“You haven’t changed at all.”
A long moment passed where Sugimoto sensed nothing apart from the ragged tempo of their breathing in the still night air, suffocating as the whisper of Ogata’s words passed like tiny daggers over his skin. He let it linger, heavy and silent, ignoring the lump in his throat that threatened to crescendo into tears beneath the fabric of his scarf. He wouldn’t fucking cry. Not here. Not now.
He remembered that he’d cried the night of Umeko’s wedding, when the agony of loneliness set in and he wondered why he hadn’t been been good enough, or worth waiting for. Of course, he cried when his father died, and he began to understand the fragility and impermanence of life. And Toraji - when Toraji died, he cried for many nights, because finally there was nothing left of his old life that he could call his. No friends, no family, no lover.
But not here. He couldn’t cry here, because doing so would be admitting that what happened between the two of them was over, and that Ogata had won.
He released Ogata from his grip, lowering the man’s head gently to the futon before he freed himself from their entanglement. Legs heavy and body numb, he edged away, feet pressed flat against the floor as if urging him to leave. He should, he realized. He should walk away now, instead of clinging to the shallow strands of hope that Ogata might have loved him once, had he done something differently. But that resentment wasn’t something he could escape, he knew. He could run all he wanted, but Ogata’s gaze would always be there, boring into the back of his skull in silent judgment.
Sugimoto glanced back towards the man behind him, unsurprised to catch Ogata staring with what was left of his dark, heady eyes. Absurd. It was all so absurd that Sugimoto had to laugh, sharp and piercing and full of regret.
“You know, maybe I’m a liar. Maybe I’m selfish. Maybe I’m just as much of a frigid, unchanging bastard as you,” Sugimoto hissed. He tried to close himself off to the yearning he’d felt when Ogata pulled him close, but the sensation of the other man’s touch still sat heavy on the back of his neck. It wasn’t enough to just let go, anymore. Not after all this time. Sugimoto felt compelled to bend over him, caging Ogata between his arms as he stared back at the man defiantly. “But despite it all, I thought, you and I… Together, we could…”
Could what, make it work? Live happily ever after? Sugimoto was surprised to find that after so many nights agonizing over what to say when they finally crossed paths again, he still couldn’t find the words.
Maybe words were useless anyways. After all, Ogata had a beautiful way of twisting them and carving them until they lost all semblance of meaning. The sniper was also a butcher, in his own right.
But there were other ways to tell him. Sugimoto didn’t know if it was right. Knew, almost certainly, Ogata would push him away if he had the strength. But when he lowered himself down to Ogata’s lips and kissed him chastely, he found that he couldn’t stop himself. Didn’t even care to try.
The taste was familiar and strange all at once, unexpectedly sweet and intoxicating in a way that made Sugimoto sick. For all the times he’d thought of killing the man, he’d thought of this tenfold - of the soft curve of his mouth, the tenderness of his tongue contrasted against the harshness of his actions. Sugimoto sank into it, not bothering to hide the desperation in his pace, the need, even if Ogata felt none of the same, tangling his fingers in the man’s hair as if he might run at any moment.
“Live or die, I don’t give a shit,” he lied between breaths. “You did your damage. You can’t hurt me anymore.”
Ogata thought of killing Sugimoto numerous times before, but not quite as many as Sugimoto claimed to have done. No difference had been made after Abashiri, not in the frozen lands of Russia. For better or for worse, Sugimoto avoided the fatal blows by a narrow margin, one that Ogata hadn’t figured out how to get rid of. Putting an end to their back and forth war felt like a distant goal, less likely to happen than finding a speck of gold dust. No matter how many times Ogata fired his weapon, Sugimoto always came back from the depths of whatever hell accepted him.
Part of him liked the chase, there was no use denying the obvious. He liked the thought of having something to look over his shoulder for - the thought of someone waiting for him at the other side of the lense.
What he didn’t like was that Sugimoto tried to force a name on this thing.
Heat began to build up in Ogata’s body - warm and liquid where there should be coldness; it made him feel sick. Like staring down a precipice, the knot in his stomach twisted. It made Ogata want to hurt Sugimoto badly, so much that he wouldn’t have a reason to try his luck a second time. Or a third. Yet, his limbs flinched and his breath was caught in the space between their mouths, like a spell or a curse he swallowed halfway through a dry throat. Sugimoto was persistent, desperate - frantically looking for Ogata’s response, which, hazed by the narcotics and swept by the spur of the vivid memories engraved into his flesh, he gave. Ogata returned the kiss at first, savage as he could, but Sugimoto didn’t let him lay a single bite.
The acid sensation at the pit of his stomach didn’t resemble anything he’d felt before. It was foreign, so much that he couldn’t draw a proper reaction out of his system until it was already too late and Sugimoto was touching him with tenderness so unlike Ogata’s cruelty and his fruitless attempt at goading Sugimoto in. His lips planted against Ogata’s half-opened mouth like he was afraid of hurting him. Distaste crawled up his skin. Live or die, stay or leave; Sugimoto muttered all these words so close to Ogata’s ear that he almost missed it.
The look Sugimoto gave him afterwards... did he think of Ogata as a lover?
“...” He pushed himself apart.
Ogata had never been in love - if love was anywhere. So for Sugimoto to try and attempt to give meaning to what they’d done all those months back in the mountains, he must have been feeling equal parts bold and stupid. He wished, more than anything else in the world, to have the strength to reach for his bayonet and open Sugimoto’s rib cage in half, see what was stored inside. He supposed it’d be warm, slippery, red. Sugimoto’s tongue was that way, too, when it brushed against Ogata’s lips - or when he sucked all the poison from Ogata’s empty eye socket.
He moved sluggishly beneath Sugimoto’s body, restricted by the firm grip in his hair. “You and I, what? You think we’d run away together with the gold and build a life as bandits or live in hiding in the forest? Surely you haven’t forgotten that we’re drop outs. Worse than that, First Lieutenant Tsurumi would never let his grip on us come loose, not after you’ve traded your soul away for that false act of heroism.”
“What did that gain you? Do you still think we’d get away from this unscathed?” Despite his words, Ogata was surprised to find that he wanted to know Sugimoto’s answer. He buried the embers of that foolish curiosity, licking at his lower lip. It was still coated with Sugimoto’s scent and flavor. He held up his gaze. “I don’t want to hurt you, Sugimoto. I want to kill you, I thought I’d made that clear.”
