What secrets did he have Tsurumi hadn’t already made use of? Wasn’t much point in hiding things that were true, and obvious to both of them, anyhow. Tsukishima laid his head back down on Tsurumi's chest, his gaze fixed on the wall next to them, and said, "I didn't know if I'd ever see you again."

Tsurumi let out the ghost of a laugh. "Would you have been set free, then?"

"There'd be nothing left for me." His heart thudded within his chest, but at the same time it was easy to let his eyes slide shut, to soak in the comfort of the body under his own.

"What a dutiful wife you are, Sergeant." Tsurumi's fingertips traced down the ridges of Tsukishima's spine. "Well, as glad as I am to be back in the world of the living, we have little time to celebrate. The world marches on."

"I know." Tsukishima glanced up, still nervous to see Tsurumi’s face, as if this would be the time it sunk in and became monstrous; but no. Not yet. It was red and angry, still not quite healed, the scar tissue shiny as a newly minted coin, but the set of the mouth, the strong jawline, perfectly symmetrical face were all more familiar to him than his own reflection.

The headplate on the table next to them caught his eye; it was as smooth as a piece of skull-bone that'd weathered the elements, and as forbidding. "Is it heavy?"

"Oh, it's not bad. I got used to it quickly enough." Tsurumi's gaze was fixed on the ceiling, so Tsukishima couldn’t look deep enough to test him for a lie. "Do you want to try it on?"

Tsukishima suppressed a shiver. "No."

"I think it'd be charming on you," Tsurumi said, in a lofty tone that meant he was full of shit, so Tsukishima didn't dignify his remark with a response, just let himself take what peace he could get, for a time, and laid his head back down.