Chapter Text
Sugimoto gestures around them.
“Pick a door,” he says, and when he smiles, the curve of his lips tastes like something bitter.
-
FLOTSAM.
When Sugimoto disappears for a few days, it's easy to fall back into his usual state, tucking the flurry of agitation back into himself.
He hasn’t realised how worn out he is until he wakes up from his nap and upon stumbling into the innkeeper, realises that he’s slept through an entire day. No matter; he’s just recovered from his cold anyway, this is to be expected.
The day is pleasant enough that he decides to head out. When a storekeeper pushes too hard in an attempt to sell his wares, Ogata haggles and needles and takes the storekeeper for a spin until the storekeeper is close to tears. Then some beady-eyed kid starts lingering, clothes too dirty to be anything but a street rascal, so Ogata tosses the kid the comb that he’s gotten pretty much for free, and then continues his walk down the street.
It strikes him while he’s in the middle of buying some street food that he has missed being alone much more than he thought.
To miss something is a puzzling feeling - much less to miss a lifestyle that Ogata has never quite lost in the first place, what with Sugimoto being a ghost that phases in and out of existence.
The sun shines bright, but the air around him is chilled. Bitter, on his tongue. He pulls his coat tighter around him as he turns the corner, and -
Oh.
“Hello,” Kikuta says, all angular and gaunt, “never thought I’ll see you again.”
-
Once upon a time, Sugimoto tells him that the first time he killed someone, he almost threw up.
Almost, because Toraji is vomiting his guts out beside him, and Sugimoto - well, someone has to drag Toraji up and out of the line of fire, right?
Ogata doesn’t know who Toraji is. It doesn’t matter - he’s dead now, Sugimoto says. Sugimoto says many things these days that Ogata doesn’t understand, but that doesn’t matter as well, because Sugimoto is dead too.
So is Tsurumi. So is Kiroranke, is Hijikata, and soon will Kikuta, soon will Ogata. It’s a matter of time.
(To die by Sugimoto’s hands, in the end. This is what he’s owed.)
And at the end of the day, Ogata finds himself a small room in a small inn, glances out of the window, and fishes out Asirpa’s note.
“If this man,” Sugimoto asks, “has mellowed out and is now living in the woods peacefully with a wife and two children, and maybe even occasionally deliver firewood to the old couple who lived twenty minutes away from him, would you consider letting him go?”
“No,” Ogata answers.
“Yeah,” Sugimoto replies, “I thought not.”
-
“Walk with me,” Kikuta implores, and Ogata is careful to keep pace beside him. “How have the years been treating you?”
“Well enough.”
“That’s good.” Kikuta coughs to clear his throat. “As you can see, I have not been as lucky, but what is a man to do?”
Everything about Kikuta seems out of turn. He has been breezy, but it has always been underpinned with a sort of ambition, an underlying awareness of rank and power. But now, it is as though Kikuta has found peace. It's so weird.
"Roll over and die, then," Ogata derides. "If you pawn some of your guns, you can make your final moments quite comfortable."
Kikuta's feet drag along the ground as he walks. "I've always known," he remarks, and the dullness of his face makes him look even more skeletal, "that death is coming for me. Especially after Mukden, I… But I never thought that it would come so insidiously."
"Yes," Ogata retorts scathingly, "I've heard of your little story thousands of times. You and Ariko, alone under the moon, hanging on to each other's voices. How romantic. If only both of you died together then."
(To be joined only in death; there's something beautiful about that, isn't there? He has hoped it for his mother when he killed her. Maybe as her soul lingers in that first week after she passed, she'll find solace at Hanazawa's belated appearance.
Except Hanazawa never came, and Ogata has to go and personally kill him. May his mother rest in peace.)
"Suppose," Kikuta continues, but breaks into wet coughs that force him to double over. "Sorry," he rasps when the tremors ease, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Oi, say something, will you? Make fun of me or something. It's weird to have you all empathetic when you can lord my misery over my head."
"I -" It hits Ogata that he has not said any of his replies out loud. "It's no fun if you've already accepted how pathetic you are," he defers. Kikuta doesn't look convinced, so Ogata adds, "Are you that starved for attention that you want me to insult you?"
"Ten years later, and still a massive bastard," Kikuta returns, and oh horror, is that mirth that is buried in his voice? "Hey, Ogata? There is one thing I've always wanted to ask you."
"What."
Kikuta straightens his back, wheezing painfully for a long while before he finds his voice again. "Why did you betray the First Lieutenant?"
The sunbeam flashes in his eyes; Ogata has to look away. "Won't you like to know."
"Fine, then tell me this: do you regret leaving?"
The answer to this is quick. "No."
"Not at all?" Kikuta sounds taken aback. When Ogata eyes him, Kikuta's eyebrows are raised so high that the wrinkles on his forehead seem to have spawned offspring. "You know that we would have won? We were so close."
“He would have won," Ogata bites out icily. "Not me. It won't matter to me."
"But you are in his division. The glory trickles down."
"I don't care for glory.” He straightens his sleeves distractedly. “A war up north, a war on the streets - it’s all the same. I’ll shoot people who need to be shot and keep going until I die, but I will not be acting under his orders."
Kikuta rolls the answer over in his head. "Freedom to choose, huh?" He starts strolling again. "Never thought you’re the optimistic kind."
"I'm not."
"Idealistic, then." Ogata graces that with a scoff. "Or at least anarchic," Kikuta amends. "After all, these days, freedom is merely a longer leash."
A horrible metaphor, but what can he expect from Kikuta of all people. "At least I am the one to decide who holds the leash."
The words do not sit easy; Kikuta makes a strange face that makes Ogata chafe under the scrutiny. "You’ve changed."
"Obviously.” The decade has been long.
It is feeble, the way that Kikuta snorts. Like the quivering of an automobile’s engine that struggles to start. “After all these years, and I still can never understand what it is you want.”
That doesn’t matter, Ogata thinks, not anymore. “I want to destroy anyone who has ever wronged me.”
“Ah, that part hadn’t changed,” Kikuta quips. “Ogata Hyakunosuke, that horrible little man who can store so much spite in such a small body.”
“f*ck off.”
“I will soon enough.” Kikuta clasps his hands behind his back. “It’s always the result with you, isn’t it? That’s fair - only the consequences endure, in the end. That’s life for you.”
"Life, for me, is one that belongs to me and only me,” Ogata jeers, “unlike whatever the f*ck has happened with you."
Kikuta halts again. When he turns around, there is an expression that looks like a scream caught halfway between a sob and a guffaw. "To you," Kikuta utters, "has my career appeared that pathetic to you? My life, even - do you scoff at it all?"
Ogata has no answers for him. "Name me one good thing that came out of it."
"Well, I met Ariko." The lopsided grin slips onto Kikuta's face so easily that it stuns Ogata. "Speaking of which, I should head home soon. He'll be pissed that I sneaked out again. Ariko thinks the city air is bad for my lungs."
-
This is something that Ogata has never told anyone:
For the years after the gold hunt, Ogata has decided, oh what the hell, he might as well make the best out of it.
After all, living has always been deliberate for Ogata. It's a choice. He chooses to live. He decides to spend his days following orders. He wants to desert because he's sick of feeling trapped.
So he tries to find something to do.
He idles. Takes up jobs. Wanders from place to place, trying to figure out something that can make him stay, a goal that he can keep to for the long term, before it all gets too much and he needs to run again, before the frustration makes him so stupid he's ready to claw out of his own skin.
Because see, the thing about life is this: you have to have a purpose, or you will drift, flotsam on the waves.
Ogata doesn't mind drifting, so long as he's still afloat. The world is big and life is long and he always has something he needs to do, for better or worse.
But then Sugimoto crashes back into his life, splintering wood and snapping the ropes holding Ogata's world together, selfishness and sacrifice, paradoxes all rolling into one man who cannot grow anymore. A flame, Ogata thinks, waiting to burn out. Both creation and destruction, the beginning and the end.
(Ogata's liberation, that moment after Ogata falls off the cliff and hangs on the precipice of death, that final exhale as Ogata sees Sugimoto alive that final time, that time when Sugimoto stares down at him his mouth bloodied his face flushed and he’s survived he’s survived! - Ogata’s heart pulsing so hard that it's exhilarating, because Sugimoto wears and tears but he'll never break, on and on and on -)
But then Sugimoto dies, so now what then? Now what?
-
Ogata wipes off the water from his face, and shakes the droplets off his hair. The movement makes him feel somewhat like a dog, or at least, a very fluffy and very big cat; he hangs the towel around his neck and sits by the table.
Then he reaches for his rifle.
Ogata doesn’t know when it happens, but Sugimoto returns: silently as a changeling in the woods, his presence quiet and unsupposing.
"Did you know," Ogata asks suddenly, "that love is real?"
"What," says Sugimoto.
"It makes me sneeze," Ogata continues. He wipes down the rifle. "Maybe I'm allergic to it."
The moon is awfully bright that night. Ogata wishes it will rain, just so that Kikuta will choke on his own phlegm, wherever the f*ck he is.
"This is probably because you refuse to eat shiitake mushrooms," Sugimoto suggests.
"What has that got to do with anything?"
"It's a medicinal herb," Sugimoto informs. "There is a reason why it's always used in traditional soups."
If this is a conspiracy to get Ogata to eat shiitake mushrooms, Ogata is not buying it. "Well," he demurs, "I'm not going to eat it, so I guess I'll just die."
His answer seems to annoy Sugimoto, which makes it even better, and Ogata’s mood lightens for the rest of the night.
In the end, Shiraishi never did turn up, so Ogata packs up his bag, ignores Sugimoto's whining about trying out (or in his case, sniffing) more of the local dishes, mounts his horse, and sets off for Niseko.
"Let's wait awhile before we take the train again," Ogata informs absently.
Sugimoto stays close behind Ogata, an unexpected lightness throughout his body that has appeared ever since Sugimoto has announced Ogata's death.
(A duty solidifying, Ogata knows, a goal waiting to be accomplished.)
Nevertheless, he hasn't been able to touch Ogata again except for the occasional poke. Back to normalcy, and so it goes.
They set off the next morning, wading off the beaten path into the woods as the sun ascends to its throne.
“The terrain ahead looks rough,” Sugimoto comments lightly, “it’s not too late to head back into town.”
Ogata shakes his head. “Suck it up - we’ll walk.”
Sugimoto is silent again. “Do you,” he begins, “do you want to take a break?”
What? “What for?” Sugimoto doesn’t answer. Ogata frowns. “I just had a break.”
“Yes.” A breeze; Sugimoto’s kimono does not sway. “We should slow down,” he suggests, annoyingly opaque. “You’re tired.”
“I'm not.”
“Is it my fault?” Sugimoto continues. When Ogata ignores him, Sugimoto kicks at his foot; it connects this time, and Ogata stumbles before he rights himself.
“Not everything is about you,” Ogata snaps, bending down to tighten the laces of his boots.
“But I - do you know what people used to say? That the more time you spend with the dead, the closer you move away from life?”
“Superstitions."
“Really?” Sugimoto challenges, “because you’re different when with me. Different from the way you were when I was alive.”
He hasn’t realised that. “How so?” Sugimoto hesitates; Ogata repeats impatiently, “how?”
“You lose control,” Sugimoto blurts. Ogata freezes, feeling a little stunned. “You must have noticed it.”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with becoming closer to dying.”
Under the radiant light, Sugimoto seems to fade, transparent where the sunbeams piercing through him. “Oh,” he mutters, “then it is all me?”
"Don't let it get to your head."
"Of course not." Sugimoto purses his lips, looking thoughtful. "All those years ago, did you always have a grand masterplan?"
Back to the bullsh*t, then. Ogata turns back front. "I do, actually."
"You do?"
Don't you dare sound so surprised. "Yeah," he gibes, "to have the time of my life f*cking everyone over."
Sugimoto snorts. "Oh f*ck off."
By all accounts, he can do that. But if he does, then where would Sugimoto go?
(Cease to exist, perhaps, like all things left untold after death. It’s hollow.)
"You're the one haunting me," Ogata retorts instead, and continues.
-
INTO THE WARDROBE.
It feels like a dream.
(What?)
-
Sugimoto, looking at him, and he’s smiling - a full, early morning smile. Ogata’s heart stutters, pitter-patter, and there is a moment of weakness where he thinks he will shatter when Sugimoto kisses him on the nose.
“Wake up,” he mutters, that wonderful smile curling further until the corners of his eyes wrinkle.
And Ogata opens his eyes to see Sugimoto staring down at him, the flare of the sun merging into his head.
“What,” he leers, sitting up.
Sugimoto barely blinks as he glides away.
(This, this isn't fair - Ogata is displaced and yet Sugimoto is fine. He shouldn't be, not when Ogata feels like he's losing his mind with every passing second.)
The old itch under his skin, the desire to prove Sugimoto wrong - rile him up, just to see him lose control because of Ogata.)
"Sugimoto," Ogata snaps, and he - he doesn't remember what he says, but he must have said something, because Sugimoto whips around, fury colouring his cheeks before he startles at whatever he finds on Ogata's face.
Then his face softens, and Ogata hates this part, he always -
“Life would be a lot easier if you learnt how to lie properly to yourself,” Sugimoto advises, a hint of pity colouring his voice, and Ogata whips out his pistol and shoots at him before he remembers all the reasons why not.
Impulses and whims; at least the consequences are less significant, now. The air ripples, and Sugimoto blinks. “Aim right next time,” he says.
-
A million centuries and ten years ago, before Ogata spat in Sugimoto’s face, he points his rifle at Sugimoto, arms wobbling from fatigue, and Sugimoto grabs it and pulls it over his heart.
“Go on,” Sugimoto taunts tiredly, “shoot me.”
And Ogata can - he has, he will, and yet -
“f*ck you,” Ogata snarls, muscles coiling like the twist of a python before Sugimoto suddenly swings the rifle to the side to lunge for Ogata’s throat.
They scramble, and there is a moment of deja vu before Ogata manages to slip off.
But Sugimoto doesn’t throw the rifle this time. Sugimoto lurches forward and drags Ogata down with him: a tussle, then a tumble; falling, decrescendo denouement a f*cking descend as they skid down the slope.
A stone rolls off the cliff. Ogata’s foot dangles. Sugimoto holds firm, an arm around Ogata and another clinging onto a jutting rock, his palms so scraped up that it is raw and bloody.
(An ultimatum, suspended.)
“Ogata,” Sugimoto hisses. His voice is thick with exhaustion, more like a wheeze than a threat, and Ogata has barely the chance to wonder how many wounds bleed open when Sugimoto adds, “I’m going to f*cking kill you. But not yet.”
He feels a laugh bubbling up his throat, irrational and feverish. “Oh, and I will drag you to my grave with me.”
“Really.” Sugimoto’s grip slip, and for a moment Ogata thinks he’s going to fall again, before Sugimoto heaves him against his chest. “Should I let go right now?”
“Why not? Maybe First Lieutenant Tsurumi will fish me up again.” And he’ll escape again and chase Sugimoto to the ends of the universe, on and on and on.
“No, I mean -” Sugimoto wets his lips. His eyes are blown wide open. “If I let us both fall."
(A reckoning.)
-
And another million years before, or perhaps it is the span of a heartbeat, Ogata asks, “Grandma, what is sin?”
And, and all religions have different ideas on what is sin, don’t they? Ogata can map them all together: a codification of behaviours and taboos, rules on how to be human. Some say lust is a sin; others say that want is only human, but failure to overcome desire is a moral failure. Another says to eat too much is wrong.
Many of them say that patricide is damning.
But a long, long time ago, Ogata stares down at his hands, knuckles rubbed raw, and he says, “Grandma,” and he asks, “what is sin?”
His grandmother startles. She removes the backstrap on her waist and moves away from the loom. “They are bad things that you wash away when you purify yourself at the temple. Why do you ask?”
“Some of the kids in the village called Mother a sinful woman.”
His grandmother’s face twists, and Ogata thinks of wrinkled rags and his mother’s old kimono, faded and dusty at the bottom of the wardrobe. “Oh, my dear child.” His grandmother hugs him to her chest. “Your mother did what she had to survive, little Hyaku. She did what she must. There is no sin in that.”
But there is sin in Ogata, because murder - murder is always a choice, and it is one that is always made by the aftermath of a rotten soul. Commandments, major sins, rule and order: thou shall not kill, because murder is always wrong, no matter the religion.
Murder is the greatest crime, Asirpa has said, as the Ainu has said, they who deplore murder most of all.
Then what about me, Ogata thinks.
-
A VESTIBULE,
To his commanding officer, Ogata says, "Thank you, sir, but I would like to reject the promotion."
-
Or rather, Ogata says, "Thank you, sir," and doesn't feel sh*t.
He herds all his men like herding sheep, until one day he stops, clutches his face, and wonders what the f*ck he is doing. He's there to serve his time and leave, and all these foolishness can be carried out by sillier men eager for praise and power.
And so Ogata leaves.
-
He herds all his men like herding sheep. Keeps them in line - that's good enough - and peers out at the dock, gazing out at the frontlines every time there is a battle.
Ogata doesn't know what he's searching for, but whatever it is, he doesn't see it.
And so at the first opportunity, he fakes an injury and gets himself honourably discharged.
-
"I mean -” Sugimoto wets his lips. “If I let us both fall. We'll die together. Disillusioning, isn't it? Sugimoto the f*cking Immortal isn't so immortal after all.”
(A reckoning. First and last. For chrissake, what even is this mess -)
"Damn you, Sugimoto," Ogata sneers, "what the hell do you want from me?"
"Then what do you want me to do?" Sugimoto snarls. "You drive me f*cking insane, you know that? Every single time, I -"
Like Sugimoto doesn't make Ogata want to tear out his throat, wants to claw off his own skin just to hurt -
"There is nothing you can do," Ogata tells him, and Sugimoto's face stretches into a facsimile of a grin (or is it the other way round?) before he shoves Ogata up to steady ground.
-
What? Ogata thinks, because it feels like a dream. And it’s not, it’s not - all these years aren’t a dream, but he is confused and upset and there is no reason to, none at all.
“Hey,” Sugimoto says, and Ogata’s head snaps up. “Didn’t know you miss me that much.”
-
OLD DOG.
Niseko is a quiet town with too many trees and not enough people, and the trek up the mountain makes Ogata believe that he should step up the intensity of his jogs. That, or he’s getting old.
“Do you know?" Sugimoto remarks, "the name Niseko is derived from the Ainu language.”
"S'that so."
"Yups. It means the cliff over the river." Sugimoto reaches out at a tree branch, and surreally, frost spreads over his fingers. “This place will be gorgeous in winter.”
Ogata doesn’t like that. “What are you doing?”
“Ghostly things,” Sugimoto answers vaguely, and at Ogata’s unimpressed stare, adds, “these are the ghosts of plants.”
“There are plant ghosts?”
Sugimoto makes a face. “Not exactly,” he admits, “but there really isn’t a better word for it. You’ll understand when you’re dead.”
“Oh, joy,” Ogata replies flatly. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“You won’t.”
“Huh.” He rubs at his knees. Aches. “You’ll make my death miserable, then?”
“The most miserable.” Sugimoto quirks the edge of his mouth. “Or maybe I won’t kill you at all, and you’ll be stuck with my company until something else eventually claims you.”
“That’ll be torture.”
Sugimoto smiles, and the sunlight on his hair glows like brass, distracting if only for how it draws attention to the absence of his cap. “Won’t it,” he says.
-
It takes them awhile, but they kill a man.
-
The daughter watches while Ogata buries her father. The mother has long passed, years ago in an avalanche, and the daughter grows up running around town and helping sweep the floors of the nearby temples.
“My name is Tome,” she says, and Ogata feels off-kilter for a second before he catches himself. “One day, I will kill you.”
Ogata ignores her. Sugimoto stands beside the door, flicking at the sunshine doll hanging above.
“Do you even know his name?” the daughter continues, her tiny frame shaking. Tedious - Ogata has watched them for some days before taking action. Her father has barely interacted with her, and every word they exchange is curt and acerbic.
“I do, actually,” Ogata tells her, “although it won’t be the same name that you know.”
“What?”
He shovels more soil on the plot dutifully. “Once,” he informs, “I met a girl, whose father was killed by a traitor on their team. Except it turns out that her father is alive, and he is the traitor. Although, to be fair, he has noble intentions, but I would say the execution could use some work.”
“Ogata,” Sugimoto warns, “don’t cause trouble.”
Ogata lowers his gaze to his feet, allowing himself the barest opportunity to falter before he resumes his work. “She also found out that he has a whole other life that she has never heard of, and is insane enough to throw his child in the midst of revolution without warning. I killed him.”
“Oh,” the daughter says.
The pile is getting higher; maybe Ogata will even find some rocks to place around the plot. A proper grave, for once, since he’s in a good mood. “Not because I felt bad for the girl, because I don’t. But let’s just say patricide is something of a habit of mine.”
The daughter's voice is wobbling. “You’re mad.”
Ogata snorts. “Sure," he taunts, and sticks the spade atop the pile. "Say, I'm stark raving mad. What are you going to do about it?"
The daughter does not reply. When Ogata turns around, she is nowhere in sight. Sugimoto stares into the house. "You made her cry," he remarks.
"And so?" He pats the soil off his hands, and then his trousers. "She'll get over it."
"Maybe." Sugimoto turns towards Ogata. “You don’t have to be so cruel.”
“Cruel?” He shouldn’t be feeling amused, but he is. “What next? Are you going to call me a horrible person too?”
“Ogata.”
“Because I know that,” he continues, “but you aren't any better.”
He slings the fieldpack across his back before heading back down the road. Sugimoto trails along, a few false starts escaping his throat before he finally accuses, “Maybe the problem is with you. Ever thought about that? Just because everyone is horrible deep down doesn't mean you can't still try to be better than who they are.”
“I tried. Look where it got me?” He stretches out his arms. “Right here.”
“But if you don’t stray away from a path that is already wrong, then you can’t ever get anywhere,” Sugimoto insists. “Don’t ignore me - you can always just walk away. You turned your nose at me for not trying to live a life after the war, but for me to have any semblance of life, I need to change myself.”
“I don’t.”
“Ogata!” Sugimoto shouts when Ogata quickens his pace. “You f*cking bastard, listen to me - the entire time I travelled with Asirpa, I told myself - look, even if things can’t go back to the way it used to be, I can at least leave the bloodthirst behind. I tried so many times, again and again, to be more than who I am. Why not put away your gun?”
“Are you trying to save my soul or something?” Ogata snaps. “A little too late for that.”
“I’m -”
“And that's your downfall, by the way,” Ogata interrupts. “You can't run away from who you are. You're a monster - the biggest one of them all. You should have gobbled everyone right up.”
He doesn’t stop until Sugimoto grips onto his elbow, and it f*cking burns for a second, a million needles stabbing onto his skin, before Sugimoto recoils.
“Should I have?” he implores, eyes wide and searching. “Have I not killed enough?”
They all have, but there are always more wars to fight. So Ogata rubs at the pain and tells him, “You would have been glorious,” and is surprised to feel the old melancholy curl in his lungs.
-
Another something, unspoken:
The man slams the chair against Ogata before making a run for it, and - and heck, Ogata loves the chase but this is taking too long.
He seizes his rifle, squinting through the blood dripping from his forehead as he shoots and - and it is a horrible shot by all measures, but the man drops.
Ogata pulls himself up and trudges over. “You,” he grits out, slamming the butt of his rifle on the back of the man’s head. His vision is spinning. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“f*ck you,” says the man, and pulls the rifle away before Ogata can react. Ogata stumbles - this man doesn’t go down, f*ck - and he’s grappling the man, cursing age for slowing down his movements as the man dodges a strike.
“You’re not killing me today,” the man snarls, before lunging for Ogata. He forces an arm down on the throat, pressing hard as Ogata's breathing is cut off. The light catches on a blade - now where has he gotten that? - and Ogata -
(A breath at his ear, cold as a winter breeze, a whistle of seaside storms.
Let me, Sugimoto whispers.)
The light catches on the blade, catches on the glow of Sugimoto’s eyes, cold and stark as winter’s sun.
(And oh.)
The man’s pupils staring down at Ogata, dilated with shock and confusion.
(Sugimoto’s face, so still, so tranquil. The calm of the sea, the quiet moments of sunrise before the world rises.)
The dullness that rises up the man’s face, and then life has evaporated.
(Peaceful.)
Ogata pushes the man off and stands up. Brushes the crease in his clothes.
“What?” He meets Sugimoto’s stare. “Do you want me to thank you?”
-
A PAINTING ON THE WALL,
To be a ghost is something of a half-life. Dead, and yet not. Able to be perceived, and yet, a non-existence.
Like light - but you can feel the heat on your skin, soak through your lungs and call forth life from the greenest plants.
Like a shadow then, existence in the absence of - like cold, like silence, like indifference.
An absence of life, an absence of feelings, an absence of care. Little things, snowballing.
And then there’s Ogata: an absence of guilt where there should be guilt, an absence of love where there should be love. A non-existence of personhood.
So what does that make him?
Tell him: what?
-
OLD TRICKS.
The singing is melding with the rustling of his footsteps.
It's the village madman, they've told Ogata. He sings pithy marching songs and silly limericks, and wanders the borders of the woods for hours until he eventually stumbles home.
I met a young lass by the lake, while I'm on my way to a wake.
"Which one do you think she'll flash," Sugimoto mutters, bored, "the boobs or the ass?"
"Maybe she'll flash them both."
"Oh no," Sugimoto intones flatly, "not both parts. How scandalous."
The lyrics loop in circles, twist and turn, a never-ending tale forever and evermore. It bothers until it doesn’t, fading into white noise in the background, nestled in the back of his mind as with all things.
Then Sugimoto says, “Ogata.”
"Why are you -" Ogata pushes aside the branch. "Oh."
"Wild horses," Sugimoto observes, his voice taking on a curious lilt. "Huh. Surreal. I thought scenes like this are only found in stories."
The herd grazes on the meadow, curiously majestic until a few trot menacingly close when Sugimoto’s invisible presence confuses them.
Suppose a man and a ghost isn’t much threatening to them. And Ogata has thought the wild easily spooked.
The tune has faded into a whisper in the wind: At the wake I caught the eye, of a young man with skin like -
“Ogata,” Sugimoto says, barely dodging a curious bite at his sleeves, “a little help here?”
“Bold of you to assume I won’t feed you to the horses myself if they hadn’t started munching.” The one most persistent is a grey horse that towers over the others. “Weren’t you so smug about being more corporeal?” Or as corporeal as Sugimoto can be, anyway, when you are an unreal being.
“I told you, I didn’t mean to grab you,” Sugimoto insists. “Get it away -” He retches when the horse’s head phases through his shoulder instead. “Damn it.”
Ogata takes a step closer, and the herd inches a respectable distance away, freeing Sugimoto until the grey one circles back. “Huh,” Ogata comments. He takes two steps away, and the horse tracks his movements, wary and beady.
Sugimoto hugs his arms to his chest. “It is following us.”
“More like guarding against us.” When Ogata unslings his rifle, Sugimoto suddenly lunges forward to grab at the tip.
“What are you doing?”
“Shooting it,” Ogata replies placidly, “what else?”
“Leave it alone to graze, maybe?” Sugimoto drops his hand. “Or maybe…” He quirks his lips. “You know, your trek will be a lot shorter if you manage to tame yourself a ride.”
This is a horrible idea. "I'm going to break my bones."
"Maybe," Sugimoto allows, "but -"
"I'll use you as feed.”
Sugimoto purses his lips and tries again, "I've heard -"
He is older now, measures risk differently: even his favourite concoction of stubbornness and sheer spite cannot overcome the limits of the body. "You've heard many things. They are all true. So what?"
Sugimoto shrugs. "Not all, probably. I just thought -" A sudden flutter of the lashes, the stiffening of shoulders as memories twist its way into the slopes of his lips. “Huh. Have I ever told you about that time Kiroranke won a horse-riding competition?”
“The story about the rigged race?” He vaguely recalls details; must have been one of the stories shared during the treks. “You think he’ll be able to tame a wild horse?”
“I won’t be surprised.”
And Kiroranke will look f*cking suave doing it too. The show-off. Ogata lowers his rifle begrudgingly. “Too bad he didn’t teach me sh*t about that then.”
“It never came up in conversation?”
There is a hint of something sharp in Sugimoto’s tone that Ogata doesn’t like. He slings up his rifle and heads away from the herd, the grass wet and muddy under his feet. Disgusting. “Are you trying to say something?”
“Will you tell me even if I ask?”
“I,” says Ogata, when he hears it. “The singing has stopped.”
Not even the whistle of the winds, nor the rustle of grass. The horses are stiff as toy soldiers, frozen in position.
Ogata stares up at the skies. Even the clouds are still.
“Strange,” Sugimoto mutters, glancing over his shoulder. "Think we should go check it out?"
“Whatever for?”
“Aren’t you curious?”
Ogata makes a face. “I don’t care for some mad stranger.”
“Nonetheless. It feels ominous.” Sugimoto holds his palm above his eyes as he squints. “Hey, I think I saw someone near the copse over there.”
“That’s…” He holds up his binoculars. The branches are still stirring. “It can be an animal.”
“Could be.”
“Can’t you tell? What happened to your ghostly intuition?” Ogata ignores the scowl tossed his way. A copse is only barely better than a clearing when it comes to hiding spots. If something chooses to hide there, it probably isn’t anything threatening.
He voices as much, only for Sugimoto to rub at his nose and frown. “Then why not verify? It is along the way.”
Ogata really does not have the patience for this, but if Sugimoto is going to be difficult - “Fine,” he snaps, marching towards the copse. “We’ll take a quick look.”
It is only when he comes close that Ogata realises that the copse may be bigger than his initial estimation, and the undergrowth taller than is typical. “So,” Ogata begins slowly, “not does your presence f*ck up seasons, it also screws with relative scale now?”
“Oh give me a break, this is new to me too.” Sugimoto takes a big step over a shrub. “Does it help if my ghostly intuition doesn’t detect any bears?”
“I think that is less intuition and more common sense,” Ogata informs grimly. “Anyone with some intelligence can figure out that this grove is still too small for a bear to roam.”
“Maybe it is a very small bear.”
“Yes, just a single small bear,” he replies drily, even as he follows along.
Rustling, and a branch falls right where he was standing. Better timing next time, tree, Ogata thinks, and awards himself a point on his mental scoreboard.
Then he decides that it’s ridiculous, and discards the whole fiasco to the back of his mind.
The undergrowth mellows out the deeper in he wanders, and soon it has calmed into an easy spread of wild grass. He pauses beside an old tree, a hollow gaping wide like a mouth at its base, and calls out, “Sugimoto?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you like butterflies?”
“Well enough.” Sugimoto trots over. “What did you find?”
Ogata points at the pupa. “It’s emerging.”
“Woah, that’s -” Sugimoto’s excitement melts into dismay. “It has no heartbeat.”
“Oh.” Ogata pulls out his dagger and, with the back of the blade, gingerly pushes the opening wider. The butterfly is already dried up. “I’m surprised that some insect hasn’t come along and eaten it up yet.”
“As far as groves go, this one is too stagnant. There are barely any - don’t poke it, Ogata. Leave it alone.”
Ogata raises an eyebrow. “Why should I? It’s already dead. Also,” he adds before Sugimoto can protest, “it’s only a bug.”
“Then let the bug die in peace before I slap you on the wrist.” Sugimoto shakes his head. “You are like a kid sometimes, you know that? Or a petulant cat - my family used to have one as a pet. She always tries to steal my desserts.”
Ogata straightens up. “Then there’s the issue.”
“What?”
“If I am the one stealing,” Ogata reasons, “you wouldn’t be saying try.”
“And if you are the one stealing,” Sugimoto retorts, “I will grab you by the nape and toss you into the well.”
“Ooh, are you considering drowning me?” Ogata doesn’t bother waiting for a reply. He leans back against the trunk. Thinks about climbing it, just to feel superior when he looks down at Sugimoto. “Do you know what this place reminds me of?”
“A cemetery? This place is certainly dead enough."
Ogata blinks. "Really?"
Sugimoto considers this. "I wouldn't know," he decides. "Being at a cemetery should feel different now that I'm a dead man, but I haven't had the chance to visit one - it took some time for Asirpa to recover my body. She buried me near her village, and planted a persimmon tree atop my grave."
That gives Ogata pause. Asirpa truly did bury Sugimoto somewhere lovely, after all - if not the location, then she will have the place made lovely through human intervention. "We didn't plant anything for Tsukishima, but he was buried somewhere that looks like this."
"Tsuki -" Sugimoto startles. "You were there for his funeral?"
Ogata winces. "Not the funeral," he clarifies, "the burial is temporary. The brat told me -”
“Koito?”
“Who else,” Ogata remarks snidely, and savours the huff of surprise from Sugimoto. “He said he’ll give Tsukishima a proper funeral by the ocean after everything is over."
"Cremation?"
"Ashes on the sea breeze," Ogata confirms. He glances up at the branches. They stretch out into the bright sky, vanishing past the clouds and into the heavens. Majestic, he thinks, and wonders if the tree fruits.
Then the thought strikes him. "Wait, if Asirpa - is she planning to eat the persimmons?"
Sugimoto’s eyes widen with dawning horror. "She'll have to wait for at least a few years, when my body is mostly decomposed, right?" Ogata shrugs and starts walking away. "Hey, that's not an answer - there's really too much of me left! Is this Ienaga's influence, because -"
"I won't know. You know her better than me and -" Ogata stumbles to a stop. By his feet is a sleeping dog, leaping to its feet and yapping after Ogata trips over it. "A feral dog."
Sugimoto shakes his head. "Feral dogs live in packs in nature," he reasons. "This one is probably abandoned."
"Or it lost its owner."
"Likely." Beside him, Sugimoto crouches down. "Hey old girl," he coaxes, and there must be something about ghosts, because the dog inches closer. "Hello. You look like Ryuu. You are probably as smart as him too, aren’t you?"
Ogata shifts his weight. “You think the dog can see you, or it’s merely… intuiting?”
“Intuiting,” Sugimoto repeats, “what a word.” He curls up his fingers. “Fitting, I suppose. That's probably what’s happening now - you are really the only one who can see me. Fancy that.”
It is an idea - that their antagonism runs deep enough to transcend death. That there is some duty they owed each other that surpass logic. Makes all these tomfoolery seem like they are actually worth something meaningful.
Ogata combs his hair back. “And yet you are still talking to the dog?”
“Why not?” Sugimoto turns to him. He is smiling, small and sincere, and suddenly Ogata doesn’t know how to react. “Maybe that’s how she - intuits, right? She is following my voice and -”
The ring of a gunshot. Blood splatters on Sugimoto’s cheek, but that can’t be real, the blood will phase through him so what’s this, what -
“Ogata get down,” Sugimoto snaps, pulling on Ogata’s sleeve as he drags them both behind a tree. “The shot came from behind you. I didn’t manage to catch who fired it, but they were aiming for the dog, so that may have been a warning.”
Ogata reaches for his rifle, but - “Something is wrong.”
“We can handle that later. We need to neutralise our attacker first.”
That is how Ogata would usually approach the situation too. Yet the uneasiness creeps up his spine and coils around his neck. “This doesn’t make sense.” He stares at the dog. Its chest is still heaving. “We need to put it down.”
Sugimoto clicks his tongue. “Of course we have to, but can you get a good shot when your movements are restricted by the span of this tree trunk?”
“You said they’re shooting as a warning; they won’t shoot at me recklessly.”
“I said it may be a warning,” Sugimoto hisses, “or they might simply be a very bad shot. I can’t tell, and that is dangerous.”
And isn’t it funny, that it is this awful, wonderful, unfamiliar concern that finally snaps Ogata out of it. “Why can’t you tell?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Aren’t you dead?” Ogata reminds. “What’s making you hesitate?” He tips his chin at the blood specks. “Where did that come from?”
“Where did -” Sugimoto touches his face. The blood smears across his cheek and onto his fingers. Sugimoto stares down at it in awe.
“See?” Ogata mumbles. He readies his rifle, takes aim, and finally lays the poor dog to rest.
-
And Ogata opens his eyes again to the sun on his face, Sugimoto sitting at the foot of his bed.
The window opens up to the streets below, the stench of Otaru's canal wafting in. When Ogata turns his head, the snivelling voice suddenly becomes very clear.
I asked for a kiss, she gave me a hiss, and -
"The limerick," Ogata mutters, sitting up. "What time is it?"
"Almost noon," Sugimoto informs. "You're supposed to be meeting Asirpa."
"I know that." He's starting to recall, even if reality still hasn't settled quite right yet. Ogata turns to get dressed. "What, no wake-up pokes on the cheeks this time?"
Sugimoto doesn't answer. He waits until Ogata has finished fastening his buttons, finished pulling on his coat and his backpack and that old rifle across his back, and only then does he raise a finger to his left temple, where the scar is.
Sugimoto looks Ogata in the eye and informs, a little fond and a little sad-eyed, “You shot her here too."
-
The young man's face is flushed as he shouts, "Goodbye, Asuko!" and Ogata barely manages to tuck his derision at the silliness of the situation before Asirpa spots him.
"Should I prepare the wedding gift?" he mocks as Asirpa approaches.
"Don't be an ass," she snipes, waving over a nearby waiter before muttering her order. "Anyway, he can't even pronounce my name right. I am only going by Asuko because he keeps on butchering Asirpa."
Without waiting for a reply, Asirpa fishes out a wooden box and slams it down. "Have you killed the Otaru mark?"
"Not yet."
"Good, because forget about it. It's a trap." She flips the lid open. "I managed to get my hand on this a few weeks back. Got it checked by a professional."
Ogata slams the lid back down. "What the f*ck are you doing?"
"Letting you know how f*cked we are." Asirpa taps her fingers on the box. "These gold grains, they are the same ones from ten years ago. The ones we didn't manage to recover."
"You know this isn't why they kill him."
“Really? You think it’s really that simple?” She shoves the box forward. “You think people would just kill him for the sake of killing him? Who has the time for that?”
(Ogata would. Sugimoto infuriates him. He would tear Sugimoto apart and put him together again, just to cut into him, piece by piece. He would, always, no matter how long it takes, forevermore.
But Ogata isn’t f*cking special. Even if he’s greedy, Sugimoto doesn’t belong to him - Sugimoto has too much blood on his hands, too many enemies trailing in his wake.
Only Sugimoto’s death - that’s all Ogata’s, a hole carved out in the mess that is Sugimoto for Ogata to curl into, a space only for him.)
“Ten years,” Asirpa hisses. “Ten years, and we’re still haunted by the gold.”
She slumps: sudden, as though the folding of a great bird’s wings, her shoulders (so strong, and yet) curved inwards.
A defeat, Ogata thinks, and wishes Sugimoto is here to see this.
“Do you,” Ogata tries. He wets his lips. “Do you hate him for it?”
“Who? Sugimoto, for dying?” Asirpa snorts. “You, for being such a huge f*cking dirtbag? Tsurumi and his whole agenda? Or, or I don’t know - maybe Tanigaki, for breaking Inkarmat’s heart.” She throws her head back and inhales deeply. “Or my father. Of course you’re talking about my father.”
They are interrupted again by the waiter, who sets Asirpa’s cup down before refilling Ogata’s tea.
Asirpa has gotten coffee. It is so much like her to chase after food trends that Ogata wants to laugh until he cries.
“Ever tried it before?” she asks, gesturing at her cup.
“Yes.
“Like it?”
Ogata shrugs, and that’s answer enough. Asirpa snickers and swipes her cup with Ogata’s tea. “A little treat,” she says between sips, “I have been drinking too much coffee anyway. It’s keeping me up too many nights.”
The clink of the porcelain, the thud on the wood as the cup is lowered. Asirpa stares down at the tea. What is she looking at, or is she looking at anything at all; her reflection wobbly and uncertain, echoing the crease between her brows.
“I wonder,” Asirpa finally answers, “if it is possible not to hate at all. To not have any hate in your heart. I think I used to be somebody like that, but then it got too hard.”
Ogata sips his coffee. It is strong and - and not bitter per se, but the very coffee-like intensity of the flavour itself. It is not quite the same. “If the whole world is stacked against you, then there is nothing wrong with hating it.”
“Maybe.” Asirpa closes her eyes. “Maybe not. I'm trying.” Her fingers are white against the cup. “I know that this cause is mine to fight for, even without my father. But sometimes - sometimes I’m so tired. Do you understand? I'm tired.”
Outside, a magpie flies onto the window sill. It stares at the crowd, hops its chubby little body along, before a waiter chases it away. “Then what will you do now?”
“I really don’t know.” Asirpa finally looks up. Her eyes are deep, the light fracturing in those blue, and Ogata thinks of sunlight shining through painted glass windows, its shadows so bright and colourful. “Finish up what I have to do first, I guess.”
“I’m not going to stop killing.”
“No,” Asirpa agrees quietly, “that won’t be fair.”
-
Sugimoto stands with his hands cupping his elbows, shivering even though the windows are shut.
“Want a hug?” Ogata mocks. He stares down at the bayonet in his hand. A gift from Asirpa. Retrieved from his corpse, she has said. That was the first time that any mention of Sugimoto has been said so flippantly.
“No,” Sugimoto says. Then: “Stop looking at it.”
Ogata ignores him.
A thud. Sugimoto sits on the table. Sometimes, Ogata still expect to see him in that deep blue coat instead of this - this stupid white kimono. It doesn’t suit him at all. It makes Sugimoto look washed-out and dead, and isn’t this funny, because Sugimoto is dead and gone for good this time.
“It’s weird.” When Sugimoto speaks, Ogata can see his breath condensing. “I can’t figure out what I want to happen next. It feels like… it feels like I’m just waiting for it to end.”
But there is no end. Not even with death - everything just goes on. Funny how the universe works.
“Do you,” Sugimoto murmurs. He trembles a little, hugging his knees to his face. “Do you remember when we first met? The first time? I almost stabbed you with that bayonet.”
Yes.
“Then the next time we met, I called you a two-timing bastard,” Sugimoto continues. “Do you remember?”
Ogata doesn’t like where the conversation is going. He fumbles in his pocket. A cigarette case, black and leather and nicked from a passing businessman. Lights one up from the candle flame. “Asirpa has a boyfriend.”
Sugimoto blanches. “What?”
“Yes,” Ogata drawls. The smoke unfurls from his mouth. “A slimy man. Eyes too wide apart, mouth too thin.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, and he lives by the soba shop. You know, the famous one beside the bridge?”
“That soba shop…” Sugimoto scrunches his eyebrows. “Isn’t there a ditch there - wait.” He makes a face. “You’re making fun of me.”
The corner of his lips twitch. “He has grey or brown skin,” Ogata adds.
“f*ck you Ogata."
"Her little toad prince,” Ogata mocks, “if she doesn’t cook him on a stick first.”
Sugimoto makes to throttle Ogata, only to woefully lower his arms; that makes Ogata snickers. He rests his cigarette on the tray, already rusting at the edges. Stares at the bayonet again. “Asirpa is making friends with some revolutionaries,” Ogata reveals.
“Ainu?”
“No. Some nationalists from our neighbours. Here to learn about our modernisation programme.” He takes a drag. “Anti-colonists.”
(The war stuck, Asirpa has said, that war against the Russians - the first time a European nation lost. That one long, cruel war that, at least, hadn't been for nothing.)
“There are a lot of them these days.”
“Are there?”
The candle flickers out. Ogata’s cigarette is a pale glow.
Beside him, Sugimoto’s breath quickens. Every inhale is shallower than before. “What’s with you?” Ogata asks tiredly.
It takes a while for Sugimoto to reply. “I think,” Sugimoto tells him, “I’m leaving you soon.”
“Oh.”
“It’s your fault,” Sugimoto accuses. He shudders again. “I wanted to see this through.”
Ogata rolls his shoulders as he leans back. “You want to watch me die?”
“I want to watch you wither,” Sugimoto says, “until you are barely more than a wraith. And then I want to watch the moment you finally f*cking die.”
“Too bad then.”
The only reply is the chattering of Sugimoto’s teeth, too loud in the night. Another drag that is too long. May the smoke choke out all the air in his lungs, suspend him in the gaps between a second and the next.
Caterwauling from outside the window, muffled conversation from the streets - the way it always goes, in these empty moments. Ogata stubs out his cigarette and lights another one.
“Ogata.” Sugimoto’s voice is barely a whimper now. “Honestly, I am a little scared. I’ve always felt guilty for surviving, but I didn't want to die either.”
“A little too late now, isn’t it?”
Sugimoto’s laugh breaks into a coughing fit. When he recovers, the only thing that Ogata can hear is Sugimoto’s breathing, thin and loud in the dark. “Do you believe in fate?”
Ogata does, but he also believes that fate is out to make him miserable, although he doesn’t voice it out. It makes him feel out of character. Ogata turns his face away.
“What do you think,” Sugimoto asks, undiscouraged, “fate has in store for us?”
“Us?”
“We are stuck together until the end,” he reasons, “aren’t we?”
“Making each other’s lives an absolute nightmare,” Ogata agrees. “Each other’s torment in hell.” A sort of reverse soulmate, he supposes. “So I don't have much longer left?”
Sugimoto smiles. “Wait and see,” he says, and crumbles into dust.
-
SILENCIO.
From his pocket, Ogata pulls out a letter.
A summon for the draft. And so it goes.
-
A summon for the draft. Except, scrawled in poor penmanship, the meeting point is set to be a theatre.
(And, at the back, the same handwriting: you owe me.)
Ogata stubs his cigarette on it, and watches the paper darken before it curls. Then he tosses them all away.
-
“You made it,” says Sugimoto. He is still wearing his white kimono, but the scarf - that old scarf in that ugly yellow and the clumsy stitches - it’s draped around his neck. Ogata can’t stop staring. “Let’s head in.”
“I don’t have a ticket,” Ogata reminds.
“We don’t need one.” Sugimoto starts down the sidealley. “Not for the film we are watching anyway.”
“And what film is that?”
Sugimoto pauses. He stares over his shoulder, seemingly lost for words. “You’ll see,” is what he finally settles on, before continuing on his way.
He leads Ogata to a small door hidden behind some corrugated zinc sheets. The ladder stretches down into the underground shadows.
“Look like a gateway to hell,” Ogata comments acerbically. It draws out a laugh from Sugimoto.
“Maybe it is,” Sugimoto allows, something strangely like tenderness colouring his tone, “let’s head in. You ready?”
“Why won’t I be?”
Another huff. “Yeah, you’re always prepared.” He steps in first, and then reaches a hand out to beckon Ogata. “Close the door behind you.”
The door shuts, plunging the stairway into darkness. Ogata flattens his palm against the wall.
“A little nostalgic, isn’t it?” Sugimoto’s voice is so loud in the dark. “Grab onto my elbow. Here.” Ogata complies carefully. “Try not to trip.”
Sugimoto conducts him downstairs to a small round room that is lit with a single candle in the middle of the room, and then into the door at the opposite of them that opens up into an empty Western theatre hall.
There is no one in the hall except for them and rows upon rows of empty chairs.
“Sit anywhere you like. Or -” Sugimoto gestures at the loge. “That’s technically reserved for special guests, but I don’t think they’ll be here today.”
“It’s ours then,” Ogata decides. They climb up the spiral staircase, round and round until they reach their seats.
A waiter holds out a plate with a lit cigar propped against an ashtray.
Ogata picks it up, but when he turns, the waiter has vanished into the folds of the curtains.
"Look to the front," Sugimoto calls, distracting him, "the film is starting."
The hall dims; a flicker, a buzz, before the projector lights up the screen. There is a shadow-blob, bouncing around before elongating into a cat.
Ogata turns to the side. "This -"
"Shh." Sugimoto inches forward in his seat. "Watch."
The cat climbs atop a tree. Then it jumps - the world tilts sideways and suddenly the cat is a bullet, soaring through the air until it strikes home and shatters into nine sharp triangles.
The triangles tremble. Dance around curiously. Engage in a parody of a swordfight, until one of these triangles go berserk and chase all other triangles off-screen.
Another click, and the light shuts off. The film is over.
"That's it?" Ogata remarks. "I thought they only air clips like this at film festivals - Sugimoto?"
The seat beside him is empty.
He stands and glances around - no one except for the seats lay out to his sides.
Then he hears it: the patter of footsteps, before the voice of a little boy rings out. "Ogata!"
Ogata stares over the railings. It takes too long for him to pick apart the cherubic features that would eventually harden into Sugimoto.
"Come down," says child-Sugimoto. "We're already late. Our train is leaving fast!"
"Leaving? For where?"
"My hometown," Sugimoto answers. "We went to yours - why not mine?" He bounces on his feet as Ogata descends. “Hurry up! We still have to walk to the train station too.”
Ogata lets Sugimoto curve his hand around Ogata's last two fingers. His hands are so - small, so small and so soft, and not at all like the callused grip that Ogata remembers. "Is this a dream again?"
Sugimoto shakes his head. "It is a very thin line," he assures. "I don't understand it very well either."
"Of course you don't."
"Hey!" The hand tightens. "Why are you always so mean to me? It's upsetting." He pulls Ogata towards the door that they entered from, but instead of the small round room, it opens up to an empty street that leads to a crossroad.
"Because I can," Ogata answers indulgently. "And because it's funny when you're angry."
"You like me angry?"
"I like," Ogata begins, and then stops. Sugimoto is staring at him, his eyes glossy the way that children's always are, the way that Ogata's eyes never were. "Messing with people," he finishes.
Sugimoto slows to a halt as they reach the crossroad. "Why?" He drops his hand. "Because you want my attention?"
Admittedly, some parts of him want to grab Sugimoto by the collar and spit in his face merely because Sugimoto makes Ogata feel f*cking insane, but Ogata has adored mischief long before Sugimoto came along. "Or because it's fun," Ogata counters.
"Smug bastard."
"Didn't say I'm not one." He stares at the signpost. All the boards are blank; not very helpful at all. "Are we waiting for something now?"
Sugimoto nods. "She should be here soon." He cranes his neck. "Where is she… oh, there!"
Hobbling in the distance, is a young woman in a neatly-pressed kimono, approaching the both of them so carefully that it veers into the side of fear.
She is a beautiful woman - too beautiful to be a work of the imagination. Yet where her eyes should be are two pits instead, and blood trickles from them and down her cheeks as she weeps.
"Umeko," Sugimoto greets, his voice suddenly deep, and Ogata is startled to see that Sugimoto has grew up again. Yet he's younger than Ogata remembers - without the crease lines left by age, and without even his scars. "Will you point us in the right way?" She raises an arm. "Thank you. We'll be on our way now. You take care."
"You never told me that your woman is dead," Ogata says, after they are some distance away from her.
Sugimoto hums. "She isn't," he answers simply. "That's just what I subconsciously equate her with. What I reduced her to, in my head. I know, it's horrible, but I can't do anything to change it no matter how hard I try."
"Why not?"
He laughs awkwardly. "I thought about it for a long time, actually," Sugimoto reveals, "and then I figured, maybe it is my guilt corrupting her memory."
"Guilt." The word tastes weird in his mouth.
"Yeah." Sugimoto wets his lips. "I killed her husband. He was dying, and he probably couldn't make it, so i decided to give up his spot for another soldier. But the thing is," he continues hesitantly. Swallows. "Should I have made that decision for him? Shouldn't I at least let Toraji try to live?"
Ogata doesn't understand. "You said it yourself - he isn't going to survive. No point wasting your effort."
"But I was the one who made the decision to give up hope on him. How was I to know for sure that he wouldn't pull through?" Then, more quietly, Sugimoto confesses, “At the end of the day, did I actually manage to protect anyone?”
(Asirpa and her rage, so furious that it rattles her shoulders, that it makes her hands tremble, and Ogata don’t know what to say.)
Yet Sugimoto doesn’t give Ogata a chance to respond. He clears his throat. "Well, these thoughts - you know how it is. Guilt muddles everything it touches."
Does Ogata? He has not felt guilt over the people he's killed in war, and neither has he felt guilt over his fallen comrades. The deaths are a waste, sure, but it's not anything personal, unlike -
"Brother!"
Ogata freezes.
Yuusaku waves at them as he strides over. “It's been too long since we've last met, Brother! And who is this?” He smiles broadly. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Ogata can feel the dread creep across his skin. He shifts his weight. Thins his lips. “He’s Sugimoto.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of him! The Immortal, right? From the first division?” Yuusaku appears poised to pat Sugimoto on the back. “Good for you, Ogata, to have a man like that watching your back!” Among other things. “Maybe you can invite him over for dinner sometimes. I am sure Father will be glad to see him.”
If Yuusaku does not shut up right now, Ogata will do much more than inviting someone to dinner. “Maybe.”
“Maybe is good,” Yuusaku says, “when are you free?” Then, before Ogata can reply, adds, “You know what, I shouldn’t put you in a spot. Just let me know when you’re free - you know where to find me.”
Yuusaku leaves as abruptly as he had arrived, fading around the corner and tucked away into the dreamscape.
A tremor in space-time. Then Ogata blinks. “I didn’t know he’s capable of boundaries.”
Sugimoto chuckles. "And I didn't know you have a brother."
"Half brother."
"An important detail," he agrees indulgently. "Anyway, you need to be more careful about bringing in your own memories and impressions. They can get quite unpredictable. Like with your brother."
Ogata opens his mouth.
"Half brother," Sugimoto corrects. "Anyway, do you want to take him up on it? We can make it happen.”
“You said this isn’t a dream.”
“It isn’t,” he confirms, “but what must happen will happen here, even if it can’t occur anywhere else.”
Sugimoto leads him down the path, winding and twisting like a great serpent nailed to the ground. When Ogata glances back, the road drops off into nothingness, and he barely suppresses a shiver when he realises, “I joked about it, but this is hell, isn’t it? Or something like it.”
“This is,” Sugimoto tries, and then pauses. “This is somewhere close, I suppose.”
There is nothing to say to that, so Ogata doesn’t. It is - nice, actually. To be led. He has been chasing after Sugimoto’s shadow for so long, that for once having Sugimoto point the way with no goal in mind, it’s - a relief.
… God, Ogata is truly getting old.
“To the top of that hill,” Sugimoto suddenly speaks. He looks at Ogata. “Let’s race to that tree up there. Think you can outrun me?”
“Your legs are longer.”
“So?” Sugimoto raises a leg and draws a circle with his ankle. “It’s been a long time since I last walked, let alone ran. Never thought about how weird walking is.”
Ogata considers this. “I get a headstart, then.”
“Eh, that’s not -”
“See you at the top,” Ogata says, and begins to sprint.
He hears Sugimoto swear behind him. It makes him grin, and he speeds up, the wind in his hair and catching on his coat, the quickening of his heart when he realises that Sugimoto is drawing close.
(The wind screams -)
The burn of his lungs, sharp and so f*cking alive, and Ogata powers through the ache in his knees to reach the top.
“You,” Ogata manages between pants, “really need to exercise.”
“Can it,” Sugimoto wheezes. Then, with great frustration, he complains, “How is it that we are still out of breath in this place?”
“How would I know?”
“There should be a water pump -” Sugimoto wanders around the gigantic cedar tree infront of them. “Here. Ogata, come over.”
Sugimoto scoops the water in his palm and slurps it up, before splashing the next scoop over his face. He moves aside to let Ogata drink, and laughs when Ogata almost chokes on the swallow. “Slowly.”
Ogata glares at him. He clears his throat and cups another handful of water in his palms. The water is so cold, and it reminds him of the stream water back in the Hokkaido wilderness, all those years ago.
“Ogata,” Sugimoto calls again, this time more softly. He points down the hill. “Look there.”
A bustling town unfolds across the valley, small but crowded, the streets spreading in spirals alongside a patchwork of mismatched roofs.
There is an implication that Ogata does not want to understand. “Is this where you grew up?”
“Close, but nope.” Sugimoto bounces on the balls of his feet. “And we won’t be heading to my childhood home. At this point, there’s nothing left.” He catches Ogata’s eyes. “I burnt it down.”
“Very dramatic.”
Sugimoto huffs. “In hindsight, it really is.” He turns away. “Come on, let’s go. Do you want to walk through town? It’s faster, but if you prefer, we can bypass it.”
Ogata watches the lines of Sugimoto’s back. Straight and strong too, the way that Kiroranke used to describe Wilk. Then again, Sugimoto has never been the type to lead, yet he fascinates all the same. “We have time.”
“Sure.” Sugimoto glances over his shoulders. The sun halos his head, and it makes him look divine even though Ogata knows that Sugimoto is closer to being cursed. “Whatever you like.”
Sugimoto holds out a hand, and Ogata does not know what possessed him, but he reaches for it without a second thought. The moment it makes contact, he panics, attempting to seize his hand back when Sugimoto tightens his grip.
“Not now,” he says, eyes wide and desperate. "A little exception for a dead man?"
Don't look at me like that. “You -” Ogata wets his lips. Forces himself to relax. “I really hate you, you know that?”
“I do.”
All the resentment in the past few months tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop them. “You were supposed to die under my hands,” Ogata spits out, “or at least, within my sight. Not like this.”
“I know.”
“You proved to me that you're truly the only man who is immortal in this world, and then you have the nerve to f*cking die.”
Sugimoto squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
“Well,” he says, stepping in close. “I’m dead now, so feeling sorry is pretty much the only thing I can do.”
“A little empty, isn’t it?”
“For what it’s worth,” Sugimoto informs, “I mean this sorry much more than the other few times.”
Ogata stares at their joined hands. “After so long, and still, the words that come out of your mouth have never had much worth.”
“Sorry.”
“Stop lying.” He looks up. “Let’s go. We were heading somewhere?”
Sugimoto blinks slowly. “You’re ready?” he asks, and the smile flees away like the shadows from his face. Far off in the distance, Ogata thinks he can hear the voice of a madman’s song again.
Ogata nods. There is nothing left to do.
“Then let’s go.” Sugimoto conducts them down the hill and around the town, keeping to the edge of the woods for as long as he can. The town is so big that for the longest time, it feels like they are heading in a straight line; then they come across a river, and Ogata almost breathes a sigh of relief when Sugimoto informs that they are already halfway there.
“Who was the one who chose to walk?” Sugimoto teases, hopping across the stepping stones.
“And who decided to let the scenery be this boring?”
“Not my fault that I can’t remember how the city outskirts look like,” Sugimoto defends, “it has been years.”
The scenery does change after that, the woods thinning out until they are flanked by orderly rows of birch trees, and among the tall branches they spot a pair of owls huddling together, their feathers shivering to the beating of their hearts.
“We’re very close now,” Sugimoto promises, picking up his pace. “It’s right outside of town, at the edge of it. There! Do you see it?” He points out at the distance, where Ogata can spot the hints of a village house. “And that’s our home.”
“Our home?”
“Temporarily,” Sugimoto amends, “for as long as we are in this world. Let me show you around.”
He releases Ogata’s hand as they cross the threshold. “The left leads to the kitchen, the right to the reception room. Storeroom, study, bedroom,” Sugimoto points out as they pass. “That’s facing out to the meadows. I like to call it the garden, even though we aren’t rich enough to own one.” He laughs awkwardly. “But there’s a pond, and I planted some fruit trees and flower bushes about the place, and that counts too, right?”
Ogata seats himself on the steps of the verandah. “Maybe if we set up a stone path too.”
“Sounds lovely.” Sugimoto crosses his legs as he sits. “So. Do you like it?”
“This house?” Ogata scans his environment. This is so… normal, that it is disconcerting. “It’s fine.”
“That’s not an answer. Oh, wait - let me go get something.” Sugimoto scrambles off, and returns with a pot atop a clay stove and a kettle of tea. “There’s more.” Runs off again, and this time, brings back a plate of dried persimmons and a bowl of rice each.
A quiet meal, a small feast. When Sugimoto opens the lid of the pot, the smell of anglerfish hotpot wafts out. Ogata peers into the soup: no shiitake mushroom.
Sugimoto clasps his hands together. “Let’s eat!”
He doesn’t understand. “What are you doing?”
“Preparing to stuff myself.”
“Sugimoto.”
Sugimoto doesn’t meet his gaze. “Just eat.”
Wearily, Ogata picks up his chopsticks. They eat in silence for a while, listening to the crackle of the firewood and the wind rustling the branches. The food tastes exactly as Ogata remembers it: hot, hearty, comfortable. Familiar. It’s… nice.
Ogata can’t take this. “You know this isn't what I want.”
“I know. You don't play house.” Sugimoto scoops up another mouthful of rice. “But it's nice to pretend for a little while. Indulge me."
The sound of the soup sizzling, the clacking of cutlery. Munching. Sugimoto swallows and drinks a sip of tea. “It feels good, doesn't it? To be away from it all.” Silence; Sugimoto takes another sip. “All these years - you weren’t happy, were you?” He refills his cup. “Too normal?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe is not enough,” Sugimoto reminds, “but perhaps maybe is the only answer. I have tried my whole life too, to find my place. After the war. But I couldn’t do it. I don’t fit, and yet I can't be freed. Even after all that I've tried, it’s not enough.”
“Out of time.” The realisation jolts him, brutal as a bullet. “This is where we are. We’re standing right outside of it.”
“Out of time,” Sugimoto agrees. "Alright, I need to show you something." He stands up, before pulling Ogata to his feet. "This is the final time I'm asking you: you're sure about this?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Honestly?" Sugimoto shakes his head, and for the first time, he looks as worn out as Ogata feels. "This part of the story is always inevitable." Gingerly, he reaches out to cup Ogata's jaw. "Close your eyes."
Against his better judgement, Ogata leans into it. "And if I refuse?"
Sugimoto's thumb rubs along his scar, too gentle in their strokes. "I'm not going to kiss you, Ogata. Or stab you. Close your eyes."
Ogata doesn't have reason to argue further, and so he complies. A beat, before Sugimoto inhales, sharp and sad as his thumb stills.
"A long, long time ago," he whispers, "when your right eye caused you to sin, you plucked it out and cast it from you. But now, I am returning it to you."
Without warning, he kisses Ogata on his right lid. Ogata trembles, eyes darting open before Sugimoto places his left palm over them.
"It may hurt a little," he warns quietly. "Or a lot," he amends, as Ogata starts scratching at Sugimoto's hand. There is something wet leaking from his right eye and seeping through Sugimoto's fingers, and when it drips over Ogata's lips, he licks it. Metallic - he's crying blood. "It'll be over soon."
There is something gnawing its way through under his eyelid. "Hurts."
"I know, I know." Sugimoto tries to pull Ogata's hands away. "Bear with it."
He needs to seize something - needs something to distract him from the pain. Ogata scrabbles at Sugimoto's clothes. "Could've warned me."
"It won't have helped." Sugimoto draws him close when Ogata's knees buckle. "Would it help if I keep talking? There was this one time I caught a bad infection during the war, and a nurse tried to comfort me by talking through the operation."
The pain is spreading, encroaching to the back of his head and searing down his throat. His concentration is fading. "Did it help?"
"Not for me," Sugimoto admits, and his voice is suddenly too loud, "although I've seen it work for others. I prefer to just shut everything out and focus on breathing."
Ogata grapples for something to ground him, and makes do with the tangle of Sugimoto's hair between his fingers. "Really."
"Yup. It's weird." Sugimoto hisses when Ogata wrenches harder. "Right about now should be the worst of it."
"I-"
"You'll be fine -"
Ogata is not fine, he's burning and he can feel something squelching into shape. And he wants to throw up, he wants to faint, he wishes Sugimoto will just shut up because that f*cking liar told him -
"- gata. Ogata?" Sugimoto calls, and Ogata snarls as he tightens his fists and pulls Sugimoto in.
-
It feels like a long time coming.
But it is. It is, this kiss - it's a long time coming. Call it inevitable. Call it fate, cast in stone. But this - this vicious ugly love: desperate and greedy and it is violence in its gentlest form, cutting painfully into his soul with no finesse at all.
Except all these are too late now. It has been too late for a long time. All have come to pass, and Ogata is kissing a ghost of a man, so hollow is the taste of victory.
-
Sugimoto kisses back, so tenderly, that Ogata feels like breaking.
The palm lifts the moment that Sugimoto pulls away, but Ogata keeps his eyes shut. He, he doesn't know why he does it, but he holds on to Sugimoto until Sugimoto sucks in a deep breath and rests their foreheads together.
"You look like a mess," Sugimoto remarks, and Ogata finally looks at him.
Sugimoto wears humour in his eyes, both wry and fond. His smile is lopsided as he carelessly wipes the blood away on his sleeves. "There. Much better."
The gentleness of the action guts more than if Sugimoto has been rough. And it is very much like Sugimoto, to be drawing blood with every action he takes, even if he claims to be otherwise.
Ogata hates him. Ogata hates him so much that his heart is breaking.
"Now what," Ogata says instead.
"Now?" Sugimoto gestures around them. “Pick a door,” he answers, and the curve of his lips tastes like something bitter.
In the space of a heartbeat, the idyllic house has transformed into the small round room of the theatre with the single candle, their shadows casting long and dark against the magenta walls.
Yet where there has been a single door leading to the hall, now there are a dozen more, each labelled with something different.
"You wouldn't have time for them all," Sugimoto warns. "You'll know when there is only one door left."
Ogata approaches the closest door. Flotsam, it is inscribed on a tin placard. "What lies beyond?"
"I won't know," Sugimoto admits. "That's for you only."
He rests his hand on the doorknob. It is cool under his touch. When he twists it and pushes, the door gives easily, swinging open with barely a creak.
"Wait," Sugimoto interrupts. He hurries forward and, without losing a beat, wraps that old yellow chequered scarf around Ogata's neck. "There. Now you can go."
Ogata rubs the scarf between his fingers. "Why?"
Sugimoto grins. "Maybe I like how it looks on you," he jokes. "Or maybe it's just cosy and I won't need it as much as you do."
"I don't need it at all."
"No, you don't," he says, "but it's nice to have it anyway. Now go - I'll see you soon."
-
ACT THREE
The final door is a violently blue thing that does not even have the decency to be labelled.
Ogata hates it. It doesn't even have any discernible features - no doorknobs, no keyholes, no grains and bumps. Just an angry blue slab in the middle of a wall, waiting to be pushed open.
When Ogata finally opens it, he finds himself walking into his room in Otaru.
Sugimoto is perched on the windowsill in his old blue coat and staring at the crowd below. The skies are a deep pink outside, and it paints the world in shades more mystical than it deserves.
Rose-tinted lenses, or blood-soaked rain, the red faint and diluted.
Ogata shuts the door. At the sound, Sugimoto looks up. Doesn't smile. "You're back."
"Yes."
"Welcome," Sugimoto greets simply.
Ogata hangs up his cloak and props the rifle beside his bed. His hand hovers over the scarf, and at Sugimoto's nod, pulls it off and hangs it up too.
"I'm going to take a bath," Ogata decides. He doesn't move.
"If you want to." Slowly, Sugimoto slides off and comes near. The blue coat melts off him until he's back in only his kimono.
It's olive green.
Ogata can't stop staring.
"I really," Sugimoto says, "don't have much time left."
Already? "I see."
"Yes." Sugimoto avoids his gaze. "Guess this is goodbye. I'll be -"
Without thinking, Ogata grabs him by the collar and topples them both onto the bed.
This time, the kiss goes much more roughly; their teeth clack together and Ogata rears back, grimacing before Sugimoto grabs him by the neck and pulls him down.
And then it gets better. And deeper and wetter.
Sugimoto is so cold that it reminds Ogata of a lifetime ago, when he kissed a boy while eating shaved ice. That boy hadn't reacted favourably, but Sugimoto - Sugimoto has a hand threading through his hair and the other on Ogata's lower back, and is kissing back so sweetly that Ogata feels undone.
"If we're doing this," Sugimoto mutters, turning his face away, "we should have done this in that realm just now."
Ogata clicks his tongue. "I can bear a bit of cold."
"No, I mean -" Sugimoto yelps when Ogata pulls on his belt. "This isn't a good idea."
"What?"
"I am dead, Ogata." Sugimoto shushes him before he can argue. "I mean that in the most physical way possible."
Oh.
Oh.
"Like a leech." An absence of life, and an absence of heat. "We can -" Ogata struggles. "Are you freezing cold all over?"
"It will feel like falling into a lake during winter," Sugimoto confirms. "You don't want me anywhere near your dick. Or ass. Whichever you prefer."
Ogata rolls off. He leans back against the headboard, and studies Sugimoto as he sits up. "You can watch then," he suggests, loosening the buttons of his trousers.
He isn't exactly aroused, and having to stroke himself off doesn't help all that much. It's too - too rote, and he eyes Sugimoto challengingly as he pushes at his foreskin.
Perhaps Ogata can put on a show. Arc his back. Rub at the tip and ignore how forced this feels. Gasps audibly while Sugimoto holds his glare, and Sugimoto -
"f*ck," Sugimoto mumbles, wetting his lips. "You - come over here."
Finally, but - "Please don't touch my dick with your icicle hands."
Sugimoto flushes. "I'm not! I, I'm. Never mind." He pulls his belt loose too, his face wry as he lets his kimono slip off his shoulders. The scars are stark against his skin, raw and angry. "This is weird."
Ogata pushes himself onto his knees and scoots closer. "Can you still get off?"
"I'm not sure. I hardly feel the urge to, but -" He swallows as Ogata runs a hand down his front. It's predictably cold, but that matters a lot less when Sugimoto is twitching under his touch. Cute. "Hey, don't make that face."
Ogata rubs at Sugimoto's nipple. "What face?"
"Like you've already won and you're smug about it."
Ogata grins wider anyway, because it is triumph that he's feeling, and he's going to savour every moment of it. "That's because I have won."
"Are you sure about that?" Cautiously, Sugimoto reaches out to cover his hand above Ogata's right. He guides it over Ogata's dick, and curls the fingers around. "I can still leave."
"You wouldn't," Ogata replies confidently. Then, enunciating as pointedly as he can, he echoes, "Not now."
"That's -" Sugimoto laughs. "You little rascal," he accuses exasperatedly, and leans forward again.
Kisses: peppered on Ogata's jaw, up to his cheeks, at the edges of his eye, his temple, so lovingly that Ogata can’t quiet the tremours in his lungs. Kisses gentle as the most delicate butterfly made of snow, a cold that dissolves the moment he moves away, and there is something very lonely, very wanting about this.
There is no way they can have this while Sugimoto is still alive, Ogata thinks. His breath quickens, and Sugimoto tightens his grip to urge him on. There is no way they can have this until the hunt is over, ten years later, until they're wrung dry and all the hurt has faded into scars.
"Ogata," Sugimoto whispers, and Ogata squirms, turning his face away as the heat builds. "Look at you."
"Shut up." Ogata slides his free hand over Sugimoto's mouth, rubbing until Sugimoto takes the hint and parts his lips. He dips his fingers in, and Sugimoto sucks on them: a slow firm pressure, the wet tease of the tongue, and Ogata allows himself to feel a little insane.
(At the end of the day there is a boy who nobody ever knew and when he died (and he did die) you kissed his coffin and be at rest.)
A push and a pull, an inhale and an exhale, and Ogata is drowning in the rush of blood in his ears. He is back in the stream again, when he first fell, air slipping from his lungs as the cold envelopes him.
But he, but he's -
The dim light of the room dances across Sugimoto's face, trembles on the edges of his body, and his eyes are gold ingots, so golden too - and this is what Ogata focuses on when he finally, finally comes apart.
(And at the end of the day you killed the boy who is killing you and now you are all alone and so is he and so you lay your head atop his sternum and listen for heartbeats and this is it, this is all there is, a landscape of a shipwreck by an artist called Fate.)
Ogata closes his eyes and lets Sugimoto hold him, rocking him back and forth and back and forth, soothing as a cradle on the ocean.
(And then he hears it.)
And then there it is. His wonderful, ugly, miserable death.
Unbidden, an itch that writhes in his lungs and scratches up his throat; Ogata coughs. It isn't something that bears noticing - the weather is vicious these days, after all - but Sugimoto comes to a still so absolute that Ogata knows.
He glances up. Staring down, Sugimoto's face is split with a grin, all teeth, eyes wide and wild like a rabid mutt.
"Six months," he says, and smooths a stray strand behind Ogata's ear.
