“Did you see Koito’s face during all that?”

That was one of the Nikaidous. Sugimoto still hadn’t figured out how to tell between Kouhei and Youhei. Didn’t really matter which was which when they acted exactly the same. Across the table from them, Sugimoto cast a blurry thought for how odd it must be to have a shadow that followed you everywhere and went along with every one of your dumb schemes, and to whether you ever got sick of them, or just accepted them as part of life, part of yourself.

Next to Sugimoto, Ogata let out a dark chuckle. Hearing him laugh at all, let alone in the presence of others, was rare enough Sugimoto blinked at the sound. “He looked like he was going to come his pants right there.”

Alongside some other guys from the barracks, they were working their way through a lukewarm bottle of cheap sake someone had won in a game of cards. The all that Nikaidou mentioned was the events of that morning’s muster. Tsurumi had pulled some fingernails off an attempted deserter amidst the spring sunshine, explaining that, though deserters were often shot during wartime, a good man was too precious to waste. Nails, after all, would grow back before long.

The kid was a Private First-Class, like Sugimoto had been until recently. No one Sugimoto knew well—he still hadn’t gotten to know many of these guys past their names and an idea of whom you did or didn’t want to get stuck with on work detail. Besides Ogata, of course. Sugimoto didn’t think a day had gone by in almost a year where they hadn’t seen each other. More than most married couples could say.

This guy, though—he’d been real sloppy about it. Embarrassing for aspiring deserters everywhere. He’d been on evening watch duty the night before and tried to sneak out the main gate until he got spotted by one of the other scouts down the line. He probably hadn’t even planned it out, just talked himself into it over the course of a long and lonely shift alone in the dark. As a result, they all had to watch Tsurumi have his fun. It wouldn’t have been so surprising were they still back in the trenches. Worse things befell a wartime coward. But they were home, the war was won, on paper at least, and Tsurumi was twirling a pair of pliers between his fingers with his other hand on the scruff of a private’s neck. Nikaidou was referring to how Second Lieutenant Koito had stood close by with a hand on his pommel and a glazed expression of such open arousal Sugimoto almost felt embarrassed for him.

He hadn’t gone for them all; Tsurumi left the thumb and index finger intact on both hands. The guy held up well, to his credit; he didn’t scream, just let out some muffled grunts and retched into the dirt a bit.

Tsurumi had talked throughout it all, of course. “Is it fair for any one of us to let our comrades in arms fight for the world we deserve while he takes the easy way out?” There went a nail. “Tell me. Do you think that’s fair?”

“No sir,” the man gasped.

“Are you sorry for what you’ve done to them? Will you beg for their forgiveness?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I—I was selfish. I—ahhk.” There went the next finger over.

“Will you ever do something so cowardly again?”

“No, First Lieutenant Tsurumi, sir, I’ll be your man for as long as you need—”

Tsurumi let him down then, but not as harshly as he could have. He steadied the man’s elbow with the touch of a gloved hand. When it looked as though he’d be able to stand on his own, Tsurumi clapped his hands together and said, “Now—breakfast?”

That was half a day ago, but this was the first Sugimoto had heard anyone else talk about it. The most surprising thing about it was how little time it took for people to settle back into what passed in the division for normalcy. There was some shock in the air, definitely, or maybe just uncertainty; uneasy mutters, at the least, but everyone still managed to eat breakfast before heading out to carry out the demands of the day. For all Sugimoto knew, things were just the same in the 1st right now. Maybe the war really was that bad, and every unit had to get used to watching their First Lieutenants forgo dishonourable discharges for torture before the clock struck nine.

Sugimoto was reaching for what was left of the bottle when Tanigaki, who hardly ever said anything in the way of casual conversation, gestured at his sleeve. “Congratulations, Sugimoto. You earned it.”

“Oh,” Sugimoto replied, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck with a hand. “Thanks.”

As promised, they weren’t back at Asahikawa long before Sugimoto turned in his uniforms for a new set, identical but for the condition—new and starchy—and the added band around the wrist. He and Ogata matched, now, a fact that Ogata didn’t like and so Sugimoto made sure to bring up as often as possible (“I don’t have to call you ‘sir’ anymore, didn’t you hear?”—“As if you ever did.”).

He wasn’t the only recent promotion around the garrison, of course. Second Lieutenant Koito lost the “Acting” part of his title not long after he arrived at the barracks with trunks of god-knows-what in tow that some second-class privates had to help move in off the carriage he’d come in on.

It wasn’t quite right to say Sugimoto had liked Hanazawa. It was more accurate to say he hadn’t disliked him. In another life, where they had different ranks and different family trees, they could’ve been friends. As it was, Sugimoto didn’t miss him much, just felt bad that Hanazawa was laid up the way that he was and hoped he’d wake up and get let out of here so he could get honourably discharged, go back to wherever it was he grew up, marry some nice girl, and not have to live up to the legacy of his father any longer.

At least, that was the case until Second Lieutenant Koito took up his post. After that, Sugimoto would’ve given a lot to get Hanazawa back, even if he was only going to be around a little longer himself. Two weeks around Koito was two weeks too many.

Koito was vain, preening, slavishly besotted with Tsurumi, and completely clueless about the very men he’d been appointed to lead. Even if Sugimoto hadn’t known that Koito was fresh out of the academy and younger than most of the unit, he could’ve figured it out from the way he acted. He wandered around after Tsukishima, deferring to the sergeant for everything until it came time to pull rank, which he did with relish.

Though Ogata could hardly have been said to be on good terms with anyone, most of the guys had gotten used to him through long-term exposure. It helped that Ogata wasn’t exactly insubordinate; he paid technical respect to rank and expected the same from the poor souls under him, even if the flatness of his tone always made his own deference sound less than sincere. This was why Sugimoto was surprised when Ogata began pushing his luck with Koito right away. It wasn’t two days before Ogata was mocking Koito’s accent within his full earshot, for which he got put on hard labour shifts for days. Sugimoto was lucky to have gotten off easy himself, since he’d definitely laughed. He wasn’t sure where Ogata’s immediate vitriol towards a man he’d never met had come from, but couldn’t exactly say it was misplaced.

Under the surface of the table, Sugimoto could feel the warmth of Ogata’s leg next to his own. Ogata was letting his guard down a little, probably from the alcohol. Sugimoto usually didn’t see him drink even if he had the opportunity, but he figured this was Ogata putting in effort to blend in with the rest of the crowd. What it was doing was making him handsy. Sober, Ogata wasn’t affectionate by anyone’s standards. He hadn’t drunk all that much tonight, as far as Sugimoto had seen, but when no one was looking at them Ogata took advantage of the dimness of their surroundings to run a hand up under the back of Sugimoto’s jacket. Sugimoto expected to get pinched or scratched, one of those things Ogata did just to get some attention of any kind, even punishment, but after it happened a few times without any quick-to-follow pain it seemed like Ogata just wanted to touch him for touching’s sake.

-

The two of them had stolen away after dinner earlier that night, before they joined the others for drinks. Sugimoto’s pockets were full of extra anpan he’d stolen off the cook’s cart. Ogata trailed behind him as they crept out back to the spot behind the kitchens that Sugimoto had gotten fond of before they’d shipped out. They sat next to each other on the back step; Sugimoto worked his way through the leftovers while Ogata sketched a shape in the dirt with the tip of a twig.

Sugimoto nudged the corner of the drawing with the tip of his boot and spoke around a mouthful of bread: “Is that supposed to be Hokkaido? It looks like shit.”

“And you think you could do better? I’d like to see it. Here, go ahead, Sugimoto the Artist.” Ogata jabbed Sugimoto in the ribs with the twig before dropping it on the ground. Sugimoto picked it up and, after his own attempt to replicate what maps of the island he’d seen turned out looking more like the outline of a dog, threw the stick over the nearby fence.

The day had been warm and clear, the evening’s chill only just beginning to set in. Ogata was tucked inside his cloak, which was buttoned up to the chin to keep out the cold air, but he kept the hood down so Sugimoto could see his face. “It’ll be confusion when we start to head out. Tsurumi will have more on his mind than keeping track of two privates when he’s busy moving the whole platoon out of the garrison to Otaru on false pretences.”

“Why Otaru, anyway? If he’s already got Lieutenant Colonel Yodogawa under his thumb, why not stay here?”

“Noppera-bou told the convicts to make for Otaru once they get out. Tsurumi’s got some guys from one of the other platoons lined up to take the fall—they should be springing the prisoners with the tattoos before long. Either they’re successful and they bring them to Otaru for Tsurumi to collect, or they get overtaken and the prisoners head for Otaru anyway. Whatever happens, there are only so many roads into the city. If we move out on our own faster than the whole division can, we can intercept at least enough of them to put ourselves in a strong position to figure out the rest of the map.” Ogata pointed at one of the squiggles he’d drawn in his map. “To move that many men and supply trains, the platoon is going to take the main road. We can cut through on some of the footpaths through the woods and make better time.”

He coughed, and turned to Ogata. “So what do we need to get done that we haven’t yet?”

“We need supplies—extra rations, so at meals you should start pocketing food that’ll keep—and not to give it away that we’re planning anything.”

“How much time do you think we’ve got?”

“Twelve days, or about that.” Ogata’s words were muffled a little by a crashing sound from the kitchen behind them, like pans crashing to the floor, followed by loud cursing.

“What makes you so sure?”

“I’ve got my sources.”

“Seems like it might be harder to get away when the whole division’s on the move. Everyone will be on high alert. I think we could do it sooner than that, even if that kid couldn’t manage it.”

“No. Trust me, we should leave when the division’s already mobilizing.” Ogata was staring at the map in the dirt with a distracted look in his eye, until he blinked and looked up to scrutinize Sugimoto. “So what will you do with your half?”

“What, of the gold?” Sugimoto leaned against the support beam at his back and tilted his head to the side. “I haven’t decided.”

“Haven’t decided, or don’t know?”

“Why, what do you want it for, then? You already get ammo from the quartermaster. I don’t know what else you’d spend money on.” That earned him a glare, which was good. It was the kind of reaction he'd been looking for. Ogata was pretty predictable, once you got to know him, but prodding at him hadn’t gotten any less fun. “Are you going to build yourself a castle so you can hole up and never see anyone ever again?”

“I’ve got some ideas.”

“But you won’t tell me? Come on.” He poked Ogata in the side with a finger, like Ogata had jabbed him with the stick, but not as hard. “What, do you think I’m going to spill it to the rest of these idiots?”

“Immortal or not, I don’t want Tsurumi finding out everything about me if he interrogates you and you break.”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Ogata looked down his nose. Impressive, considering he was shorter than Sugimoto and they were sitting on the same stair. “Please tell me you’re not just planning on going back to Tokyo to give it all to your married sweetheart.”

“Figured you wouldn’t be into that. I wouldn’t give it to her, anyway; I’d give it to her and her husband. They’ve got a kid they want to put through university.” He hadn’t really thought about it in so many words, but now that Sugimoto said it, he was surprised by how right it sounded.

Ogata didn’t look satisfied. He turned his chest towards Sugimoto and crossed his right ankle over his other thigh. “And then what would you do?”

“Try to live a normal life, I guess.”

“Rogue division or not, we’re about to desert the army, you realize? You'll be a wanted man forever, unless you create a new identity and find some kind of work you can do where they won't ask many questions. Unless you want to work in a herring fishery until your body falls apart, there's not much left to do.” Ogata's eyes were alight with a queer glow to them that made it hard to look away.

“So what, then? Ride off into the sunset with you and... rob banks?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ogata muttered, but he glanced back out into the trees lining the horizon.

Sugimoto savoured that for a second—it was as close to a confession as he figured he’d ever get. He rolled his neck from side to side, letting the sore bones crack. “So who else have you told about all this?”

Ogata blinked, and the moment was gone. “Everyone who knows becomes a weak link. We don't need anyone else. We can travel faster just the two of us.”

“I had to ask. No way for me to know I was your first choice.” He’d guessed, but he’d wanted to make Ogata say it. “How long do you think it’s going to take him to realize we’ve gone?” There wasn’t any need to specify which he Sugimoto meant.

Ogata rarely smiled and it was usually creepy when he did, but at the thought of Tsurumi catching on to them he did give Sugimoto an off-kilter look of something approaching normal amusement. “He’s a busy man. Long enough for us to get halfway to the next prefecture, if we time it properly.”

“He’ll skin us alive if he catches up to us, huh?”

“Cut off each of our noses and feed them to the other, probably,” said Ogata with genuine glee in his voice. His smile was wider now and back to creepy—not that it stopped Sugimoto’s own face from responding in kind with a grin that curled around his mouth.

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

The sun was only just beginning to dip beyond the tree-line, and Ogata’s face was half-cast over with shadow. “Has Tsurumi been calling for you again?”

“Not since we got back.”

“If he starts making requests of you, be careful how far you play along.”

Yeah, no shit. “Not like we’ll be here much longer anyway, is it?”

“It might not be big. He likes to ask for favours.”

“What, he’s going to make me jerk him off or something?”

“Not physically.” Ogata’s smile faded a little. “One time he put me up to demonstrating at the range for a bunch of officers from Tokyo who were touring the base, like a trained monkey.”

Ogata spoke about his past so rarely that even this small of an admission took Sugimoto aback. Even if Tsurumi directed his skin-crawling pull onto anyone it suited him, it was still clear that Ogata had different history with him than most. There was a certain edge to the bitterness in his voice when he spoke about him. It was more emotion than he showed about almost anything else, besides his brother, and that was a different kind, though just as opaque. “That doesn’t sound so bad. I thought you’d have had fun.”

“I could live without having to listen to a bunch of my father’s friends talk about how impressive it is that such a marksman could have come up out of basic training instead of the army academy.” Ogata took his cap off and spun it around his index finger before letting it fall to the ground. “That, and I hate wasting ammo on targets that don’t bleed.”

“Huh.” Sugimoto uncrossed his legs and let one of his knees push loosely against Ogata’s own. “Well, soon neither of us will have to play tricks anymore.”

“No.” The corner of Ogata’s mouth hitched up again. “Assuming you don’t blow it for us before we get away, of course.”

Sugimoto leaned in closer to crowd Ogata against the post behind his back. “Do you talk to all the guys you go ‘absent without leave’ with like that, or is it just me?”

Ogata didn’t say anything, just blinked at him, apparently content to wait it out, but Sugimoto could tell he liked where Sugimoto was heading. He wanted to hold Ogata loosely by the throat and suck on his tongue a little. He thought about it for a second and decided there was nothing stopping him, so he did. Ogata let out a deep, purring sound of satisfaction from within his chest. Greedy hands with slim, blunt fingers roamed across Sugimoto’s chest. His mouth tasted familiar.

He could hear the bang of swinging doors and the patter of cooks’ voices from the other side of the wall. Someone could come out at any moment to pour out a bucket of waste-water, or just to tell them to get lost. They couldn’t screw out here, shouldn’t even be doing this in the first place—the map in the dirt by their feet was sketchy enough. Sugimoto let the concern run through him like water and then pulled back a little, the tips of his ears burning, though he didn’t take his hand away from where it cupped the side of Ogata’s neck.

Over Ogata’s shoulder, the setting sun was a warm and violent orange smear across the sky. Ogata looked giddy up close. Maybe it was just the angle, but his eyes looked like they were lit up from behind. Sugimoto looked away from his face, feeling his own neck heat up, and he scuffed up the makeshift map with the side of his shoe until there was nothing behind but dirt.

-

The parade grounds the following day were swarming with activity like the inside of a wasp’s nest. On one half of the yard were drills, while on the other a repair station had been set up for the wagons that were going to carry a platoon’s worth of dry goods halfway across the island. Tsurumi was crafty, all right: he hadn’t given them much of any time to rest since the war ended. It had been one thing after another. If they’d had some time to lie around in the sun and see their families back home, the idea of throwing it all in with their First Lieutenant’s quest for glorious revenge might’ve stopped seeming so appealing to most of them. But they’d been run nearly into the ground since they got back on this project or another, and subjected to cryptic (and, lately, completely transparent—three days earlier: “Is this the fate the strongest unit in the army, who raised the flag atop 203 Hill at the cost of half its strength, deserves? Is this what you were promised?”) monologues without so much as a chance to catch their breath.

Once again, Ogata’s intuition about Tsurumi proved to be good. Sugimoto was fixing up one of the empty shooting ranges, replacing shot-through targets with fresh ones, when he felt a prickle on the back of his neck: he turned around and there he was, the man himself, looming like a bird of prey. Tsurumi smiled genially, his eyes widening a little further, as if he’d just happened to end up behind Sugimoto on a casual stroll around the garrison instead of doing any of the things he no doubt had to take care of before leading a unit of soldiers into treason by the end of the month.

“You’re just the man I hoped to find. Far be it from me to disturb you, but walk with me, will you?”

There was no way to avoid it: he followed Tsurumi along the footpath towards the officer’s wing. He hadn’t been back there since the day he’d first arrived, fresh off the boat from Honshu. If this was the leadup to Tsurumi revealing that the gig was up and he knew what they were planning, Sugimoto wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or more concerned about the fact it was going to take place out of sight from the rest of the men. Tsurumi lead him to that very same room with the 1LT placard next to the door behind which Sugimoto had first met him, and held the door open for him: “Come in, Sugimoto. Make yourself comfortable.”

Like hell he would. Even so, there wasn’t anything to do but follow as Tsurumi bid him. An array of desserts lay on the table in the centre of the room, still in their packaging: a selection of daifuku that looked more expensive than most things Sugimoto had eaten in his life. Officer he might be, but Sugimoto also knew that First Lieutenants didn’t get paid that much, in the grand scale of things. That Tsurumi might be on the receiving end of gifts from rich friends wasn’t much of a surprise, but it still irked him.

They knelt opposite each other on either side of the low table, on the same level, like a family at supper. Tsurumi seemed like the type who liked that, who wanted to maintain the illusion of equality between them even in circumstances that rendered it obviously false.

“Do you like mochi, Sugimoto?”

“I haven’t had much of it, sir.”

Tsurumi passed him one of the pieces, small, white, perfectly round and coated in a fine layer of starch. His eyes watched Sugimoto’s hand as he raised the mochi to his mouth and bit down.

“I’m not sure whether you know this, Sugimoto, but the First Lieutenant you had in the 1st wanted to see you thrown out with a dishonourable discharge.” Between the sudden burst of sweetness in his mouth and Tsurumi’s lack of preamble, it took effort for Sugimoto not to give a start. He kept it together well, he thought, just glancing up at Tsurumi’s face with an expression he was pretty sure passed for unfazed. “You would’ve been left without options in the world besides day-labour and begging on the street. I have a few friends in other divisions, however, and when I heard about the situation I knew there had to be more than what I’d been told. I looked at your record—your prior commendations speak for themselves. I knew the sort of man you were before I met you. Too smart and too principled to go along with weakness and corruption, aren’t you? I bargained a second chance for you based on that instinct, and you haven’t given me reason to regret it.”

Even if he hadn’t heard what Ogata had to say about Tsurumi, Sugimoto didn’t think he would ever have been taken in when the man laid it on so damn thick. He’d say whatever he thought you needed to hear to keep his hold on you. Sugimoto’s mind was still racing, on high alert in case this turned sour, which is probably why he started wondering, not for the first time but in more detail than ever before, what Tsurumi would be willing to do to reel him in. Ogata never would give a straight answer, any of the times Sugimoto had prompted it, about whether or not he and Tsurumi ever fucked. Sugimoto couldn’t tell if it was because Ogata didn’t want to give credence to the rumours about him that circulated through the unit, or because he didn’t want to admit it hadn’t happened even though he wanted it. Whatever Ogata’s reasoning, it definitely wasn’t out of respect for Sugimoto’s feelings. Not that Sugimoto would’ve been angry to find out it had happened—or, not angry with Ogata, at least.

How many times had Tsurumi talked to Ogata in just the position Sugimoto found himself in now? Did it go further? He shot an involuntary glance at the desk on the other side of the room. A variety of lewd scenes flashed across the surface of his mind, more unsettling than they were titillating, and he had to struggle to keep his face neutral when Tsurumi went on.

“I need men who won’t shrink from danger. Who can be trusted with the dirtiest and most difficult of work. You have that grit in you. And more than that, you can inspire others to do the same. How many units have an immortal man?” Tsurumi leaned across the table on his elbows so there was not much air between them. “I’ll let you in on a few things in confidence, if I may.”

Sugimoto swallowed through a dry throat. “Of course, sir.”

“Have you noticed anything odd in the behaviour of any of the men since we returned to Hokkaido?”

“Odd how, sir?”

“I may as well speak plainly. I’ve been Ogata’s superior officer for years now. I’d like to think I’ve come to know him quite well.” Yeah, I bet you have. “I’ve never seen him warm to one of his brothers in arms like he has to you. Not even to his brother in blood.”

“Guess I’m lucky that way.”

“I’d be cautious, if I were you, about taking Ogata too highly at his word. He’s an exceptional soldier, but he’s always been a bit of a special case. You’ll notice I haven’t promoted him any higher. I have some reservations about his loyalty, and I’m not sure he should be put in the position of squad leader. This is just between us, of course.”

“Why not, sir?”

Tsurumi straightened the corner of the box of confectionery on the table before looking back up at Sugimoto’s face. “Knowing him as you do, I’ve been hesitant to bring it up, but...”

“Sir?”

“Sugimoto, I don’t believe it was a Russian bullet that hit Second Lieutenant Hanazawa.”

“Then what was it.”

With his chin propped in one hand, Tsurumi sent Sugimoto a look of deep sympathy. “You know he could make the shot, even if no one else could.”

Sugimoto saw behind his eyelids another vision of Tsurumi and Ogata together, this time of Tsurumi standing around with a bunch of top brass who watched Ogata hit bullseyes on the range while talking about what they thought they’d get for lunch. His mouth flooded with the taste of bile. “Why would he do that?”

“Come now, Sugimoto. There’s no need for pretence when it’s just the two of us. Ogata never liked his brother. A little fraternal jealousy would be more than expected, given the situation, but it was clear that it went beyond that. Do you think it sounds so unlikely?”

“If you think it’s him, why hasn’t he been court-martialled?”

“I haven’t done anything because I’m still not certain. Lieutenant General Hanazawa is too powerful to risk shaming in public over a false alarm, and an accusation like this—I have no proof, anyhow. Not yet. Which leads me to you.” Tsurumi leaned in quite close. His eyes were hard for Sugimoto to tear his gaze away from. “Are you sure, absolutely sure, that you didn’t see from which direction the shot came?”

“I didn’t see anything. It’s like I told you before. I just caught him when he started to fall down.”

“Very well. I’m sorry to ask this much of you, and to startle you with something so distasteful. This isn’t to leave this room until I have proof, you understand.” Tsurumi was now near enough to him Sugimoto could feel his breath against his own face. “And if you can, try not to let on to Ogata that he’s under suspicion. If he still feels like he can trust you, perhaps that’s the way we’ll get the proof we need.”

Of all the emotions he could be feeling, somehow the clearest one Sugimoto could make out was anger on Ogata’s behalf that Tsurumi would try and rope Sugimoto into spying on him. When he asked this kind of thing of the rest of them, did it work?

Tsurumi gestured at the platter in front of them, where one piece of mochi lay untouched amidst the empty paper wrappings of the others. “Do you mind if I take the last?” Sugimoto shook his head, and Tsurumi popped it in his mouth whole. When he finished chewing, he dusted the last of the powdered sugar off his fingertips and pronounced, “Ah, there’s just nothing like it on the front, is there?”

Just when Sugimoto was expecting to finally be dismissed, Tsurumi’s face fell, a change so graceful it looked like a tree shedding its leaves. “Oh, Saichi: there is another reason I needed to speak to you.” Was this it, then—the iron fist emerging from the velvet glove? Tsurumi set his laced fingers down on the top of his desk. “Back at Port Arthur, you put in a request for me to look into an old comrade of yours from the 1st Division.”

A mixture of fear and hope— “You’ve heard back, sir?”

“Yes.” Tsurumi took a long pause to smooth down his moustache and look out the window before he turned back to Sugimoto’s face. It told him everything he needed to know. “He lost his life at Mukden, like so many others.”

“Oh.” Something fell out of the pit of his stomach. “Did they find a body?”

“Yes—well, of a sort. His finger bones have been sent back to his family in Tokyo.”

Sugimoto said nothing. The lingering taste of sugar on his tongue made him want to gag. Tsurumi glanced at his own hands for a few long, tasteful seconds before he looked back up. “I didn’t hear back myself until yesterday, and I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to tell you sooner. If there’s anything I can do for you—”

“May I be excused, sir?”

Tsurumi didn’t chide him for his insubordination, just inclined his head. “Of course. Just—please remember, Sugimoto, that your friend’s wife is a widow now. His child fatherless. And what did they get? That’s all I think of, these days. How many others there are in the same circumstances. Now, you’re free to go, though please know my door is always open.”

-

Sugimoto picked his way back to the shooting gallery from the officer’s wing with his head more fogged over than a bay in winter. Tsurumi hadn’t told him to go back to his previous task, but he wasn’t sure what else to do with himself and thought if he stood still for more than a second he might go insane. He stepped through the sandbags and resumed straightening the boards, replacing the painted torsos with newer ones not yet riddled with shot.

He wanted dried persimmons. It wasn’t the first time he’d had the craving, but right now he thought he’d rather have them than anything else in the world. Even if he went back home right now, he wouldn’t get any; they were out of season. Knowing didn’t stop him from longing for them, though.

He’d never trusted Ogata. Not about the things that mattered, anyway. He wasn’t sure how it was possible to lose faith that you didn’t have, but that was the situation. It would’ve been easier if he could’ve just said to himself that Ogata would never do something like that, but he knew almost nothing about Ogata’s life before they met besides what he picked up from 7th Division chatter. Even without it, enough time spent together shows you the meat of a person. What there was to them when they thought no one was looking. Sugimoto thought he had a pretty good handle on Ogata—better than almost anyone else had, at any rate—and what his gut told him was that Ogata was capable of a lot.

Ogata had warned him, hadn’t he? He told Sugimoto something like this would happen. Sugimoto thought it was just as likely that Tsurumi had made this all up as anything else. It’s the kind of thing he’d do—but what did Sugimoto have to go on for that but Ogata’s word, even if his instincts agreed?

Ogata was out on work detail, which he hated that he knew without having to think about it. He was packing up boxes of ammo from the armoury into crates that would be labelled as animal feed and shipped to Otaru, and wouldn’t be off until late. Good thing, too. Sugimoto thought if he saw him he might wring Ogata’s neck, for keeps this time. He thought he might kiss him some more before he did, though, because he hadn’t sweat that fever out yet and he’d regret it otherwise, and that thought made him angrier than anything else.

Sugimoto stood up and rested a hand on the small of his back, where the muscles were starting to seize up from bending down and righting himself. A thin layer of clouds covered the sky: not enough to rain, just enough to put a grey cast over everything. Sure, it wasn’t Port Arthur—there weren’t piles of bodies frozen into mounds everywhere he looked—but the Asahikawa garrison really was ugly. He hadn’t quite realized it until now, but even though he still thought Ogata’s scheme was dumb at best and suicidal at worst, it was something, and he’d gotten used to the idea that they were getting out of here. The thought of backing out now and coming along for Tsurumi’s jaunt to Otaru—Ogata might try to kill him for real if he changed his mind, but Sugimoto wasn’t too worried about that. It was the thought of staying that he couldn’t stomach.

He’d dug himself in this deep, and if he didn’t trust Ogata he trusted Tsurumi even less. He wished there was a way to shake the truth out of Ogata, to know whether or not his whole life was just a series of bad circumstances Tsurumi was now putting to work. Whether or not Ogata had done what Tsurumi was implying, Sugimoto couldn’t imagine asking him about it directly would get him anywhere good. In the end he’d rather gamble on the devil he knew than the one he could only guess at, especially since the former seemed to want things it wasn’t much trouble for Sugimoto to provide.

He looked out at the dull grounds in front of him, searching for any splash of colour in the flowering weeds that were springing up with the season in the corners of grassy areas. He couldn’t stay, but he couldn’t go home, either. Maybe never again. He didn’t really have one, anyway. Hadn’t for a long time.

Some guys were singing a ways off, if you could call a work-chant music. It was too far away for him to see which of the crews across the garrison yard it was coming from, so it sounded almost like the wind had when it whistled through the trenches at night, like the disembodied moans of some spirit, restless and wild.

Toraji was dead too, huh? And Umeko a widow. He wasn’t surprised, exactly—it made sense, of course it would work out like that—but he felt shot through with emptiness where he would’ve preferred rage.

Sugimoto pushed the knuckles of his clenched fist against his forehead until he was pretty sure it’d leave behind a bruise. He felt an absent need to do something. To right the wrong, as if that was possible. But what could he do? This was the kind of thing that happened. People died because he couldn’t protect them, and he kept on living.

He wished he could’ve he’d have brought Umeko Toraji’s remains himself—whatever they had left of him. He would’ve held her grief inside him if she decided to pour it out. He didn’t have anything to say that could make any of it better, but he still wished he could bring her something, anything that would make up, in some way, for his not being there to keep an eye out for Toraji, a gift that would take care of her even if he couldn’t—

Oh, he thought, and then, Ogata won’t like that.

He’d reached the end of the range. Behind him was a row of new, clean targets, ready for the next round of shooters to come through and riddle them with holes.

-

Sleep hadn’t gotten any easier since they got back to Asahikawa, not for Sugimoto at least. He drifted in fits and starts. The group Ogata was with didn’t come back from work detail until dinner was almost over, so Sugimoto didn’t get a chance to so much as look him in the face before it was lights out and they were shuffled into the barracks. His dreams weren’t anything horrific, this time, instead just some soft visions of things that felt like memories even though they weren’t. In the dream he was walking through the fields back home with someone beside him, though when he turned his head he couldn’t make out who it was. The grass stalks brushed his calves, and next to him he felt someone male, whose smell was familiar but face and shape were fuzzy. It could’ve been Toraji, or one of his brothers. Could’ve been Ogata. Whoever it was, Sugimoto woke up alone with a lump in his throat.

The previous day felt like a bad dream. The upside of barracks life was that it was regular, regimented, designed not to leave anyone much time for thought. It meant he would go a few hours at a time without remembering anything that had happened the day before. He went through the motions of things, Ogata still occupied differently from himself—this time Sugimoto was pretty sure he was supervising some second-class privates practice their bayonet thrusts, which meant he was no doubt having a better time terrorizing them than Sugimoto was likely to have all week.

He was on his way to the armoury to help with the work there when he heard his name called in a tone that was never welcome: “Sugimoto!” He stopped in his tracks, not yet turning around. Every nerve in his body was on alert. Is this how it would pan out, then? Caught before they’d even gotten anywhere? Koito’s voice came calling out again—“Superior Private Sugimoto!”

Sugimoto swore under his breath, flexed the fingers of his right hand, and turned on his heel. Koito’s expression wasn’t what he’d expected; he didn’t look angry, per se, but something in his gaze told Sugimoto this wasn’t a typical summons. Koito’s hair was out of place, like he’d forgotten to finger-comb it back into place after running most of the way here, which was unusual for him. His eyebrows were furrowed so deeply he looked comical, though it was hard to take much levity from it when Koito was storming towards him with his sword swinging from his hip.

He cleared his throat and tried to look relaxed. “Sir?”

“Come with me at once.”

“What is it?”

He expected a nasty chuckle and Oh, you well know, but what he got was:

“Yuu—Second Lieutenant Hanazawa has woken up. He won’t talk to anyone until he sees you.”

Thankfully, Koito didn’t feel the need to escort Sugimoto to the infirmary himself. Sugimoto walked there with his brows furrowed and a queasy mix of dread and something paler than happiness churning in his stomach. Once he entered the doors to the building, it took no time at all to figure out where he needed to go. Sure, the place was still full of other soldiers convalescing, but the flow of bodies through the halls moved with particular purpose towards one, small room just off the main corridor.

When Sugimoto entered the room, a severe-looking nurse by the patient’s bedside turned to him with a formidable glare, but before she could tell him to leave, the man in the cot leaned towards him unsteadily and said, “Sugimoto? Is that you?”

Sugimoto coughed, suddenly bashful for reasons he didn’t understand. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

Hanazawa turned to the nurse. “I’d like to speak to Private First Class Sugimoto alone, please.” The nurse frowned but excused herself nonetheless.

Sugimoto wasn't sure whether he ought to sit or stand. What were you supposed to do when an officer called you to his bedside in a way that didn't feel like any other time you reported for duty? After Mukden, Tsurumi had pulled Sugimoto into the shadows of his recovery tent and talked about promotions and scars. Now, the light of day seeped through the window, and Hanazawa's demeanor was the furthest thing from a superior about to impart Sugimoto with a lesson. He had never looked smaller. His posture was almost nervous, as though he was the one being called upon to answer for himself.

“Thank you for coming.” Hanazawa’s eyes landed on Sugimoto’s wrists, and his brows lifted. “Congratulations on your promotion, as well.”

The comment was so bizarrely normal Sugimoto almost had to shake his head. In their methods, Tsurumi and Hanazawa weren’t so far apart; they were both eloquent in a well-bred way and good at retaining small details from every conversation which they pulled out later on to show you how much they cared. It didn’t feel like a trick when Hanazawa pulled it off, though. More like genuine interest.

“Thank you.”

“I can’t believe how much time has passed. I must have missed so much.” Hanazawa's skin was sallow, his cheeks sunken. He really didn’t look much like Ogata at all. He had a pretty face, even close-to-emaciated like he was. Pale skin was stretched over bone, like a ghost or a death mask.

“Sugimoto. You were there on the hill, weren’t you?”

“Yeah. I was.”

“Ah. I thought you were there, but I wasn’t sure whether I dreamt it.”

“N-no, it was real.” Hanazawa’s body had been heavy. He hadn't expected him to ever make it, really. Sugimoto hadn't known that until he was proven wrong.

“The flag—did we lose it?”

“Yeah. We lost it, sir.” He couldn’t bring himself to say You lost it, and neither could Sugimoto own up to it himself—it’d been enough of a task to get them both back to safety. The flag had been the least of his problems.

Hanazawa looked miserable. Sugimoto felt as though he ought to reach out and touch him, somewhere, offer him some kind of comfort, but he couldn’t help but feel like if he laid a hand on Hanazawa it’d pass right through him. Hanazawa spared him the decision: his hand shot out and clasped Sugimoto’s. His fingers were so thin they looked as if they’d snap like twigs if Sugimoto pulled his hand out of his grasp. Tsurumi had said all they’d sent back to Umeko were the bones of Toraji’s fingers. Not much of a consolation, but better than nothing.

Hanazawa was probably going to be sent home to his family, alive and mostly whole, but Sugimoto couldn’t decide whether he thought his bigshot general father would be happy about it. His son was alive; anyone would be grateful. On the other hand, he might not ever go on to follow any further in his father’s footsteps, and they already had an example of what Hanazawa Koujirou did with sons that failed to be what he wanted.

When he opened his mouth next, Hanazawa Yuusaku’s tone was like you’d use to ask about the state of an ailing relative, as though he wasn't one himself. “Ogata—my elder brother—is he—well?”

“Ogata?” His pulse was high in his throat. He hadn't taken the empty seat by Hanazawa's bedside, but now Sugimoto wished he had, if only to have armrests to grip onto. "Yeah, he's... the same as always."

Sugimoto remembered kneeling with Hanazawa in the dirt and making friends with an animal halfway between feral and pet. Hanazawa knew that he and Ogata were—Hanazawa had used the word “friends”, even if the reality was murkier. He’d called for him, out of anyone, and asked about Ogata. It was enough to puncture the dams Sugimoto had shored up to keep back his unease.

Hanazawa blinked a few times, eyes fixed on Sugimoto’s face, his mouth ajar but no sound coming out of it. A thin line of fluid trickled from below the bandages covering his head, running down his temple into his overgrown hairline. Sugimoto felt a perverse desire to see the wound. Did it look like Tsurumi’s, the skin burnt to a crisp and bright red? Tsurumi had been hit by a mortar blast, though. A single shot to the head got Hanazawa. After a few long seconds Hanazawa seemed to pull himself together; he let Sugimoto's wrist go, twisted his fingers together over the bedcovers, and murmured, "Good. That's good."

“What is it?” Sugimoto swallowed, weighed his words for a moment, and then muttered, “Did—do you remember—was he—”

He hadn’t been entirely honest with either Ogata or Tsurumi when they’d asked if he saw the shot. He hadn’t seen the direction it’d come from, but he had seen Hanazawa turn his head around in the few seconds before being hit and collapsing. He had thought it was something more... intangible: a parting glance in the direction of the sea, a farewell to those waiting for him back home, but now that Sugimoto thought about it the only family he knew that Hanazawa had were in Manchuria themselves. One just a few hundred yards away, within the range of ladder sights.

No: it didn’t do any good to think about it any further. That was what Tsurumi had to be counting on, after all. The timing was too good. Even if Tsurumi didn’t have any doubts about their loyalty, he was too smart not to notice they kept slipping off on their own. He was an intelligence officer, for crying out loud.

But still—

“You'll have to forgive me, Sugimoto, but I don't follow.”

He might be in for it now, but Sugimoto leaned in closer. “I won’t tell anyone. The First Lieutenant won’t hear about it. If there’s something you want to tell me.”

Hanazawa’s eyes widened then, and he blinked, drawing Sugimoto's attention for a moment to his distractingly long eyelashes. “I don’t remember a thing.”

“You don’t have to defend anyone, you know.” Sugimoto wasn't sure who he was talking to: Hanazawa or himself.

Hanazawa gave him a small, crooked, apologetic smile and drew the bedclothes a little higher up his chest. “Pardon me, Sugimoto, but I'm not sure what you're talking about. I’m sorry, but I'm very tired. Thank you for coming to see me, but could you—I’d like to see the nurse, please.”

No way around that. On his way out, Sugimoto turned to look behind him. Hanazawa was craning his neck up to look out the small window in the corner of the room, which was angled so you couldn't see anything outside but the passage of clouds across the sky. Sugimoto couldn't make out his eyes.