To walk one-on-one with an enlisted man in broad daylight invited the glances of everyone around them, so Tsurumi must have been feeling bold, but Tsurumi had definitely been bold as of late. There were small scouting parties going out every day or so to see to tasks no one else was quite sure of, and Ogata himself had been part of a group assigned to do a complete inventory of the Asahikawa garrison’s armoury that he would’ve bet money hadn’t been approved by the brass. What was a little overfamiliarity with a superior private in comparison to that?

He’d approached Ogata as Ogata made his way back from the parade grounds in the late afternoon, looking as serene as was possible now that his features were fixed in a permanent state of faint shock. Ever since the bandages had come off and the scars were revealed, Tsurumi’s eyes looked perpetually wide with surprise. The healed tissue was tight around the eyelids. It had to be painful, but whenever pressed about it Tsurumi acted as if the damage to his head and face was only a mild inconvenience.

Tsurumi waved him over with a gloved hand and called, “Come with me, will you, Ogata? You’re excused from drills for the rest of the afternoon. I’ve already spoken to Corporal Tamai about it.”

Ogata’s skin prickled faintly in a mixture of anticipation and apprehension, but he followed, of course. He’d thought Tsurumi had tired of giving him off-the-record orders, but perhaps not. Ogata thought they would just walk for the sake of it, as a pretext for whatever oblique instructions Tsurumi was going to dispense to him next, but Tsurumi steered them through the buildings of the compound at too brisk a pace for that. The First Lieutenant clearly had a destination in mind, but Ogata didn’t realize what it was until Tsurumi stroked his moustache contemplatively and asked, “Have you been in to see your brother’s condition for yourself yet?”

A icy bolt of dread shot through his stomach. “Not yet.” He would not be paying any well-wishing visits to the Second Lieutenant if he could help it. The thought of standing across from him in that hospital room—he remembered, for a moment, the shift of Yuusaku’s head as he had looked back over his shoulder at Mukden, the light of familiarity that had flashed through his eyes—it’d been too dark and far away for Ogata to see what had happened to Yuusaku, really, besides the stream of blood across his face, dripping off his chin, and the sight of him turning as if in recognition before falling down.

“Really? Well, now you’ll get your chance.” If Tsurumi could tell the impact his words had on Ogata, he wasn’t showing it; he just continued to stroll towards the infirmary ward with his coattails fluttering in the chill breeze and a vague smile on his lips. Ogata kept his eyes on the horizon until they neared the entrance to the building. Faint traces of sunset, orange and lilac, stained the edges of the sky. As they neared the door, they came face to face with two men who had just exited: one was tall, young, dark, and fresh-faced, in the neatly-pressed attire of an officer cadet. Walking beside him was a shorter man with thick whiskers and the ornate uniform of a high-ranking officer. Just as Ogata squinted to make out the insignia, Tsurumi stopped in his tracks, bowed deeply, and said, “Lieutenant General Hanazawa! Pardon me, sir. I won’t keep you long.”

Ogata had only ever seen his father in photographs, at least within memory. Yuuskau’s height must have come from his mother; Hanazawa senior was physically unimpressive. He nodded distractedly, his face grave. “Of course, Tsurumi.”

Though the weather was warming, Tsurumi hadn’t yet switched out of his winter uniform; from the angle at which Ogata stood, most of Tsurumi’s face was obscured between the headplate and his high fur collar. “Were you and Cadet Koito with the Second Lieutenant?”

Hanazawa’s face was expressionless. “Yes, we were.”

Tsurumi reached out and laid a hand on the back of Ogata’s collar. Too familiar by half, even without the singular fingertip that, out of view of the others, stroked the nape of Ogata’s neck, where regulation crew cut faded into bare skin. “I was just accompanying Superior Private Ogata to see him, myself. Has there been any change?”

His father shook his head slowly, his eyes travelling down the length of Tsurumi’s arm to reach Ogata’s face. They had the same eyes. Hanazawa looked at him for no more than a few seconds before turning back to Tsurumi. “Not that they can see.”

Nothing in his father’s expression showed that he recognized Ogata at all, but there was no way he could not. Had his father ever touched him before? Did old man Hanazawa hold his firstborn son? It was worse to think he had, and still cast Ogata and his mother aside when a better son came along, than to think his father had been indifferent from the start.

“Ah. Well, the division will continue to hope for his recovery. We won’t disturb you any longer, sir.” Tsurumi bowed again, every inch the respectful subordinate, and lead Ogata inside the infirmary building.

Neither of them said a word as they made their way past cots of war wounded into a side corridor. Ogata’s limbs followed Tsurumi’s path automatically, but his mind was still on the other side of the door. He thought Tsurumi might have been humming under his breath a piece of music that sounded familiar, maybe a piece he’d played on the piano for the division some years back.

They passed countless nurses and men on crutches before Tsurumi led him inside a small room. There was a vase of fresh sunflowers on the bedside table. Two chairs had been set up so visitors could sit next to the cot and still look at the patient. Ogata took one when Tsurumi offered it to him. There was, indeed, someone lying in the cot, but he didn’t look at them; he kept his gaze on the patch of sky visible through the small window.

Tsurumi dispensed with appropriate observation of rank early on, as was his custom when they were alone. “Your father must be quite the actor. Not only can he look you in the face and pretend he doesn’t know who you are, he can look at me as if he isn’t responsible for the deaths of half my men.”

Ogata made a noncommittal sound from the back of his throat. Next to him, in the other chair, Tsurumi took off his gloves and folded them in his lap. “Some information has been fed to a group of men from another company regarding Noppera-bou’s convicts. They have reason to believe there will never be a better time to attempt to break them out. They will move within a fortnight. Noppera-bou himself cannot be moved, but this is the best chance we’ll get to seize hold of the gold map without the interference of the prison guards. That is, if there are no surprises.” Tsurumi glanced away from Ogata’s face and looked towards the cot. “They say he’s stable, but what happens next is anyone’s guess. Koito Otonoshin will replace Yuusaku as Acting Second Lieutenant, notwithstanding a sudden turnaround. He still hasn’t formally graduated from the Army Academy, but we can push that along without much trouble. His father is a trusted friend and ally. I have faith that his son will prove similarly loyal.” Great: another spoiled brat, this time from Tsurumi’s inner circle.

Tsurumi went on. “Of course, Yuusaku may still recover. It’s looking more unlikely by the day, but it would be an injustice to throw over those who have given the most so quickly, just because of the wounds they’ve sustained.” Ah. Now Ogata understood—Tsurumi was worried that, were Yuusaku put out to pasture, Central would start nosing around about his own condition. It was fun to watch Tsurumi pushed onto the back foot.

Tsurumi was watching Ogata’s face for a reaction. When he got nothing up to his liking, he commented, “You seem to be handling it well.”

“Sir?”

“Your brother is in a coma after being shot in action. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling.”

“It’s a loss to the unit,” Ogata ventured, unsure of where exactly Tsurumi was going, “but not the only one we’ve had.”

“Indeed,” said Tsurumi, bowing his head with all the necessary gravitas. The light from the window gleamed on the surface of the headplate. “And they all died with honour and will be remembered as heroes, yes. But still, your complicated relationship aside, it must come as quite a shock.”

Ogata had to bite his tongue not to come out with it and remind Tsurumi that there’d been a time they’d baldly discussed ways to efficiently dispatch Yuusaku, but Tsurumi never said or did anything without a purpose, so he bid his time. “I’m not sure how to feel about it, sir.”

Yuusaku should be dead. He wasn't meant to live this long. There was something so wrong about it. Ogata had thought he needed to see for himself before he could truly believe he was still alive, but now that he had the chance he was realizing he didn’t want to see Yuusaku at all. If Yuusaku woke up—

“From what I hear, you were even on the field when it happened. In eyeshot. Did you see it?”

A row of goosebumps rose on Ogata’s upper arms, but he kept his breathing steady. Just like lying in wait for a shot. “I saw him fall, but I didn’t see where the shot came from.”

“That’s too bad. I’d have loved to know exactly how it happened. Flag-bearers have a high mortality rate, of course, so maybe I should have expected it, but Yuusaku had this quality to him—well, you would know better than anyone. I suppose there are just some things we’ll never know.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course, we did talk about how it might indeed have been easier to move forward without him, hadn’t we? In some ways I think that’s still true. If you don’t mind my saying so.” Tsurumi still looked casual as ever, but Ogata felt an itch in his palms, an anticipation for whatever was happening to happen, for the latent threat to come out in the open and so it could be dealt with.

“I don’t mind. It’s true. He was a liability.”

“You see, Ogata, this is how I know you’re going to go far; your ability to judge a situation objectively is exceptional.”

“Thank you, sir.” Once upon a time, not so very long ago, he would've bought Tsurumi's line without question. Now the workings behind the maneuvers were so obvious he didn't know how he'd ever been taken in.

Tsurumi nudged Ogata’s foot with his own, too deliberately to be an accident. The pressure caught Ogata off-guard for a moment, sending a warm rush through his chest, and he almost leaned into it before he took stock of it for what it was: an unsubtle ploy. Tsurumi was back to playing the benevolent patriarch with one hand and the seducer with the other, like a pair of shadow-puppets. Well, too little too late. If he’d done this even a year ago he would’ve had Ogata eating out of the palm of his hand, but though patience was one of Ogata’s strengths, he couldn’t wait forever for something that might never come. There were other men in the world. Some, in fact, who were giving more than Tsurumi ever had without Ogata having to do much at all to earn it.

“There are a few matters that demand my attention first, but come, hmm, two weeks from now, would you join me in taking a trip to the other side of town? You could pay a call on your father while we’re in the neighborhood. I think we would both find it worth our while.” The toe of Tsurumi’s boot ran up the inside of Ogata’s ankle, resting over the bone there for a moment before dropping away.

“I’d be honoured.” So it had come time for that. He did allow himself a small smile at the thought of it, but the stale air and smell of flowers was pressing in on him from all sides. He was running out of places to fix his gaze so he didn’t have see Yuusaku breathe.

“Was there anything else, sir? I should report back.”

“Oh, no, that’s alright. Thank you for humouring me.” Ogata got to his feet; Tsurumi stayed seated. Tsurumi almost let him escape, but sure enough, before Ogata could close the door behind him, Tsurumi called back: “Hyakunosuke.” Ogata froze. Before he had the chance to turn around, Tsurumi continued, “I don’t mind that you did it, but I did tell you not to. So next time, make it count.”

-

The garrison at Asahikawa hadn’t changed in the time they were away, but it took longer than Ogata expected for it to once again feel familiar. Spring was on its way, but it hadn’t yet settled, and the soil was still frozen underfoot most mornings. He’d spent years here at the shooting range and make-work projects, and then they went to war and got the chance to do what they’d been practicing for; to come back and go back to running drills seemed impossible, yet there they were.

Not that everything was the same. From the first day they set foot back in headquarters, the change in energy from how things used to be was palpable. None among them seemed interested in celebrating their hard-won victory. On the contrary, some days it felt like the war hadn’t been won.

Tsurumi had always loved the sound of his own voice, but around the mess hall he started to deliver speech after speech in bits and pieces to the captive audience of hungry men. Never a whole monologue, just a few sentences here and there as everyone waited for their food: “The Colonel is coming by for an inspection of the base in a few days, so everyone should be on their best behaviour. I’m tempted to ask him where he was at 203 Hill, when we were shielding ourselves from bullets with the bodies of our own comrades? Pardon the unappetizing dinner conversation, but it must be said. I know these sentiments are shared by many of you. I hear the mutters, and I can’t blame you a bit.”

Ogata always knew Tsurumi had ambitions that went beyond the scope of his station, but it was amusing how little time it’d taken him to start to show his true face. The atmosphere whenever he got like this was always hushed, rapturous. The rest of the division hung on his every word, with a few exceptions. Corporal Tamai always had his eyes on the ground. Next to Ogata on the mess hall bench, Sugimoto’s thigh was always tight with tension, like he was ready to run.

-

After the poison Ogata fed her began to take hold, his mother had laid under blankets on the floor of the family home as she rotted away. His grandparents had fussed over her helplessly until they sent him to go fetch the doctor, though they couldn’t afford it. He’d walked all the way into town as slowly as he could, dragging his feet in the dirt, kicking at stones. He didn’t want to see her face. It didn’t upset him. It just wasn’t something he wanted to see.

The barracks he’d spent six years sleeping in looked the same as they had the day they had left for the coast, but half the beds were empty, now. Even so, the room was louder than it had been before. Across the aisle from him, Ogata watched Tanigaki toss back and forth as sleep eluded him also.

Had Tsurumi taken him to Yuusaku’s bedside to say he would cover it all up if Ogata were to return and finish him off? That would be impressive work, even for the First Lieutenant. Was it a taunt, then, reminding Ogata of his failure in order to keep him humble, or was Tsurumi motivated by some other, more inscrutable aim?

He tried to imagine himself standing over Yuusaku’s bedside and seeing his brother turn to him. Try as he might, even in his mind he couldn't make out what could possibly be behind Yuusaku’s eyes. Admonition, or lack of recognition, or forgiveness: he couldn't decide which would be worse. It would be better for everyone if Yuusaku never woke up, anyway. His brother wasn't like Tsurumi, he couldn't take being broken and make it work for him. He didn't have that ruthless nature. He should have been snuffed out the first time.

He saw it play out behind his eyelids with all the clarity and mutant logic of a dream: Tsurumi standing over Yuusaku's bedside, asking him in that honeyed tone what had happened to him, and Yuusaku turning to him, pointing a finger that reached all the way out and touched Ogata despite his not even being in the room—

He couldn’t kill him. Neither could he leave him alive. Ogata got up and crept out of the room, making sure that Sugimoto was truly asleep before he left the barracks. He wouldn’t make that mistake twice.

It truly wasn’t hard to get into the infirmary after hours. They chained up the main doors, but all it took to bypass the lock on the back door was a few minutes’ jiggling with a needle.

Ogata spent a good few minutes crouched just inside the doorframe, where he tugged his stiff boots off so the sound of hobnails on the hard surface of the floor wouldn’t draw any unwanted attention. As he did so, his eyes begun to acclimatize to the darkness. The windows were all covered, so there was practically no light to speak of. Before long, he begun to make out shapes: cabinets, tables, shelving units, and rows of cots, almost all full. He waited for a sound of any kind to come out of the darkness, anything to indicate he’d woken any sleepers or alerted a night-nurse. Nothing came. Slowly, as though tracking prey, he got to his feet and padded noiselessly down the corridor with his boots hanging between the finger and thumb of one hand. His other hand rested on the hilt of his bayonet at his waist.

It wasn’t hard to retrace the steps Tsurumi had taken earlier. Yuusaku was tucked away from the other sick and injured in his own room. Ogata had to wonder if he’d been put there from the start by virtue of his status as an officer, or if their father took the credit for that piece of luxury. Had Lieutenant General Hanazawa had his son moved somewhere private so the rest of the rabble couldn’t see him when he came to visit, when he was at his weakest with grief for his beloved son?

Whatever the reason for Yuusaku’s seclusion, it made things easier for Ogata. The door to Yuusaku’s room wasn’t even locked. It slid open soundlessly at a gentle prod of his fingertips. Despite everything, Ogata still half-expected Yuusaku to turn around and face him looking whole and healthy, just smudged around the edges from a long rest. Needless to say, Yuusaku did not. He lay there, looking for all the world like a corpse if it weren’t for the barely-there rise and fall of his chest.

The place smelled like alcohol and piss and blood. The air was dry and stifling. It was no place for someone pure. Someone like that had no place in this world, least of all hovering between life and death in an empty room in a barren place like this. Ogata would be doing him a kindness by finishing what he’d started—not that kindness was why he’d come here. He took a step closer to the cot and let the door slide closed behind him.

Only a few petals had yet fallen from the sunflowers on the bedside table.

Ogata had brought his bayonet with him, but now that he stood in front of Yuusaku it was clear that he wouldn’t do. Even if he took the time to clean up the blood, someone would no doubt look over the body and see the wound, no matter how tidily he went about it. This wasn’t like it’d been with his mother; there was no way he could get poison into Yuusaku in a way people wouldn’t notice, even if he had any, which he didn’t. That kind of thing required forethought. Ogata hadn’t had the chance to think through what he’d come here to do before he did it. It was a question of acting or going out of his mind, and he had chosen to act.

He leaned over the cot, careful not to make a sound. Yuusaku lay on his back. The crown of his head was wound in gauze, as Tsurumi’s had been, but his face was exposed. It was pale and unlined, a little skinnier than it used to be, his cheekbones and nose looking harsh against thin cheeks. His head was turned towards the covered window, blocking Ogata’s view of the place where he knew the entry wound lay beneath the bandages. For all he could get at it it might as well have been on the dark side of the moon. Though, if Yuusaku were really comatose, Ogata could surely turn his head, peel aside the wrappings just enough to get a look at the wound—Ogata reached out a hand, but before his fingers even touched flesh, as soon as he came close enough to feel the warmth of Yuusaku’s face, Yuusaku’s eyelashes fluttered as if he was about to wake. It took all his willpower not to jump backwards. He did, however, pull his hand back.

No use waiting around any longer. He ought to just do it and have it done with. Ogata took hold of the corner of one of the pillows under Yuusaku’s head and carefully begun to pull it free. This was the kind of sleep people didn’t wake from, so he didn’t truly need to be so careful, but looking at Yuusaku it was hard not to think he was just lying there dreaming and would sit up as soon as he was disturbed. It was still better to go about things deliberately.

After long seconds, the pillow slid out into Ogata’s grasp and Yuusaku’s head fell back on the mattress with a soft thud. His hair fanned out against the off-white linen, the contrast stark enough to make out even in the darkness.

The first time, when he’d shot Yuusaku, he’d felt many things, anticipation among them. Now he just wanted it to come to an end. His limbs were alight with a dull tingling, like they were full of pins and needles. He brought the pillow down over Yuusaku’s face, but didn’t press it yet, just rested it there. He glanced back at the vase of flowers on the bedside table. They were already drooping from the lack of light. Had soon-to-be-Second-Lieutenant Koito brought them, or another visitor, or had it been their father?

He steadied himself and begun to press the pillow down. He heard the heavy sounds of his own breath in his ears. The seconds crawled by. He thought he saw the fingers of one of Yuusaku’s hands twitch overtop of the sheets. It had to be done now, hadn’t it? It was hard to know. Ogata pulled the pillow away to check when he heard a clattering sound in the distance and then footsteps. Two pairs, and voices approaching. He shoved the pillow back under Yuusaku’s head and considered for a moment whether he should hide under the cot, should they come in to check on Yuusaku as part of nightly rounds, before he stepped onto the bedside table, using all his care not to knock over the vase, and unhooked the window latch. If he’d been much bigger he wouldn’t have fit, but he was able to throw his boots down onto the earth and then pull himself up and out of the frame. He cast Yuusaku one last look back over his shoulder before dropping down in a vain attempt to see whether he’d been successful but, of course, Yuusaku looked like he was sleeping just the same.

-

One of the upsides of Tsurumi’s increasingly brazen coup-in-the-making was that it was easier than ever to find opportunities for off-the-record talks of all kinds. For example: when Ogata approached the Lance-Corporal in charge of a group checking artillery pieces over for damage and said, “I was sent for Private First Class Sugimoto. First Lieutenant Tsurumi’s orders,” the Lance-Corporal only gave Ogata a brief suspicious glance before he nodded and let Ogata pull Sugimoto away.

As the two of them walked away in the other direction, back towards the main buildings, Sugimoto muttered, “Again? What does he need me for?”

“He doesn’t. I do. Come on, we don’t have all day.”

There was an outbuilding just off of the army hospital where, among other things, the infirmary had previously been storing all the extra cots. Luckily for the two of them, all of those were currently in use, and so the shed was roomier inside than it used to be. Not that it’d stopped anyone before; the screws holding the latch on were loose enough they could be removed without much trouble, and so it was a well-worn spot in the division for encounters of all kinds. Ogata had gotten fucked by a visiting cavalry officer in there when he was still just a first-class private. That wasn’t what he wanted Sugimoto for now, but it would serve them just as well. Ogata quickly glanced around them to make sure they weren’t being watched, and then opened up the door and pulled Sugimoto inside by the wrist.

“Has this been here the whole time?” Sugimoto squinted around the darkness as Ogata shut the door behind them.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about this place, Sugimoto.”

“Alright, what’s this about? You better have a pretty good reason to have pulled that shit with the Lance-Corporal.”

“I needed to talk to you about something.”

Sugimoto had a keen look in his eye. “Spit it out, then. I know you’re up to something, so you might as well say it.”

Ogata leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “Do you believe me now? I said Tsurumi had big plans. You really think any of this stuff he’s got us doing has been approved by Central Command, what with how he’s been talking?”

“What are you saying?”

“What do you think all the weird orders have been about? They've already begun mobilizing supply trains out of here, towards Otaru. My bet is he's going to lead a raid on the armoury soon. Read between the lines a little, Sugimoto. We're running out of time.”

Sugimoto crouched down, his hands hanging down loosely by the wrists between his legs for a moment before he reached up to take his cap off and scratch at the short hairs across his scalp. “Okay, so Tsurumi’s up to something. I’m supposed to trust you’re telling the truth about all this?”

After a moment, Ogata sat down across from him, cross-legged. “I’m not on Tsurumi’s orders, if that’s what you mean.” Ogata glanced at him. Sugimoto was frowning, his gaze fixed on nothing. He looked far away. Ogata leaned in closer and placed a hand on Sugimoto’s knee. “I've been with the First Lieutenant long enough to know how he thinks. I told you, remember, back on the train? Tsurumi's holding us all hostage here. If he really is trying for a coup, he knows he can't pull it off with only the men who would agree to it. It's suicide to go up against the government like that. He’s too delusional to realize he can't win, even if he gets the gold, and so we'll all go down with him as traitors unless we leave, and soon.”

He expected more protestations, but Sugimoto just tilted his head, regarded Ogata, and then started to laugh, just a dry sort of chuckle under his breath. “Okay, so we leave. And then what?”

“We beat him to it. We could be halfway to Otaru before they notice we’ve gone.” Ogata slid a knee in between Sugimoto’s legs. The room was windowless and drafty, and Sugimoto was warm.

Sugimoto glanced up at his face and made a noise in the back of his throat, and Ogata didn’t touch him any more, waiting for Sugimoto to make a move, as Ogata knew he would. He was so predictable. Just as he thought, one of Sugimoto’s hands landed on the small of his back and pulled Ogata closer in, so they were pressed together chest to chest.

He hadn’t had this in mind when he’d pulled Sugimoto aside this afternoon, but they were alone and wouldn’t be missed for a while yet. It could work to Ogata’s advantage, too, to keep Sugimoto distracted and well fed. Tsurumi had been a better teacher to him than the man might have intended.

Ogata would remain in control. Sugimoto was a simple man, easily led. The circumstances weren’t ideal, but if Ogata acted quickly, he could still come out of this mess with something to show for it. Sugimoto would like it, so just this once Ogata would go along with it—he curled a hand around the back of Sugimoto’s neck and brought him in closer to his own face. Sweetness to make the medicine go down easier; he could afford that.

“What do you say, Sugimoto the Immortal? Do you want to stay here and play Tsurumi’s mad dog, or do you want to be free?”

Sugimoto didn’t say anything, but he pulled Ogata in by a hand clasped in the collar of Ogata’s shirt. He’d guessed correctly. Sugimoto wanted to be kissed. The tension and suspicion in his frame melted away after half a minute of it. His hands grasped at Ogata’s waist for a little while until Sugimoto wrenched him down by the elbow. Ogata was sprawled on his back in the scant floorspace and Sugimoto crawled over top of him to kneel between Ogata’s legs, eyes wide and victorious.

Whatever he might say or believe about himself, Sugimoto liked causing Ogata pain. Ogata liked it too, so that was fine. He’d looked at Sugimoto for the first time, months ago, and seen something he recognized. They were cards drawn from the same deck.

Before long Sugimoto was grinding his hips against Ogata’s thigh impatiently, fumbling through Ogata’s clothes, pulling layers out of the way. This was all familiar by now, and fine, but he didn’t know the next time they’d get the chance, so when Sugimoto moved down to Ogata’s waist with a determined set of the brows, Ogata lifted his hips to help him get his trousers off and said, “You can fuck me, you know. If that’s what that look on your face is about.”

Sugimoto flushed. “Okay. I—yeah.”

“You have gun oil, don’t you? Just use that.” Sugimoto reached for Ogata’s belt, and Ogata sat up on his hands in indignation. “Not mine, yours.”

“I might still change my mind,” Sugimoto muttered, and he pushed Ogata back onto the floor with a hand on the chest while he fumbled for his own oil canister with the other.

He took to it well. Didn’t waste too much time getting him ready; just enough, and even that was pretty good. He had long fingers and strong hands. Sugimoto was the same while fucking as he was on the battlefield: frantic, looking for the exit, his movements sure and his strength enough to take what it liked. He liked to bite down, to take a chunk out of whatever flesh was put in front of him. He had a mouth made for rending. The feeling of his hips wedging Ogata’s thighs apart was insistently present, more solid than a rock face—it was better than he'd even imagined, all the times he'd imagined this. It was too dark to see much. Sugimoto's fists bunched in the heavy canvas that he'd pushed up around Ogata's chest.

The sound of Sugimoto's breath came in sharp, warm puffs next to Ogata’s ear. It felt like Sugimoto was reaching up inside him and clawing at something Ogata hadn’t known was there. Sugimoto thrust against him hard enough Ogata bit down on his own tongue, and his mouth filled with blood. He wanted to laugh, felt like he had to, like the suffocating feeling in his chest was going to spill out somehow, but the closest he got was a low, rough gasping in time with the way Sugimoto moved against him.

Sugimoto's eyes didn't leave his. It was the gaze of two predators measuring each other up at the boundary between their territories. Sugimoto's tongue kept flicking out to wet his lip; Ogata didn't think he even knew he was doing it. Colour rose high in his cheeks, blushing across his face and over his scars. Three slashes, it'd been, and one right across the mouth. Sugimoto was lucky he hadn’t lost any teeth.

If Ogata killed Sugimoto he wouldn’t want it to be like all the others. He’d want to be nearby, and in the light, not the darkness, so Ogata could see his brains spray out behind him. Sugimoto deserved a death as wild as the man was in life. In the light, so Sugimoto would know—Ogata would make sure he knew who pulled the trigger: he’d look him in the eye and get him in the centre of his forehead like a fairground trick-shot.

Although, if he found the right opening, got him in a moment of weakness, he could get a blade around Sugimoto’s neck and slice it right through. Sugimoto looked good with blood on him, it didn’t matter whose it was. Hand-to-hand combat was never Ogata’s style, but he’d want to be close enough to watch the life fade from Sugimoto’s eyes. To feel the way he’d struggle and thrash and go limp. To dip his fingers into the wound as the blood spattered out of Sugimoto’s jugular in the seconds before his heart stopped beating completely. Ogata could catch him as he fell, hold his cheek, feel Sugimoto’s blood seep into his own clothes to cover his skin, like Sugimoto had when Yuusaku—

Ogata shook his head, trying to clear it, and scratched his nails down Sugimoto’s back. Hopefully it’d draw blood. If Sugimoto got the message, he’d get serious and do something that would hurt, hopefully bad enough to stop Ogata’s mind from running any further towards things it didn’t do him any use to think about.

It didn’t work: Sugimoto just leaned up on his elbows and looked down at Ogata with furrowed brows. “Settle down.”

Ogata remembered with a jolt the dream he’d had the night before, where Yuusaku sleepwalked all the way to the barracks and loomed overtop of Ogata as he slept until Ogata woke to the feeling of blood dripping from Yuusaku’s wound down into his mouth, enough for him to choke on. Ogata shut his eyes so he didn’t have to look at Sugimoto’s face. He pushed himself up just enough to bite into a tendon in the side of Sugimoto’s neck, and then muttered against his skin, “Roll me over.”

“What?”

Ogata cleared his throat, dry from exertion, and said, “Turn me around.”

Sugimoto pulled back for a second, just long enough to scan Ogata’s face as if he expected some kind of trick, before he seized Ogata by the shoulders and manhandled him into a position face-down, ass-up. Ogata laughed under his breath, and for his trouble Sugimoto pushed all the way back in in one rough stroke. Ogata braced his forehead on his forearms until those gave out, too, and he steadied himself with his forehead resting on the ground. The floor was cold against his cheek. His breath came chafed and raw.

They fucked at a blistering pace after that. Sugimoto’s hands were curled around Ogata’s shoulders, so close to his neck that if he just reached out a little further he could cut off Ogata’s air entirely. Sugimoto was capable of it. On the battlefield Ogata had seen him twist a man’s neck between his palms until it snapped. That wouldn’t be such a terrible way to go. Ogata had never choked a man to death, but he could imagine what it would sound like: harsh splutters and ugly gasps, like the sound of drowning without the water to muffle it. Once he started, Sugimoto wouldn’t stop. He wasn’t one to let go of his prey.

Sugimoto slid the hand gripping Ogata’s left shoulder across to his bicep, then further down the length of Ogata’s arm to his hand, where Sugimoto enveloped the back of Ogata’s hand in the palm of his own before lacing their fingers together. He dug his jagged fingernails into Ogata’s skin like he was trying to carve new lines there. An unfamiliar feeling twisted through him; Ogata wanted to tear his hand away at the same time as he wanted to hold on tighter. Sugimoto’s breathing quickened, his thrusts faltering, and he started to pull out, probably trying to be polite, or something, but Ogata reached back with his free hand and pulled Sugimoto back in by the haunches. Sugimoto let out a strained sound and mumbled something incoherent against the base of Ogata’s neck that trailed off into nothingness as his movements slowed.

Ogata kept rocking back against him, his hips chasing the softening pressure. Sugimoto pushed Ogata down so he was prone against the ground, and then followed him, flattening his chest against Ogata’s back as he reached around to seize hold of Ogata’s cock and tugged so hard it hurt. That was right. He’d gotten the message, in the end. When Ogata came, it hurt too, the intensity of it. His vision whited out at the edges, and he was vaguely aware his limbs were being pushed and pulled around again, even though it was over. After a few moments, he blinked and noticed he was no longer lying on the hard floor, but that Sugimoto had sat up to lean against the wall and maneuvered Ogata’s head onto his lap.

He couldn’t fall asleep here, however warm the thigh against which his cheek rested. He would get up and right himself as soon as the muscles in his legs stopped trembling. Ogata’s collar was unbuttoned, and the hand that cupped the back of his neck slid down just far enough to drum its fingertips against his bare collarbone.

“Did you get what you needed out of me, then?”

At that, Ogata opened one eye and glanced up. Sugimoto was looking down at him, his skin still a little flushed from effort. His jacket was unbuttoned enough Ogata could watch the bones of his ribcage shift beneath his flesh as he breathed. Despite the scars there and across his face, which had ceased to be red and were now a faded, dusty pink, Sugimoto looked like he had when they first met. Prickly but a little shy, like a gangly boy not yet grown into his shape.

Ogata bit back the impulse to say he didn’t need anything from anyone, least of all Sugimoto. It wouldn’t serve his aims to try and distance himself now. Even so, he hadn’t needed this; it was convenience, nothing more. Just wanting to linger didn’t mean anything. It was animal instinct. Sugimoto was the clingy one. Instead, Ogata ignored the question and let his eyes slide closed for a minute. Their absences would be noticed before long, and he had a lot of work to do and only about a fortnight to do it. But for a moment more, he let the warmth from the body under his soak into his bones.

In an ideal world, Ogata could’ve waited it out until the time was right. Maybe he would’ve been able to feel around for any other malcontents they could bring into the fold to take the fall for them if needed. There was still a lot he didn’t know. But if they seized the right moment, they could catch up to the prisoners before they had the chance to disperse too widely. If they did that, he and Sugimoto could manage without the rest of Tsurumi’s intel. They could make it on their own. They were capable. The gold would be theirs—and when Sugimoto stopped being useful, Ogata could take care of him, too.

No funeral had been called for Yuusaku, so he must remain in stasis, sleeping away in his hospital bed. Ogata couldn’t stay here much longer under the shadow of that. If Yuusaku couldn’t be killed, one of them had to go, one way or another.