They’d put up embankments of snow to protect them from the wind, but you couldn't sleep against them or your heart would stop in the night. Instead, they all huddled together like rats in the cramped space in the middle of the trench.

Some childish part of Sugimoto wanted someone to stroke his forehead. It wasn’t long enough for it anymore, since he had it regulation short, but he wanted to feel fingers running through his hair. They could murmur to him in a voice almost too quiet to hear. The words themselves didn't matter, just that they were being said. Sugimoto couldn't imagine Ogata ever in a thousand years doing something like that, but he was the one asleep next to him, the one who’d last had his hands on him, so Sugimoto had to imagine it for a second before he cast the thought aside. It showed just how bone-tired he was, to have come up with something so stupid.

He shifted over onto his side and had to suppress a start. Ogata was awake, too, and watching him, eyes half-lidded but alert. Sugimoto felt a shiver run down his spine, the source of which he wasn't sure of. Ogata reached across the space between them and pressed a thumb, through Sugimoto’s clothes, against the bruise forming on Sugimoto's clavicle. Even though the mark was covered up by Sugimoto’s shirt, Ogata managed to find the exact spot where it had been left. He pushed at it hard enough for Sugimoto to remember, flesh-memory style, how he got it. Sugimoto collected so many flesh wounds these days that he didn't notice the bruises, but this was different. Ogata kneaded away at it with his thumb like he was trying to darken the imprint. There were dozens of other men sleeping around them, or pretending to sleep; no one seemed to be paying them any mind. They weren’t even doing anything against regs, but Sugimoto had to struggle not to glance around to make sure they weren't being watched.

Eventually he brushed away Ogata’s hand and turned back over onto his side to look at the trench wall. They were still close enough together he could feel the line of Ogata’s body against his back, which at least provided some kind of warmth. Eventually the snuffling sound of the rest of the sleepers around him lulled Sugimoto into something approaching rest.

-

In the morning none of it could’ve ever happened, for all the acknowledgement either of them paid it. They all rose with the bugle call, brushed their teeth, changed into clean uniforms, and prepared to die. Sugimoto wanted to shake all of them who went to their deaths thinking about sacrifice, to tell them they couldn’t afford to think about anything larger than themselves. That none of this meant anything, no matter what the officers told them. The least they should be doing is going to their deaths feeling alright with it.

As for the battle itself, the details bled together. The days weren’t really separate from each other. They followed the same pattern, and all his memories of it were kind of—flattened. It was always cold. Guys died in front of his face every day. There wasn't much use recounting the specifics. It was as if everything that he saw engraved itself on the back of his skull forever, and at the same time as if it all went into a box in the back of his mind from which it would never emerge.

The trench rushes were the same every day, just like the blurred faces of the Russians atop the hill. It was like a children's game: stack the blocks up, knock them down, and stack them back up again. The orders went days without changing. Just days upon days of running over the mound and trying not to trip over all the bodies still out there from days before, hearing the whizzing of the heavier Russian bullets through the air and the thudding as their paths were blocked by flesh. He grit his back teeth together, put each of his feet in front of the other, and when it came time to face one of the bastards himself, his thrusts never faltered.

The 1st Division was on the other end of the line, and Sugimoto kept an eye out for Toraji's familiar form, but he never saw it. He hoped that meant he was either being smart and keeping himself a small target or he'd been shipped back home on some kind of medical discharge that wouldn't keep him from working once he'd had time to heal. Sugimoto wondered if he'd seen Toraji and not recognized him, but that seemed impossible. Toraji would have the same kind of dumb, sweet face as ever, he was sure. Sugimoto would be the one who'd changed. If either of them wasn't going to be recognized, it was him.

They bathed as often as they could, but Sugimoto couldn't remember the last time he'd felt clean. It’d been that way for a long time, though. He'd carried something fatal inside him all the way from Tokyo, the same thing that killed the rest of his family, incubating in his chest. Try as it might, it just couldn't kill him. It was why he had to run from Umeko, couldn't hold her safe to his chest forever, as he'd like to, because it was him she needed to be protected from. He couldn't see it, but he knew it was there, the virus dormant but alive. He'd hoped, when he'd dropped the match and lit the house from the ground up, it would all be burnt away, but he was starting to think he could have walked through the fire himself and come out with nothing to show for it but his worst scars yet.

During their off-times, those of them who had made it back slinked around the billets in the trench, not making eye contact, like they’d all seen something no one wanted to have to testify to and so they’d agreed not to acknowledge each other. Most everyone, at least. Ogata was the same as ever: unpleasant, but reliably so.

The hidden blessing of the cold was that it made it hard to smell the dead. Not much compensation, but it was something. They couldn’t make it out onto the battlefield just to collect them, not with the Russian guns rattling away at all hours, and even the ones close enough to pick up were too many to burn. They’d deal with it when it came time, but for now, they just tried not to think about it.

It was hard to imagine he had ever been anywhere else. This place felt like all there was. A stream in summer, flowers, sweet-smelling things and nights that were truly quiet; it seemed like the daydream of a stupid kid who wouldn’t grow up.

-

He and Ogata—

This is how Sugimoto got the bruise: three days into the battle for the hill, he woke in the night to an empty bedroll next to him and Ogata nowhere to be seen. He lay in place for a while, staring up at the night sky above, but Ogata didn’t come creeping back. No one else around him looked to be awake. Sugimoto sat up straight, the hairs on his arms standing up, waited a minute or two, and then put his boots on and crept between the rest of the sleepers out into the night.

As he picked his way through the main channel of the trench, he tried to talk himself down, to convince himself that Ogata had just gotten up to piss in the night. There was no reason why Sugimoto should know where he was all the time. He was still drowsy with poor sleep. His feet felt like they moved of their own will. If he was stopped by an officer, he didn’t have any story to tell to explain himself; but luck was on his side, tonight, because he didn’t pass any guards on his way out to the sparsely-guarded rear area of the trenches. He was starting to wake up enough to realize just how stupid of an idea it was to wander around just in hopes he’d run into Ogata so Sugimoto could demand to know—what? Why he was missing? Why he thought he could get away with whatever he wanted?—when Sugimoto blinked and made out two figures up ahead, weaving their way through the dugouts: one tall, in an officer's greatcoat, and the other slight, his outline muddled by a rain cloak but recognizable still.

Sugimoto hesitated for a moment before continuing forward. Some part of his brain that was still thinking straight told him to head back, that Hanazawa was an officer and whatever he wanted with Ogata wasn’t worth the effort of finding out. He pushed on.

Sound travelled far on a clear night like this. He heard Hanazawa murmur, “What was that important conversation you wanted to have with me? It will be dawn soon. We’ll be in a lot of trouble if the platoon commander finds us.”

Ogata replied, but his voice was harder to make out, so Sugimoto stepped closer, but he must have stepped wrong, because a rock went flying from his boot to skip along the rubble. He cursed under his breath. Hanazawa turned, and recognition ignited across his face. Sugimoto didn’t even have time to pretend he was doing anything else besides following them before Hanazawa called out, “—Sugimoto? What are you doing?”

The game was up now. He stepped towards them, cleared his throat, and decided he’d dug himself in this deep already and he might as well commit. “Sorry, sir. Sergeant Tsukishima noticed Ogata was gone and sent me to look for him. Didn’t realize he was with you.” Ogata’s eyes narrowed.

As soon as he said it, Sugimoto was sure he’d be called on his bluff, as poorly thought-out as it was, but instead of pressing for details shock spread across Hanazawa’s face, though he already looked blanched enough. “Of course. Thank you, Sugimoto.” The fact he’d bought it—

Weirder and weirder. They made their way back to the billets, a silent trio, and the hair didn’t come down from where it stood up on the back of Sugimoto’s neck. He tried to imagine what Hanazawa would look like if he was angry, but it was a hard picture to come up with. If anything, Hanazawa was acting like Sugimoto had caught him out in bad behaviour. When they reached the makeshift officers’ barracks, Sugimoto expected Hanazawa to drag them in front of Tsurumi, but he just ordered them in an urgent undertone to report back to Tsukishima without delay, and excused himself.

Sugimoto watched the door to the tent shut behind him. They were alone, the two of them. He jerked his head to the side and Ogata followed him back out into the trench, out of earshot, in case Hanazawa were still on the other side of the thin canvas wall. As soon as they were far enough away, Sugimoto muttered, “I lied about Tsukishima.”

“That’s very obvious.”

Sugimoto stopped in his tracks and looked over at Ogata, who kept walking towards the dugouts from which they’d come. This was all a mistake, every time he and Ogata ended up alone together, but he couldn’t think of any moment out of the many where he could have headed it off at the pass. Sugimoto began to fast-walk enough to catch up to him, and hissed, “What were you doing out there?”

“The Second Lieutenant needed to consult my opinion on something important. Too important for the likes of you to know about, so don’t ask.”

“That's not what he made it sound like. He made it sound like your idea. And he was worried about getting caught, too.”

Ogata turned his head and looked Sugimoto full in the face. “What do you think it sounded like, then, Sugimoto the Immortal?”

“Stop calling me that.”

“It's what everyone calls you now. I thought you liked it.” Ogata looked closer to truly angry than Sugimoto had ever seen him. Most of the time he gave off a sort of unfocused malice. This—this had a target, and Sugimoto was oddly relieved to feel it directed at himself. So you do feel something, huh.

“Well, you always say it like... hey, stop changing the subject.” Even his own voice lacked vitriol. He sounded tired. His face ached from the scars that were only now starting to form. They were still scabbed over, and it hurt to speak.

“You changed it yourself.” There was a tightness to Ogata's neck and jaw whenever Hanazawa was around, and it hadn’t vanished yet. Ogata's face didn't give away much—did it ever?—but there was a nasty light in the back of his eyes.

Sugimoto still didn’t quite feel awake. Everything was a little blurry, and he couldn’t help thinking about what had happened the last time they were alone like this. The last few times. The memory of that night he'd gotten his face slashed, and what had happened when Ogata saw his wound, flooded through his mind, and he had to try and blink the flush away. From the way Ogata was regarding him, he wasn't sure he'd been successful. Something dark and keen unwound in the pit of his gut like a snake sighting prey. “Is he really your brother?”

“What do you think?”

“You don’t really look alike. Doesn't seem like you like him much, either.”

“Would you, if you were me?”

“Shit, I don't know.” And, because it was the middle of the night, the stars were covered, and there was no one around to hear him but Ogata, who seemed like a bottomless well you could throw secrets into without hearing them hit the water, he said, “My brothers are dead.”

Ogata's eyebrows arched, just a little. “Really.”

“I burned them. And my sister, and my parents. I burned down the whole house.”

Something close to a smile spread across Ogata's face. “You're quite a guy, Sugimoto.”

They were already risking way too much sneaking around like this; they were going to get in shit as soon as someone noticed they were missing. Might as well go for broke.

Ogata was watching him way too closely, like he knew exactly what Sugimoto wanted but would make him ask for it. Well, two could play at that game. Sugimoto didn’t want what Ogata would give him, anyhow—he wanted—

Sugimoto pushed down the rest of his common sense and laid the flat of his hand over Ogata’s mouth before leaning down to press his own lips to Ogata’s neck. He felt the quick, hot press of tongue against his palm, there and then gone, and for some reason Sugimoto thought it was actually a reflexive action of surprise, not one of those things Ogata did just to be unpleasant. Maybe it was the late hour making him charitable.

There was a rash on Ogata’s neck in the same spot as Sugimoto had one, where their damp shirt-collars rubbed up against skin day in and day out. He kept mouthing down past the stubble growing under Ogata’s jaw, the kind only found in the true middle of the night. When he unbuttoned Ogata’s collar and followed the path of the bead of sweat that rolled down the side of Ogata’s neck to his collarbone, he reached surprisingly soft skin. Weird, to think of any part of Ogata as soft. Sugimoto ran his tongue over the pale skin at the hollow of his clavicle and gnawed on Ogata’s collarbone, which got him a hiss and fingers clawing at Sugimoto’s own shirt-buttons, but he let it be, for now, and went back to Ogata’s neck. Might as well admit it: he was kissing him. Only fools tried to lie to themselves. It felt good, even as Ogata’s hands pushed up under Sugimoto’s shirt and his nails dug into his stomach, leaving raw tracks behind them. It was obvious he was trying to goad Sugimoto into something harsher. Sugimoto couldn’t give it to him, not now.

He made his way down Ogata’s chest. Each rib had been brought up close to the skin from victuals and hard marching. His skin was nearly scarless, besides old ones long since faded, the kind anyone who grew up working outside would bear. Nothing like what Sugimoto had collected. Ogata rarely left the trench. Didn’t need to. Sugimoto wasn’t born with that kind of eye, or patience, and their skins kept the score.

He knelt at Ogata’s feet, cautious, knowing it was probably written across his face that he’d never done this before, never even really thought about it until—recently. It was hard to get away from everything, the whole unit living in each other’s pockets as they were, so they hadn’t gotten up to much, but it was enough to figure out patterns. Sugimoto glanced up to see Ogata’s face was flushed and his brows were drawn in the middle, as if he wasn’t quite sure what was going on either, though if Sugimoto had learned anything since all this had started it was that Ogata would get on his knees at very little provocation. It was like the filthiness of it got him off as much as anything else. Like he could degrade himself faster and more thoroughly than anyone else could try. In all that time, Sugimoto had never reciprocated at this—it’d never seemed possible, Ogata tended to take what he wanted from him and then move on—but he needed to do something that wasn’t for his own survival. Taking care of someone, the only way he could think of, right now: he needed it so bad he thought he might be sick. Chasing some proof his body was capable of something other than weathering pain, or causing it.

Ogata’s hands ran across Sugimoto’s shoulders to grasp his neck, and for a second Sugimoto almost ducked away, thinking he was going to try choking him again, like back in Asahikawa, when Ogata had first started picking scraps of a different kind—but no, the grip stayed loose. Instead of cutting off his air, Ogata dug his thumb over the bullet hole in the side of Sugimoto’s neck, the wound mostly faded but still red and angry, and Sugimoto rushed to press his face against Ogata’s hip to hide the flash of pain. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t felt already a hundred times over, but here, when they were already on the edge of something Sugimoto didn’t know how to put a name to, letting Ogata have that—letting him see Sugimoto feeling something involuntary at his hands—felt like something Sugimoto couldn’t afford.

Be that as it may, Sugimoto was here, now, and he had a task at hand. He unbuttoned the trouser front, reached in, took a moment to reckon with the fact that he liked the feeling of Ogata’s cock in his hand, of all the fucking things—

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and then leaned in. The shape of it in his mouth was odd, not bad, just more—present than he'd expected. Spreading his lips hurt where the scar tissue was still forming from the slash down his face, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He tried to work his mouth over him, to mimic the motions of what Ogata did when he went down on him, but Ogata was always so quick about it, not like he was afraid of getting caught but like he had to prove how efficient he could be. There was no way Sugimoto could do that, and he didn't really want to, anyway, so he gave up on trying to take it down very far, instead just licking around the underside, trying to map his way. Figure out his bearings.

He glanced up at Ogata, just to see what he was doing, expecting nothing but the usual blank stare, but Ogata had covered the lower half of his face with a hand. As if he was afraid of giving something away. His brows were lifted higher than Sugimoto had ever seen them. His eyes were blown, pupils expanded to their outer limits. He looked gutted. Ogata's other hand still rested on the crook of Sugimoto's shoulder, and his notched fingernails dug into his skin, pulling him closer, and it hit Sugimoto somewhere inside his chest: Ogata actually wanted him. Not just as an exercise, a test of his skills, to see if he could or as something to pass the time; Ogata was looking at him with the kind of hunger that couldn’t be faked. Sugimoto wasn't sure he knew that, before. He wasn't a friend, couldn't be trusted, was at best someone he’d want at his back in a fight, and Sugimoto wanted to fuck him, would get to, if he was lucky, before the war ended, and if he’d got to know him at all Sugimoto would bet that Ogata wanted that too, and so everyone would get what they wanted and how the hell that had happened Sugimoto had no idea.

He squeezed his eyes shut and went back to work. All other sounds were drowned out by the rush of blood within his own head. He wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping his teeth out of the way, but Ogata was letting out quiet, hitching breaths he muffled with his own hand, so he didn’t think Ogata really minded. Sugimoto was stroking the inside of his thigh, petting at him a little, fussing. Come on, now. I can’t keep this up forever.

He pulled away for a second, out of breath, rested his forehead against Ogata's leg and heard his own gasps gone a little raspy through a throat that had never met this kind of treatment before. His whole body was firing away, vibrating with it, and he didn't know where exactly they were headed except that they were getting there, together, and fast.

It wasn’t much of a decision. He wanted something neither of them could take back. To stake a claim on some territory. It was like some cage inside him had been pried open and something feral let out never to be shoved back in again. He wanted handprints on his skin hard enough to leave marks. He wanted the two of them to collide so hard they’d ricochet off each other and go flying. He surged to his feet, grabbed blindly at Ogata’s shoulders, and brought their mouths together. Ogata’s lips froze under his own. Sugimoto kept jerking him off with his right hand, but his left went to the back of Ogata’s neck, pulling him in closer towards him. Sugimoto hadn’t closed his eyes, and Ogata hadn’t either; they stared each other down amid the imitation of a kiss, neither really breathing, until Sugimoto shut his eyes, ran his tongue across Ogata’s bottom lip, and bit down into it.

That was the trick, in the end. Maybe Ogata just didn’t like to have to crane his neck up, because it was still sloppy and felt like a fight, but he let Sugimoto kiss him, his back against the wall and hands fisting in Sugimoto’s shirt-collar. Even kissed him back, after a fashion, with a lot of teeth involved. Sugimoto heard Ogata’s cap clatter to the floor and was pretty sure he had knocked it off with his own forehead. Their tongues brushed against each other’s, and it was almost hot enough to startle him. It felt like the dirtiest thing they’d ever done. His chin was wet with saliva and precome and he wondered what he tasted like, if Ogata was tasting himself on his mouth.

Sugimoto took his hands away for a moment to shove Ogata up the wall by his hips so his feet were barely touching the floor and then ground his knee between Ogata’s thighs, hard, and that did it, show was over. Ogata finished onto Sugimoto’s leg, panting, like it had been chased out of him. Sugimoto didn’t last much longer, just unbuttoned his trousers enough to jerk himself off, his forehead pressed against the place Ogata’s shoulder met his neck. He felt the muscles in his thighs twitch, he squeezed his eyes shut so hard he saw lights flash across the back of his lids like bursts of mortar, and he was mumbling something foul and incoherent against Ogata’s collarbone and hoping he was too far gone to notice. Ogata turned his face towards him, leaned down, and then bit down on Sugimoto’s collarbone and sucked at the mark it left behind like he was trying to get the venom out of a sting.

When he pulled away, Ogata’s head lolled back against the wall, mouth ajar, still breathing heavily, with a darker flush across his face than Sugimoto could ever remember seeing. His eyes were half-open, but they followed Sugimoto’s every move. Without taking the time to think twice, Sugimoto raised his own hand to his face and licked the come, both of theirs, off his fingers. His palm, next, ‘til all the evidence was hidden. Ogata’s eyes were all the way open, now, and he looked at him in a way that was more unsettling than any of the times he’d threatened Sugimoto directly. He looked like he’d just realized something, and Sugimoto had better catch up.

Sugimoto wiped the leftover dampness on his shirt and then buttoned both of them up, his trousers first, then Ogata’s, and bent down to pick Ogata’s cap from where it’d fallen on the floor. He placed it on Ogata’s head and took a step back. Ogata blinked, and when his eyes opened they were as shuttered as ever, like someone had blown out a lantern.

-

The severe dressing-down from Tsukishima that Sugimoto expected never came. Hanazawa was such a goody-two-shoes that it meant he must never have snitched, which confirmed that whatever he had been doing out there with Ogata wasn’t in the books. Sugimoto wondered if Tsurumi knew. Were they sneaking out behind his back, or on his orders? Hard to say. Ever since he’d landed in Hokkaido, he’d gotten the sense there was something weird going on with the division, not just the usual squabbling for glory between rich pencil-pushers with sabres.

Only a few days later, they took the hill. After that, everything fell into place quite quickly, and they marched through the gates of Port Arthur at half the strength they’d arrived. Each man was an ant in an uneven row of them.

Most of the people of the city, and definitely all the ones with money, had left by train as soon as it became clear the tides were turning against them. The city was nearly empty but for the dogs left behind by their owners. Nice ones, mostly, who recognized human touch but were getting hungrier by the hour and more likely to get mean. They would follow you around for hours if you let them, turning over and rolling in the dirt, showing their bellies. There was one, a big dopey fellow with drowsy eyes, who must’ve looked at Sugimoto and seen a sucker, because he trailed Sugimoto for a whole day until Sugimoto caved in and gave him some salt-fish from his pack.

As he was crouched next to it, watching it eat, a voice came from behind him: “Private First Class Sugimoto: can I have a word?”

He didn’t need to look up to know whose it was. Sugimoto’s heartbeat picked up like he was about to make another charge over the edge of the hill. Had Hanazawa figured out Sugimoto’s lie, and how to leverage it? He wasn’t sure what Hanazawa could want from him, but there was always something. Sugimoto knew that well enough, and yet he knew by now that Hanazawa wasn’t like the rest of them.

Hanazawa knelt by Sugimoto’s side and held out his hand to let the dog sniff him. He must have smelled good, because it liked him right away. It snuffled against Sugimoto’s leg and moved to stand in between them, so they could each pet one of his sides. Crafty thing.

“I wanted to feed them, too, but I didn’t want to look like I was wasting resources. I’m glad someone is taking care of them.”

“I didn’t have enough to give to any of the other ones. Probably shouldn’t have even fed this guy, not when I can’t take him with us.”

“I’m sure he’ll never forget you for it.”

“Do you know when we head back out, sir?”

“As soon as the repairs to the railcars are finished. Then it’s north to Mukden.” Hanazawa scratched the dog under the chin, and its eyes slipped closed. “Can I ask you something personal, Sugimoto?”

Sugimoto froze. Was this going to be it, then? The soft touch, before the hammer came down? “What is it, sir?”

“I can’t help but notice that—that you’ve made friends with Ogata since you came to the division.”

Sugimoto opened his mouth to insist that they weren’t friends before he realized that might do him more harm than good. “I guess you could say that.”

Hanazawa apparently didn’t notice his hesitation, because he turned to Sugimoto to fix him with his wide eyes. “I know that he doesn’t particularly like me. I’ve tried to be friendly, but I think I’ve been doing it all wrong. I want to get to know him better, and I thought you’d have a better sense of him than I would.”

This was such an unexpected turn of events that Sugimoto had to cough to buy himself a few more seconds. He considered asking, plain and simple, what the two of them were doing at the dugouts at night if they weren’t on good terms, but he was wary. He also considered blurting out that their friendship was based on some pretty specific grounds and he didn’t think the details would help Hanazawa out any. He tore his eyes away from Hanazawa’s and focused on the dog’s fur passing between his fingers: dirty, but still soft, not yet matted. “To be honest, I don’t know what to tell you. I didn’t really set out to get to know him. And anyway, I think he’s the type you have to wait around for and let them come to you.”

“I don’t know if we have as much in common as you do,” Hanazawa replied in a tone that was close to petulant. Sugimoto wondered, wildly, if the rich boy was jealous of him.

“Ask him to tell you about marksmanship, I’m sure he’d love it.”

“Really? Oh, that’s great, Sugimoto. I knew you would have something to suggest. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” He’d meant it as a joke, but next to him Hanazawa had actually brightened a little.

“Don’t worry about it. I hope it works out.” He patted the dog on the haunches for what he hoped would be the last time and left it with Hanazawa. The next morning the sun rose pink in the sky, and Sugimoto found that the dog had slept on the doorstep of the makeshift billet the regiment had put together, just waiting for him to come out.

They settled in for a few days’ respite in real beds and took stock of what they’d lost and gained. They buried the Russian dead and cremated their own. Clouds of human smoke filled the air, preferable to the gunpowder discharge but just as stifling. Through it all, Ogata was a hard man to find. He’d been in a mood ever since the night Sugimoto had interrupted him and Hanazawa. It wasn’t that Sugimoto wanted his attention, or anything like that—to tell the truth, it was a bit of a relief not to feel the weight of his attention quite so strongly. It just made him a little suspicious. He’d gotten used to Ogata batting at him like a cat with a piece of string. After they entered the city, however, Sugimoto saw him more often from a distance than up close. He still felt like he was being watched. Paranoia, maybe, but he couldn’t help glancing around as if something was going to jump out at him from behind a pile of rubble or the corner of a building.

Even though they’d won the siege, the attitude of the officers was grim. Even Hanazawa had lost much of his cheer. All he could find in himself to hope for was that, wherever they went, it wouldn’t involve too much marching.

He woke one sleepless morning with puffy eyes and a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t wanted to have to resort to this, but he couldn’t get the thought out of his mind, and so as soon as he had the chance Sugimoto made his way over to Tsurumi’s makeshift office. It was set up inside of a ransacked Russian telegraph office. When he entered, Tsurumi was turned away, looking out the window into the courtyard beneath; when he saw Sugimoto, he gave one of those deep smiles that had made Sugimoto instantly distrust him. These days, he felt something else about it. He still didn’t like Tsurumi, but the man had held his head high while leading a dwindling unit into the fray, day after day without the cracks showing. A lesser man would have started to look ashamed of the amount of his unit’s blood on his hands, but Tsurumi had continued to hold himself like he knew exactly what they ought to be doing, even while they were dying in droves. It wasn’t easy, that. Up close, though, you could see what it’d cost him. He was still a handsome man, but he’d lost weight; he was much gaunter now, and he hadn’t had much fat in his face to lose.

“Sir, can I ask a favour?”

Tsurumi’s brows lifted, and he inclined his head indulgently. “Of course. If anyone has earned it, it’s you.”

“I have a friend. We grew up together. He was with me in my unit of the 1st. I just want to know—”

“Whether he made it through hell alive?” Tsurumi smiled, again, and it showed no teeth. “Just give me a name, and I’ll see what I can do.”

After he wrote down Toraji’s information on a piece of paper and placed it in Tsurumi’s hand, Sugimoto wavered for a moment more. He wasn’t a snitch, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the mass of images swirling around inside his head, which he couldn’t sort out and all seemed to fold back into Hanazawa’s pale face looking guilty in the near-darkness.

He asked Tsurumi nothing, and left. It wasn’t until the sun was low in the sky that Sugimoto realized the dog was nowhere to be seen.