Kiroranke had long ago learned not to sleep through the night. When he and Wilk were with the partisans, the group was constantly rotating night watches. Even the sleepers had to be ready to get up and head for safety at any time, should the police come ferreting around. During the war it was almost as bad; some nights when the moon was bright there'd be steady gunfire even after dark, and even if not, the moaning of the sick and dying wasn't easy to get used to. Even when Kiroranke settled down into the kotan on Hokkaido with his wife, it wasn’t long until their first child came along, and with him squalls and night feeding the whole first year and then some.

Now, back in Karafuto, there were many things to keep him awake: the cold that got fiercer every day they made it further north, the whirlwind of plans and contingencies that swirled through his head, and, though he knew it was probably less of a threat than he talked himself into believing when he lay in the dark, the fear that he’d come to for the last time to Ogata’s knife in his back.

He was comforted by the knowledge that so intimate a killing wasn’t Ogata’s style. Kiroranke had never seen him dispatch anyone up close. If Ogata wanted to steal away with Asirpa alone in the night, he could, but unless there was something important Kiroranke didn’t know, they wouldn't get very far. Ogata had never been to Karafuto and had no contacts to rendezvous with. It wouldn't last, but for now, Ogata needed him.

They were almost a week out from Odomari, but Kiroranke was still alight with anticipation and fear. They had stayed with Karafuto Ainu people most of the way up from the coast, and that night was the same. The four of them lay in a row on the floor of the cise: Asirpa on the far end, then Shiraishi, who was curled against Kiroranke’s back, and Ogata on his other side, guarding the door—against anything coming in, yes, but also in case Asirpa were to make a midnight break for it and strike out on her own. Kiroranke didn’t think she would; she seemed to still trust them as much as ever. Even so, it didn’t pay to be too trusting, especially of someone from Wilk’s bloodline. Kiroranke learned that lesson once, and once was enough.

So he woke. No sign of morning light seeped into the house yet. He took inventory: his tanpakuop, the scant sen he’d managed to hold onto since leaving Hokkaido, the empty sheath where his makiri should have been but, due to Inkarmat’s final act of defiance, wasn't; it was all in place, or its absence accounted for.

He exhaled, watching his breath crystallize in the air through the scant glimmer of the last of the coals, and looked over at Ogata, whose head was hardly a hand’s breadth away from his own.

Ogata slept with a gloved hand covering the lower half of his face. Kiroranke wondered whether Ogata had slept the same way at Port Arthur, or if the cold there was different for him, warmed as they all were by the proximity of dozens of other soldiers in the same makeshift trench barracks. Kiroranke remembered it being cold, but nothing compared to Siberia. For the Japanese, it was something else entirely: a completely new kind of cold and blood and misery.

Ogata was about fifteen years Kiroranke’s junior, as far as he could tell, though he could’ve passed himself off as older if he tried. In sleep, however, it was clearer that he was still a young man below the scars and heavy eyelids.

Kiroranke had just begun to drift back off when Ogata opened his eyes, his gaze boring straight into Kiroranke’s forehead as if he had been woken by Kiroranke’s thoughts alone. Kiroranke controlled his impulse to flinch only because of the warm pressure of Shiraishi against his back.

In a tone so low it was almost inaudible, Ogata said, “Are you trying to get me out of your way, then? If you’re going to do it, I’d rather not go in my sleep. Or do you just want to fuck?”

Under his robe, Kiroranke let go of the handle of his hunting knife. He hadn’t even noticed he’d had it in his grasp.

If they were both awake, might as well make the most of it. He motioned toward the door with his head, and they picked their way out of the cise with the same caution they'd use to track something deadly. Just extracting himself from Shiraishi’s grasp without waking him up took several minutes. Asirpa had her father's instincts, and they had to be careful. Ogata moved with his usual prowl and Kiroranke had been hunting all his life, but Asirpa still had the sensitive hearing of youth on her side. It was obvious from the first that Wilk had trained her well; he had to, for the plan to work, but now Kiroranke had to tiptoe around her, trying not to arouse the girl's suspicion, like a bear stepping backwards in its own tracks. Shiraishi, on the other hand, was hopeless, but it didn’t pay to be foolhardy.

Once they reached the treeline proper, Ogata said, still in an undertone, “What are we going to tell them if they wake up?”

“We’ll say we heard something and needed to check the area.”

They found a knoll that gave them some degree of cover while also providing a view of the cise, and Ogata sat down cross-legged, curling himself around his rifle, swaddled in his cloak. Kiroranke didn’t think he’d seen Ogata more than a foot away from his gun even once since they’d met. That vigilance was why Ogata was here with him, instead of any of the others, but it didn’t make holding conversations any easier.

They sat almost close enough to touch, just out of necessity. Kiroranke hadn’t brought his tobacco with him, otherwise he would have smoked. In lieu of it, he rubbed his hands together where they were tucked inside his robe and surveyed the stars above them, double-checking their bearings for another innumerable time. The sky was nearly cloudless, and the moon reflecting off the snow left them in enough light to make out each other’s faces. After a minute or two of silence—Ogata could make even a regular pause in conversation feel eternal—Kiroranke cast a look over at him and asked, “Has she said anything promising?”

“Nothing that I could tell. You’re more likely to notice if she does.”

“You’ve spent more time with her than I have, these days,” Kiroranke replied, and Ogata looked away as if the thought bothered him.

“How much further is the border?”

“Close enough, if we don’t get into any more trouble.” They had been making good time, as a whole. “And if the weather doesn’t turn.”

Ogata nodded, as if he hadn’t expected to hear anything else. Just asking for the sake of it, then; testing if Kiroranke’s story changed. “You’re sure these people are trustworthy?”

“As much as we could hope for. Unless you’d rather sleep out in this—” Kiroranke gestured at the snowbanks surrounding them— “every night.”

Ogata turned back to face him and smiled crookedly. “Not exactly.”

Outside of the cise, with its shared body heat and the vestiges of the fire, the cold was palpable even through his layers. Kiroranke was about to stand up and make his way back when Ogata leaned over the scant space between them and laid his hand on Kiroranke’s thigh.

Kiroranke glanced down at it, the fingers and thumb spread out so surely, looking naked even through the winter glove, and said, “And you act like I’m the one who’s after you for it.”

“We’re out here anyway.” Kiroranke could feel, rather than see, the full weight of that blank gaze on his face. Being the object of Ogata’s full attention was never comfortable. Look where it’d gotten Sugimoto.

He could beg off, go back inside and leave Ogata hard and hurting in the snow; the idea was somewhat appealing, but as far as he could tell keeping himself in Ogata's good graces, to the degree that they existed, was a fairly pressing concern. So Kiroranke replied, “If you’ve set your heart on it, don’t let me stop you,” but it was still unsettling how quickly and quietly Ogata was able to work his way through Kiroranke's layers of clothing.

Ogata wasn’t a bad lay; that wasn’t the problem. He went through the motions of fucking with the same inscrutable deliberation as he did everything else. In the trenches or the barracks, some guys stuck to their hand, and of those who went for the other option, there was usually some tell in the way they went about it—how they wouldn’t make eye contact, or would touch a guy’s dick but not his balls, or what have you—that showed they’d pretend they’d never done any of it as soon as they had the chance.

The way Ogata dropped to his knees between Kiroranke’s legs was too casual, too brazen, to be mistaken for the fumbling of a soldier making do when women were scarce on the ground. It never stopped being surprising, the way he went about it: so sudden and then tortuously unhurried. He took Kiroranke’s cock into his mouth still half-soft, his nails digging into the skin of Kiroranke's inner thighs, and just sort of kept it there for a while. Just as in warfare, Ogata was patient to the point of insanity. His beard rasped against the soft skin where Kiroranke’s leg met his hip. He kept his head down, so Kiroranke couldn’t see his eyes, which was a relief; it made it easier to forget just how reckless it was to let things get this far again.

It was almost, but not quite, too cold to get it up. They kept their clothing on and bodies close for the sake of warmth, that was all. The snow all around them muffled what sounds they couldn’t help but make.

What Ogata lacked in seduction was made up for by mercenary effort. It was all fast here and slow there, loose hair falling against the inside of Kiroranke’s thigh and gun-callused hands cupping his balls and no gag reflex anywhere in sight, making it impossible not to think about all the times Ogata had done this before, and for whom. He employed an arsenal of steady, teasing cruelty until Kiroranke lost it; Kiroranke ran a hand down his own face, trying to put himself back together, and Ogata jerked himself off before Kiroranke even had a chance to offer him a hand to thrust into. At least they were out of doors, this time. The handful of occasions they’d managed to get undressed together, Ogata always got come all over Kiroranke, which stuck in his chest hair like nothing else. He didn’t apologize or even help him wash it off, just rolled over and fell asleep like a predator lazy after its kill. This time, all they had to do was obscure the prints they’d left in the snow and make their way back into the cise.

No, Ogata was himself, in this as in everything: infuriatingly competent at what he applied himself to, and disregardful of anything else. Kiroranke needed to stop sleeping with him, but that was proving easier said than done, especially since he’d already made his choice to lay down with him in the broader sense; now he had to sleep with a hand on his knife-handle until the next time the stakes changed. Thankfully for Kiroranke, he'd been doing that for years.

-

It had started back on Hokkaido, well before they reached Abashiri. It was another unseasonably cool night; Kiroranke had stood outside of the temporary base the group had been using, unlit pipe in hand, and turned his head at the sound of a struck match. A corona of orange light illuminated the figure holding it, a head shorter than Kiroranke and mostly obscured by his cloak. Ogata had almost managed to sneak up on him. Not bad, for a sisam.

Kiroranke leaned towards him, close enough to see his eyes below the brim of his hood, and let Ogata light his pipe. Ogata brought the flame closer to Kiroranke's cheek than he needed to, almost close enough to burn. With a sharpshooter’s dexterity, it couldn’t have been an accident.

The spice and smoke wrapped around them, and Kiroranke indulged himself in it for a moment before murmuring, “The conversation inside not captivating enough for you?” When Kiroranke had left, Shiraishi and Sugimoto were engaged in an escalating contest over who could perform the best pencil tricks. He’d never seen Asirpa so captivated by something she couldn’t eat.

“Maybe I wanted some fresh air.”

“Fair enough. It’s a big group in there.”

“What about you, Kiroranke? Avoiding someone?”

The moon drifted in and out of cloud; Ogata was still standing near enough to Kiroranke to be enveloped in the haze of tobacco. Kiroranke smoked for a while and considered his answer.

“Maybe I was hoping someone would find me. I love interesting conversations, especially ones that are unexpected.”

Ogata pushed back the brim of his hood, smoothed his hair back, and leaned in closer; their shoulders would’ve brushed, if they were level. “I’m sure there are better places for interesting conversations than this.”

“Would you like to find one?”

Instead of answering him directly, Ogata just walked away with the meandering purposefulness of a cat on its way to claim its place in the sun. Kiroranke wasn’t in a hurry, so he lingered for a little longer, but eventually followed before Ogata could leave his sight.

At the time, Kiroranke wasn’t sure which kind this interesting conversation was to be. There were two obvious answers for what two men could get up to that would require some privacy even from a group like this: they were up to something they didn't want the others to know about, or they were fucking. He wasn’t opposed to either, and, curiousity piqued, made the decision to see which it would be.

As it turned out, it was both.

-

On Karafuto, the days slid against each other, white and barren, and they made good time across the plains. The whole group huddled around the fire in the evening, the four of them, even their sled drivers and the dogs, all of the humans' hands buried in their armpits to stave off the cold, only retrieving them to eat—or, in Kiroranke’s case, to pack his pipe with tobacco. He'd carried the tanpakuop with him from Karafuto to Port Arthur to Hokkaido and now back, all the while taking almost as much care not to get it wet as he had for his ammo pouches, both during the war and out.

The cold was getting to him, too; he’d gone soft. Too much time spent down south.

Being off Hokkaido for the first time in years had Kiroranke’s name sliding around within his own head. It wasn’t that Kiroranke was a lie; he’d been carving out that life for years. Without Wilk, there was no Yulbars. But here, in Karafuto, Kiroranke hung off him like an ill-fitting cloak.

Night came early up here, and fast. Smoking took the chill off, warmed a body up inside. Shiraishi had his liquor, which only tricked you into thinking you were any warmer; anyone who’d spent a life in the wilderness knew alcohol was frostbite’s friend. Asirpa nibbled on leftover hurep she’d managed to make last. She was still withdrawn, had been since they left Hokkaido, but was, overall, her usual self. It didn't sit well with him how much of this involved lying to her, but he did what he had to do.

Of the four of them, Ogata was the only one without any creature comforts. He cleaned his rifle daily; it was the closest thing to a personal indulgence Kiroranke ever saw him enjoy, besides the sex. It made the doggedness with which he pursued it a little more understandable. It had taken Kiroranke aback, at first, just how often Ogata seemed to want it from him once they started, considering the perfunctory amiability with which he treated him the rest of the time. There wasn’t much about the way Ogata went about the act itself that indicated much feeling, either. If he made eye contact or said Kiroranke’s name, it was with an air of, at most, fond contempt. Like it was Kiroranke making this happen, which it never had been. (Whatever Kiroranke might have done once the course had already been charted—well, he couldn’t let Ogata think he had the upper hand.)

This land was unforgiving, and it was only going to get worse the closer they got to their goal. It would have been impossible to tell if Ogata were even awake if his eyes didn't glitter in the firelight like pieces of black glass.

-

“We can’t keep this up, you know.” Even as he said it, Kiroranke felt himself caving.

Kiroranke had sweet-talked a desk-keeper into giving them two discount rooms at the shabbiest inn in Shisuka, just for the night, before they headed out on foot in the direction of the Orok encampments that still studded the area. He was rooming with Shiraishi, with Ogata and Asirpa across the hall, but Shiraishi had snuck out at the earliest opportunity in search of girls, leaving Kiroranke alone and peaceful until he heard a hand at the latch, far too steady to be Shiraishi’s after a night out. Kiroranke had gotten to his feet and drawn his tasiro, but when the door slid open to reveal Ogata, he just put it aside and sighed. “Don’t close the latch. Shiraishi’s going to come back in later.”

Without his cloak Ogata looked small, the way a skinned animal shrinks. He didn’t bother with pretenses, this time, just walked straight towards the bed on Kiroranke's side of the room. Kiroranke followed him, his mouth filled with the tang of preemptive regret.

“I can leave out the window and come back through the front.” Ogata smirked at him, as if being concerned with discretion was quaint.

“If he doesn’t already, he’s going to think we’re fucking. He’ll be jealous.”

Ogata was already in pursuit of his quarry, his hands travelling down Kiroranke’s chest and slipping below his layers to find the skin beneath. “He’ll live.”

Whatever this consisted of, it had a routine. Ogata would make his way over to Kiroranke, do something irritating, and then start pushing at him until Kiroranke gave in and let Ogata do what he wanted, which was usually to blow him. At first, it had seemed out of character for Ogata to give head. He wasn’t generous in any other way. But after it happened enough times to pick up on the pattern, Kiroranke started to notice how quickly Ogata removed himself to arm’s length, and it all became clear. Of course Ogata would take control from a distance, leaving his partner at his mercy, while he himself remained in a defensible position. It made sense, but once he figured it out the whole thing became oddly unsatisfying, which was a bad sign in itself; he needed to take a step back if he was starting to look to Ogata for satisfaction.

It had been a long day, and the end result had been foregone as soon as he'd let Ogata through the doorway, so Kiroranke let himself be herded back and pulled down to where Ogata had already made himself comfortable. It had been a long time since he’d slept on a soft surface of any kind, and he was sore, and it was easy to lay on his back and let Ogata loom over top of him, divesting Kiroranke of his clothing with the same practiced steadiness with which he'd load a rifle. Ogata was still fully-dressed, and even in the dim light Kiroranke could make out an erection in the front of his uniform trousers. Kiroranke shifted against him so that he could fit his knee between Ogata's thighs, just to see what it'd feel like, but as always Ogata pulled away. He sighed and hitched the leg over Ogata’s shoulder, just so he could pretend that was what he'd meant to do in the first place.

All his talk about Shiraishi barging in on them must have had some kind of impact, or else Ogata was just desperate, because his usual patience was gone; Ogata propped himself up with one hand and went at it with his lips not quite covering his teeth. Kiroranke didn't dislike it, but it surprised him. He let out an undignified sound and Ogata looked back up at him, still in the middle of things. His mouth and chin were shiny, sloppier than usual, and his eyes were black and unblinking as ever. It sent a shiver down Kiroranke’s spine, one he didn’t know how to interpret.

At the angle Ogata had him, there was nothing to do with his hands and nothing to see but Ogata kneeling over him, gagging on his cock. He felt useless. Kiroranke doubted anyone alive had ever felt like such an afterthought to their own dick getting sucked. Without much thought, he reached for one of Ogata’s shoulders and blurted, “You’re sure you don’t want me to—”

For his trouble, he got three of Ogata’s fingers shoved inside his open mouth to shut him up, and the shock of it, the speed at which he turned to violence, was what finished Kiroranke off, nothing else.

-

The closer they got to the prison, the harder it was for Kiroranke not to think of the old days. Back in the People's Will, the whole lot of them were in it together, all their necks touching rope if any were. They were closer than family, bound by secrets and blood and love for each other, for their people. A man like Ogata joined the army for no other reason than that he enjoyed and was good at killing, but the great empires didn’t care about that. No love bound a man like Ogata to the motherland, and the motherland would make use of him all the better for it. As long as he stuck around, at least.

Kiroranke and Asirpa dealt with all their kills after the fact, but Ogata did the bulk of the hunting for them; the sharpness of his eye wasn’t limited to humans. Even so, he showed no real aptitude for how to dress their prey once it was killed. There had been a few times Kiroranke had considered showing Ogata how to draw the carcasses of some of the bigger animals before coming to his senses. In another life, Ogata could’ve been one of the best of them. If he were Ainu instead of Japanese, would he carry himself with the same indifference? Kiroranke tried to picture him moving across the land, governed by the seasons, content with survival. A muskie, like he and Wilk had been.

It was a shallow dream; if being one of the people were enough to teach their kind of men how to live in peace, Kiroranke wouldn’t be out here again after all the years. The world, with its struggles and opportunities, always called.

-

They entered Russia at the cost of blood.

Kiroranke didn’t cling to superstition like some did. He listened indulgently to the grandmothers when they talked of turenpe, and didn’t pay it much mind. Even so, he didn’t discount the gut senses he got from certain people. Whether guardian spirits or not, it didn’t pay to ignore them. Ogata had always had a heaviness to him, an oppressive energy to his presence. Seeing him propped up on a sled and delirious, it was as if that energy had encompassed him completely, enveloping any of the arrogant nonchalance that usually tempered it. Maybe the darkness around him had always been that strong, and he was just usually better at hiding it.

They had outstayed their welcome at the aundau already, though Kiroranke’s gift of needles helped, and by the time their guide’s father recovered enough to send away the healers and concerned family members, Ogata was already closer to his usual self.

Kiroranke checked over his snowshoes, testing the bindings for weaknesses, when he saw Ogata stir out of the corner of his eye. He kept his eyes on his task as he commented, “I wasn’t sure you’d be back.”

Ogata said nothing for a moment, just lay in place, looking up at the ceiling. “Where is everyone?”

“Dealing with the reindeer carcasses. They’ll be at it for hours, considering how many you took out.”

“And you didn’t go to help?”

Kiroranke did glance over at him, then: he met Ogata's gaze, full of naked assessment. “Needed someone to make sure you didn’t slip back over to the other side on us when no one was looking.”

"I'm fine," Ogata insisted. He'd never looked like the picture of health, but his cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken. It was hard to believe his state had come on over the course of a day or two and was already passing. He looked like a prisoner of war. His eyes were still hazy, but lucid, which they hadn’t been when they’d arrived. Kiroranke felt a brief surge of relief, followed swiftly by the sense that he ought to be back on his guard, and he wasn't sure which impulse of the two lead him to reach over and pat Ogata's clammy cheek, none too gently. Checking for a response of some kind, or maybe just whether there was enough circulation in him for blood to rise to the skin.

Ogata’s mouth fell open slightly at the touch. Kiroranke folded that piece of information in his mind and tucked it away for later. He took the time to slide his hand down Ogata’s neck before pulling it away, and Ogata cleared his throat before speaking again.

"I remember... drums. Did I dream that?"

"No, you remember right. They had a sama in here—a shaman. A healer. For you and the guide's father. The one they shot because he had your rifle." Kiroranke untied one of the loops on the snowshoe and then tightened it, the new knot cleaner, more economical. Though his vision was occupied, he thought Ogata was smiling at the mention of the trade in guns and its result. It was to be expected, but no less chilling. Kiroranke asked, as casually as he could, “Who were you talking to?”, hoping to catch him off-guard in a moment of residual feverish honesty, but Ogata’s eyebrows drew together.

“What?”

“You were mumbling to someone the whole way back from the ambush. I couldn’t hear much, but you were.”

“I don’t remember,” Ogata replied, his face blank, though that wasn’t much of a change and so told Kiroranke basically nothing. Before he could press him further, Ogata glanced back over at him and asked, “Did you plan all this? Running into the Oroks when we did?”

Kiroranke laughed. “I had an idea we might meet some along the way. Didn’t plan on you shooting first and asking questions later. Really, Ogata, you thought it was an Ezo deer.”

Ogata’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment he looked like his usual self. “Are you holding out on me, Kiroranke?”

Kiroranke set the snowshoe down by his feet and leaned in a little closer, enough for Ogata to feel his shadow cast across his face. “Aren’t you?”

From where he still lay on his back, cocooned between blankets, Ogata looked at him with the same expression Kiroranke saw when he shot the reindeer. The entire herd, one by one, dead by Ogata’s hand, and the only look on his face was the purely practical concern of who should go first and how.

Instead of answering the question, Ogata reached up and grabbed the meat of Kiroranke’s leg above the knee. Kiroranke’s eyebrows flew up his forehead. “Now?”

Ogata leaned up on his elbows enough to almost meet Kiroranke eye to eye. “It’s not every day I almost die.”

His hand travelled its by-now well-worn path up Kiroranke’s thigh to grasp at his crotch, but Kiroranke stopped it with a tight grip around Ogata’s wrist. Whatever had taken hold of Ogata was sinking its teeth into Kiroranke as well, making him want things that were impossible according to the rules of the game. It was the first time he'd seen Ogata as anything less than impenetrable. It was almost charming. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing my way, you understand?”

Ogata cocked his head, and on impulse, Kiroranke reached over with his free hand to cup Ogata’s cheek, his index fingertip just under the man’s eye, close enough to thrust it into the socket and do some real damage if he liked. He thought he could see Ogata's eyelids flutter just a little, though it could have just been the fever.

After that, the hardest part was getting access to Ogata’s body without leaving him completely exposed to the elements. Under the layers of blankets, Kiroranke pumped Ogata’s dick, lazily, just for the novelty of it. Ogata was pretty much hard already, which was gratifying; Ogata had obviously been getting off on whatever it was they were doing, or else he wouldn’t keep doing it, but knowing that was different from having the proof right in his hand. Still a cold son of a bitch, but this was something Kiroranke could understand, something he could use. Human hunger, present even if Ogata would try and play it off.

Eventually, he ended up mostly under the covers himself, the two of them pressed against each other and sweating against the cold air. He spit in his hand, and out of curiosity poked around behind Ogata’s balls, just to see what he’d do. As soon as he started to press at the entrance, he felt Ogata’s whole spine twist into it, against him, and Kiroranke murmured against the side of Ogata’s face, “See? I knew you’d come around eventually.”

“Will you shut up and fuck me?”

“Be patient.” Kiroranke shoved his finger in further and felt, rather than heard, Ogata curse against Kiroranke’s neck. Ogata hitched his left leg up higher, a bony heel digging into the small of Kiroranke’s back, and Kiroranke couldn’t help but feel a flash of appreciation for the compact strength in Ogata’s form, now that he was up close to it for the first time. Kiroranke had the height and weight advantage, of course, but he could feel the dense muscle shift in Ogata’s stocky thighs as they bracketed his waist. It felt good to have another body up against him, especially one that knew labour, had been honed into a tool by someone who knew their purpose. For a brief second he thought about his cise back in Hokkaido, about the familiar weight of his wife in their bed, and then pushed the thought away.

As if listening in on his thoughts, Ogata dug his fingernails into Kiroranke’s shoulder hard enough to sting even through his clothes. Those were the hands that pulled the trigger that ended Wilk’s life: the thought should be enough to put the whole thing off, but Kiroranke felt the knowledge of it catch fire somewhere inside his chest, and he pushed in his second finger, immediately almost as deep as the other. Ogata clenched around him, pulling him in further even as Kiroranke flexed and twisted them inside.

When he next spoke, Ogata sounded ragged, though Kiroranke was sure some of it was his sorry state of health. “Get on with it. How long are you going to make me wait?”

“I thought waiting was what you were good at,” Kiroranke replied, but obliged him. He pulled his fingers back out, gratified by the faint, involuntary gasp Ogata made against his ear before turning his face away towards the birchbark wall. “Turn over.”

A hand on Ogata's flank was all that was needed; Kiroranke knew how to handle an animal, large or small. Still moving more slowly than usual, Ogata followed the direction with a blissful lack of commentary. It was curious to watch him yield; was it the last of the illness still hanging around him like a dark cloud, or just another coincidental lining up of the things they both wanted, for the time being? Once he’d turned around, Ogata braced himself on his elbows, head hanging down to rest his forehead on the sleeping surface, his hair fallen out of its carefully maintained shape.

It was still slow going, getting his cock inside; he hadn’t fucked someone like this in a long time, since his army days. Ogata shifted beneath him, his thighs visibly trembling from the effort, and Kiroranke tried not to be unnecessarily cruel while also being conscious of the danger of doing this at all, but especially here, as well as the profound itch he felt to claim something. He couldn’t keep letting Ogata be the one to draw blood.

Ogata didn’t say anything else after that, just took in shallow breaths through his mouth and leaned into Kiroranke’s thrusts. The knuckles of Ogata's clenched fists were whiter than white. Blue, with the cold, with the strain of it—there hadn't been anything but saliva around to ease the way; he'd gambled that Ogata would take it anyway, and his bet had cashed out—and with the poor light coming into the aundau, reflected off the snowy ground outside. Ogata's panting was rough, irregular, like the kind one heard from a wounded bit of prey limping its way to a painful death because it couldn't bear the thought of facing its quick one. Kiroranke leaned over him. His chest covered Ogata's entire back. Kiroranke had never been this close to him with so little in between them, and even then he doubted he would be again. In the cold air Ogata’s skin felt like it was burning to the touch. On impulse, Kiroranke bit down on the scruff of Ogata’s neck. Ogata shuddered below him, clenching hot and tight around Kiroranke’s cock, and almost immediately Ogata’s arms finally gave out; he lay there, his head and shoulders pressed against the layers of extra blankets, while Kiroranke fucked him.

He wanted Ogata to come like this. He wasn’t sure why it felt so important. Something he had to prove to himself, maybe. That he was still the one holding the reins of this partnership. That he wasn’t just there and better looking than Shiraishi; that he had something Ogata wanted, maybe needed, even if Kiroranke didn’t know what that was. That there was some piece of leverage he had over the man, that he could make him feel something, if only for as long as it took for them to get off, disentangle themselves, and go back to cool amity.

He reached around and grasped for Ogata’s cock, finding it flagging slightly but still wet with precome. He drove him rough, jerked him in time with the push of his hips, and soon he could hear the rate of Ogata’s muffled breathing speed up to meet his. What did it, in the end, was when Kiroranke reached up with his other hand and brushed a thumb over Ogata’s jawline, rubbing hard enough to bruise over the suture scars carved across the skin and bone. Ogata came into his hand, and Kiroranke followed him not long after, before he’d had a chance to fully pull out; it felt dirty and primal, and satisfying, somewhere deep in his core.

Ogata didn’t get up from where his face’d landed on the bed; Kiroranke set him down as gently as he could now that he was mostly limp. He fixed Ogata's uniform, covered him with the blankets, and then poked at his shoulder just to check. Ogata rolled over, fast asleep already and drool coming out of the corner of his mouth. Kiroranke sighed and began to put himself back together.

He'd asked Ogata, back on the boat to Karafuto, if it were really necessary to shoot Sugimoto as well, and hadn't received much of an answer. Watching Ogata sleep off the rest of whatever evil spirit or sickness had him in his grasp, the question came back to him. If he asked Ogata tomorrow, he might have something more convincing to say for himself, but Kiroranke suspected it might not be wise to believe it.

-

They left the Orok encampment the next day. Both parties were glad to be rid of each other.

Before they set out properly, Asirpa checked over the provisions one last time. Shiraishi hovered over her shoulder, trying to look useful. Kiroranke beckoned Ogata over to him with a jerk of the head. Once he came within arm's reach, Kiroranke touched the back of his bare hand to Ogata's forehead, under the brim of his hat. It was neither burning up nor deathly cold.

Ogata blinked at him, just once: a blink that contained more concentrated antipathy than Kiroranke had believed possible. "The fever already broke yesterday."

"I know," he replied, and kept his hand where it was. He pressed it hard enough Ogata could feel the ridges of his knuckles against his skin. A threat. Of what, Kiroranke hadn't yet decided, but Ogata would understand, would read into it what Kiroranke needed him to. He saw the muscles of Ogata's throat work beneath the skin; he'd swallowed, and let Kiroranke see him do it. Kiroranke wished he could kid himself into believing it was a reflexive reaction to fear, but he knew Ogata too well for that. Despite, he had to admit, not knowing Ogata all that well at all.

"Everything's here," he heard Asirpa proclaim, and Kiroranke let his hand drop from Ogata's face. Before he could turn away, Ogata caught his wrist in one of his own, gloved hands. His thumb found Kiroranke's pulse point; he dug it in as deep as the surrounding muscle and bone would allow, and then let Kiroranke go.

They usually walked with Ogata in the rear, it being the natural tactical position for him to take, but that morning Kiroranke found an excuse to trail behind. It showed how close they were getting to Sofia and his old turf; he was getting paranoid. Even knowing that, it took more than a few hours for Kiroranke to relax enough to turn his back on Ogata. Once he did, he could occasionally feel what he swore was the pressure of Ogata's eyes on him, but the feeling didn't linger. At least until they reached Akou prison, he would have to trust a sleeping cat would lie.