On the evening of November 3rd, to celebrate the emperor’s birthday, the whole army took a break from fighting. For all the slapdash decorating and frantic revelry, it was hard not to notice, with the 7th all amassed together in one place, how much thinner their numbers had gotten. There was music—Tsurumi apologized in front of the unit for not being able to play for them, for want of a piano—and the cooks had offered everyone a rare liquor allowance to go along with dinner. Ogata had declined; he always felt Tsurumi’s perpetually sober presence hovering over his shoulder at times like these. The night was going to get colder, too, and it wasn’t worth the risk.

Sugimoto, on the other hand, had clearly taken up the offered sake. His face was flushed, his cap had slid off his head to sit at a jauntier angle than regulation demanded, and he had taken his rations and sat next to Ogata without any of the usual show of how much he just had to, there hadn’t been any other choice. It was amusing, like some booze was all it took for him to admit he thought they were friends, or something. He was chattier than usual, too, talking right over the bizarre skit some of the guys from one of the other platoons were putting on atop the makeshift stage that had been put up in the middle of the mess area. “The bacon’s not bad, but I'm so sick of the rest of it.” Sugimoto stabbed a piece of salt-fish without much enthusiasm. “I think I'm getting sores in my mouth just from eating the same thing every day. I’m having dreams about soba.” He glanced over at Ogata. “If you could eat whatever you wanted right now, what would it be?”

Ogata’s hand stopped in the middle of sifting through the last of his own food. “Anglerfish hotpot,” he replied, after a moment. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Sugimoto cocked his head, still chewing on a lump of tinned daikon despite his complaints. “Oh. I don’t know if I’ve ever had it. Do they eat it a lot in Ibaraki?”

Ogata felt a flash of annoyance. He didn't make a habit of talking about his upbringing, and he didn't like the idea of Sugimoto thinking he knew him. “Oh, all the time. Too much, actually.” Ogata swallowed what was left in his mouth, then scooped up the last of the rice in his mess tin. “But if you go too long without it, you start to miss it again.”

“Huh.” He’d said too much. Sugimoto was looking at him with consideration in his gaze. Thankfully, before Sugimoto could ask him any more annoying questions another supply officer came around distributing bottles of Kirin, and Sugimoto took one.

“Should you be drinking with a hole in your chest?”

“If the bullet didn’t get me, you think beer is going to?” Sugimoto paused with the bottle halfway to his mouth and a gleam in the back of his eyes. “You wanna see it?”

“Is it as deep as the last one?”

Sugimoto smiled, and every carnivorous point of his teeth became visible. “Deeper.” Sugimoto set down his beer on the crate they were using as a table. He stripped out of his jacket, down to his shirtsleeves, which he began to unbutton as well, from the belly-button upwards—Ogata couldn't tear his eyes away from the shifting of tendons under the skin. Even considering what they’d been getting up to, he didn’t get many opportunities to see Sugimoto without clothes on. There was an impressive amount of muscle packed onto what was not an especially large frame: the footprint of years of judo and kendo and fighting like a prize hound. He didn't bother trying to look contrite when Sugimoto glanced up at him and caught his gaze, just let his eyes track across Sugimoto's chest once more, brazenly.

“Which one is it?”

Sugimoto was looking at Ogata with his mouth parted, his cheeks red and his brows furrowed, but he gestured between his pectorals with fingers still stiff and bandaged over the knuckles. “Here.”

It was a bad one. The hole was covered with gauze, but Ogata could tell from the mottled bruising around the area just how hard Sugimoto’s body was fighting to patch itself back together. It should’ve, by all logic, gone straight through and fractured one of his lungs, but from the look of things the bullet had just stopped partway into his flesh.

Ogata leaned back. “I think the last one was deeper.”

The dark circles under his eyes crinkled, and something crooked but close to a smile twisted at the corner of Sugimoto’s mouth.

The performances had finally ended a few minutes earlier, but a hush only now settled over the room. Ogata looked at the stage to see Yuusaku standing up in front of the men. He glanced over at Sugimoto and muttered, “Put your shirt back on.”

This happened every year on the occasion. The officers all took their turn making a show out of apologizing for their failings. Yuusaku was the most junior officer in the division, so he took his place first.

Next to him, Sugimoto buttoned his uniform jacket back up and grumbled invectives under his breath. On the other side of the room, Yuusaku looked unusually grave, and as his gaze darted around the room, making eye contact with everyone watching and listening, Ogata looked away before he could reach him. He didn’t need those earnest eyes staring him down plaintively in the middle of what was just another farce not much different from the nonsense that had come before it.

Nothing Yuusaku had to apologize for was even worth the effort. He had been late to distribute some mail from home to those who got that kind of thing. He had been short with several men about the state of their rifles, or so he claimed; whatever he’d said to them, Ogata would bet he hadn’t been short enough. All of it so inconsequential in the face of a war they were by no means winning and orders from on high that were insane.

As Yuusaku continued to make his apologies, Ogata let his gaze drift around the room. The faces of the rest of the soldiers he could see were drawn from lack of sleep, but they all gave Yuusaku their full attention. Fallen for the sweet face and so-called noble bloodline like chumps. All but one. Next to him, Sugimoto was watching the whole thing with his brows drawn. Whatever amiability the booze had brought him was gone, now. He looked like he was a hair away from storming out of the room and ending the war with his bare hands, all on his own. Back to his usual self.

-

The following day, half the platoon was hung over, which wouldn’t have been so much of a problem if they weren’t immediately to resume their assault on the fortification looming between their lines and the city. Ogata was at his usual position, peering over the edge of the embankment, rifle in hand, when Tsurumi made his way over to him. Ogata didn’t need to look over to know who it was. He could recognize that tread just from the sound of hobnails on wood.

“How are we faring out there today? I think your eyes are better than mine.”

“Badly.” He’d told Tsurumi he had to stop sending for him after hours, because if Sugimoto were able to figure out something was going on it must be pretty obvious. Apparently Tsurumi took this to mean he should interrupt Ogata while he was on lookout. “Direct assault at close range is getting us nowhere. We’ve been here for less than half the time of any of the other units and our casualties are already just as bad. We’re being wasted on this.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Ogata. You’ve always had a good head for tactics. Unfortunately, each of us has his master to serve. I am not the one drawing up the battle plans, and it’s on all of us if I don’t follow suit. I wouldn’t bring you all down with me.” Tsurumi took his hands out of his mittens to rub them together for a moment before putting them back in. “Would you believe Lieutenant Colonel Yodogawa doesn’t know how to read topographic maps? Quite a weakness for the man commanding a siege campaign, wouldn’t you say?”

Ogata glanced at him sidelong before looking back out over the plain. “How is he coming up with the orders, then?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” To onlookers, this must be an entirely normal conversation between a platoon commander and one of his senior privates. Nothing unusual, unless the wind carried their words along with it. “Speaking of orders, I saw your father recently.”

“Oh?” The hair on the back of his neck stood up, though it could’ve been the icy draught coming in from the bay. He looked down at his hands for a moment and cycled the bolt hard enough to send the empty shell flying.

“He didn’t stay on the front lines long, of course. That would be risky for a Lieutenant General. In any case, he seems in good health.”

What did Tsurumi want him to say to that? And how much longer will we let him keep his good health, sir? Tsurumi would never just come out and say the thing he was after. He’d just spin a bunch of half-truths and make Ogata draw the conclusions himself. Thankfully, Tsurumi didn’t wait for a response before he moved on. Just testing him, then. Watching for a reaction. Seeing if the old, reliable wounds still bled. “Do you remember what I told you about a while back about the prisoner in Abashiri?”

Ogata blinked. “The one who stole the Ainu gold?”

“Yes, I thought you would. How much do you remember?”

“He’s been tattooing other convicts with the key to the gold’s location, but the tattoos are in code. The guards can’t make sense of it.”

Tsurumi nodded. “I’ve been thinking about that business recently. If one man could do all that without leaving his single-cell, the fact these are the orders we’re being given by the supposed best and brightest the General Staff has to offer… it makes one wonder how things could go, were circumstances different.”

Something flickered on the horizon; Ogata squinted down the irons and fired at the shape in the distance, which fell with the tell-tale slump of a man. When he lowered the barrel, Tsurumi was looking at him with naked appreciation. Before Ogata could savour the feeling, however, Tsurumi added, “We may have underestimated Yuusaku. The men all seem taken with him.”

“So you’re saying we should leave him alive?”

Tsurumi’s eyes cast across the waste ahead of them, darting over the corpses and abandoned fortifications like a vulture deciding where to land. “It’s really too bad we’re limited to having officers bear the flag. Yuusaku isn’t the only man we have who’s capable of leading the men into battle. He’s not even the only one whom bullets don’t seem to keep down. But such is the way of the world, isn’t it, Ogata?”

“What, Sugimoto?”

“You don’t think he has it in him?”

Well, Sugimoto wasn’t a virgin anymore, but Tsurumi didn’t need to know that. “I don’t think he could take an oath to the emperor with a straight face.”

“There are other kinds of oaths, and other causes. The emperor is just an idea. That’s why we needed him for this modern age. He’s an idea that can be shaped to one’s needs, whatever they might be.”

If Tsurumi wanted to take Sugimoto under his wing, he could do the legwork himself. “I suppose.” Ogata lined up his next shot and fired at something near the horizon—400 metres off, according to the ladder—but he heard the resulting clang of metal on metal and knew he’d missed. He ought to be more careful, or else he’d give away his position. Tsurumi was distracting.

It flashed through his mind in an instant: Tsurumi standing close to Sugimoto, just like this, and whispering into his ear. Sugimoto wouldn’t go for it, at least not at first, but Tsurumi had his ways. The thought filled him with an abstract sort of anger he didn’t feel so much as notice and then push aside.

“You should probably move on, sir. Unless there’s anything else you needed to discuss.”

“No, Ogata, I don’t think there’s anything. Unless you’ve got something new to report.”

Something in his voice—Ogata looked at Tsurumi out of the corner of his eye and their gazes met. Tsurumi’s eyes were dark and glittering. He knew, then. Or he suspected. But what else had he expected? He’d told Ogata to keep an eye on Sugimoto. It wasn’t like Tsurumi had any room to judge. It was his method, after all.

-

Ogata never found out whether Yodogawa learned to read topographic maps or if someone else’s intervention ought to get the credit, but it wasn’t long before word came down from the brass that instead of any more haphazard rushes into the abyss, the siege objective had shifted to the seizure of 203 Meter Hill.

It was two hills, really, connected by a saddle-shaped ridge. From its peak you could see right into the city and any eleven-inch guns could hit the harbour. You didn’t have to be a sniper to see the advantage of high ground, but they’d spent months and more losses than they could afford squabbling over a handful of yards at a time, here and there.

Ogata drew his cloak around himself tighter and scanned the field. The noise of artillery was loud enough to drown out almost anything else: the cries and groans of soldiers, their own or the others, all flattened into a dull roar. Bayonets affixed, the battalions were charging as far as the eye could see. Ogata had been ordered to go over the edge but to remain out of close range, unlike the rest of them. Tsurumi had enough sense not to waste him in the direct assaults, though Ogata had wondered whether he was kept in the trench more often than not because of his aim or because of his father. Not out of any of Hanazawa’s own concern, of course, but because Tsurumi liked to keep as many pieces as possible on the board.

Crows whirled overhead. Yuusaku, flag in hand, stood as black and tall against the curdled-milk sky as the silhouette of a tree atop a hill. Next to Yuusaku was Sugimoto, unmistakable, like a whirlwind. He fought like a creature, firing less than he just bludgeoned anyone who came close to him. Ogata wouldn’t be surprised if half the time he just forgot the gun was loaded. He was limping. Ogata wasn't sure what to make of the fact he could recognize that from such a distance. A Russian surged up from Sugimoto's rear, bayonet at the ready: Ogata squinted down the irons and shot the man’s head. Not because Sugimoto needed the help, but in an effort to make him notice how close he’d come. Sugimoto turned his head just enough to see the man go down, and then stepped over the bodies he himself had taken down seconds earlier. Bullets flew from Mosin-Nagants, but today, not one touched him, not that it had made much of a difference any of the times they had. It made his trigger finger itch; sometimes Ogata couldn’t help feeling like Sugimoto was sent here as a test for him. Like Tsurumi’s newfound appreciation for Yuusaku, it felt like a dare.

Yuusaku himself was now too far away to see, but the banner he held fluttered high and proud above the crash of bodies, though the real sun in the sky was covered in ash and had been for days. The emperor himself had bestowed each flag to its unit. Whatever the damage they took, they remained, only to be replaced upon being lost. Yuusaku’s hands had touched the emperor’s, indirectly. The emperor hadn’t come out to the front, had he, so how godly could he be—but Yuusaku held himself with such conviction you could almost believe he had been touched by something bigger than himself, some force passed down and unbroken and as old as the world. You could almost believe it.

Bullets didn’t seem to touch him. At least not yet. This is what Tsurumi didn’t see: Sugimoto wasn’t charmed like that. They hit him. He just didn’t go down.

It continued. Another charge, and then another, and another, like the sea throwing itself upon the shore to be broken and then return once more.

There were enough makeshift embankments he didn’t need to expose himself too often, but it was still far from an ideal position, because shooting over their own men to get at the Russians was a pain in the ass and hardly any of the vantage points he had to choose from were high enough for his liking. Ogata had killed ten Russians since the morning began, at the most modest estimate; a handful of those were headshots, beautiful, clean and near-instantaneous. The enemy lines had finally fallen back behind the trenches, and the battlefield was almost—not quite—silent, though his eardrums were more than a little blown.

He’d tucked himself behind a pile of rubble as the sun sank and the day whiled itself to a close. A crevice between a few of the rocks was just wide enough to fit the barrel through and peer down the irons. It was serving him fairly well; he’d have to remember it for the future. Dusk fell and vision degraded, but from his hiding place he could still see partway up the saddle of 203. He was waiting for one more Russian to make his way around into firing range before he’d creep back to his own trench when he spotted a familiar figure in the corner of his vision, hobbling towards the overhang behind which Ogata crouched. Ogata leaned back from the sights. He could have been said to be unrecognizable from the injuries, but Ogata would have known him anywhere. It was the way he moved, with a ranginess to him that suggested strength, and his eyes: wild, rabid.

Ogata pulled his rifle free of the nook and turned around in time for Sugimoto to slump, still on his feet, but barely, against the rock wall next to him. Sugimoto's face was covered in sweat and mud, with fresh blood from the gash across his nose and cheek streaming down his face and dripping off his chin.

“You should clean that.”

Sugimoto shrugged a shoulder, grimacing.

They were overdue to fall back behind the lines, but there was no real hurry. Men got waylaid all the time. He was helping a fellow soldier in peril, after all. This part of the battlefield was near-deserted. If Sugimoto hadn’t found a safe place to rest, here, with him, who knew what would have happened to him. So-called-immortality aside, night was on its way, and Sugimoto looked dazed from the head wound.

Ogata reached out a sooty hand and ran his thumb across Sugimoto's cheek and nose, just under the wound. Sugimoto's eyes were still cloudy, but he maintained Ogata's gaze and barely flinched. When Ogata retrieved his hand to lick the blood off his thumb, all Sugimoto did was shake his head.

Ogata encircled Sugimoto's wrist with his fingers and raised it closer to his own face. Sugimoto narrowed his eyes and watched him warily, but didn't move his hand away. It was covered in blood, too, and Ogata turned it, slowly, so he could examine it front and back, and then looked up to meet Sugimoto's gaze. “Is this yours?”

Sugimoto shook his head. “Mostly? No.”

Ogata nodded, but didn't let go of his wrist. Maxim guns fired away close enough to be hideously, teeth-rattlingly loud, but the embankment provided enough cover neither of them needed to worry for the immediate future. He tugged Sugimoto’s hand a little closer still, experimentally. Sugimoto didn't break eye contact or pull his hand away, even when Ogata brought Sugimoto’s fingers up to his mouth.

He licked Sugimoto's trigger finger, just once, to see what he'd do. Sugimoto's brows twisted, but he didn't say anything, even when Ogata took the rest of the finger into his mouth, sucked it somewhere halfway to clean. The texture of Sugimoto's skin was as rough-hewn and pleasant as ever, and the taste of drying blood was thick and metallic over his tongue. Sugimoto’s other hand was lying limp by his side, and when Ogata reached out for that one Sugimoto didn’t pull away either, so where he stood on all this was pretty clear. He licked the blood off the other hand, too, all the while with Sugimoto’s eyes on him, wide and a little shocked but looking at Ogata like there was nowhere else he’d rather be. When Ogata finished, he let go of Sugimoto's wrist and said, “You should go to medical. They'll admit you, everyone knows who you are. And that one on your face looks pretty bad.”

“You gonna lick that clean, too?” The words sounded low and harsh and not like much of a joke, even if it was meant to be one.

“Maybe if you ask nicely.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Sugimoto replied, but his tongue darted out to lick the corner of his mouth, anyway, so Ogata didn’t pay too much attention to his words. Sugimoto was the kind of guy whose mouth would say one thing when his body said another.

They had places to be, however, and as they made their way back to the lines, darting from cover to cover in case any enterprising Russian scouts were still roaming around after dusk, Sugimoto couldn’t seem to keep to a straight line. He stumbled over his own feet a couple of times before Ogata turned to him and slung Sugimoto’s arm over his shoulders.

“What—”

“You’re going to get us both shot if you keep making noise like that.”

“Let go of me, I’m fine,” Sugimoto said, but by the limp way he leaned his weight on Ogata it was clear he was in worse condition than he’d admit. Concussed, probably. It was surprising it had taken this long for him to start showing signs of the beatings he’d gotten used to taking. The scars didn’t count; he didn’t seem to pay attention to them unless they were pointed out.

They made it back behind safe lines eventually, though practically carrying Sugimoto meant Ogata’s progress was slow at best. The steam baths were still being banked, though most of the others who had made it back had already bathed. They stripped as they did near every morning and night, huddling around the huge clay jars propped up in the earth. Sugimoto managed to get his filthy uniform off on his own, so Ogata was spared having to undress him like an invalid. Sugimoto was running his hands over his face, up and down, grinding the heels of his palm over the new gashes; he could have been washing them out, but the way he was doing it looked painful. It was the way someone rubbed their face to wake up on a groggy morning.

It was too dark to see much, but as Ogata washed himself off he glanced up and down Sugimoto’s frame. When he was small, Ogata had this daydream about ducks. He used to think about all the ducks he shot and imagine what it’d be like to one day find a duck that had another duck inside of it, right where its stomach should be: exactly the same as the first duck, just smaller. The idea was equal parts revolting and comforting. Looking over Sugimoto, he felt a similar curiosity; he wanted to pry him apart, to look inside him and find out what he was hiding. In the near-dark, Sugimoto’s scars looked dark against his skin, like new wounds, and even the old ones looked like they could have still been bleeding.