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Tsukishima did not expect to find himself here, in this city, in this hospital, in this room. He did not expect to be sitting in an uncomfortable chair beside what he imagined was an equally uncomfortable bed, nursing a headache in the uncomfortable lighting. And he certainly did not expect to be waiting for his ex, who he hasn’t seen nor so much as spoken to in years, to wake up from surgery.
Ogata looked different than Tsukishima remembered- even disregarding the tubing and the bandaging covering the right side of his face. He looked harsher, colder. Paler, too, which Tsukishima wouldn’t have thought possible, though that might have been the fault of the injury and the fluorescents. He seemed more a phosphene than a man.
Beyond the hospital room window was a calm evening, illuminated with the dim gold reflection of streetlight on snow. It had also been winter when he last saw Ogata.
Tsukishima leaned forward, propping elbows on knees, closed his eyes, and rubbed at his brow and temples. He didn’t want to be here. He shouldn’t be here. He would have been perfectly happy to never see Ogata again. He should never have had to see Ogata again.
Coarse rustling from the bed announced Ogata’s waking. Tsukishima remained motionless, as if stillness could slow time and prevent the upcoming interaction from arriving.
But Ogata’s voice slipped through the stillness like a ghost through the night. “Yuusaku…?”
Tsukishima looked up. Ogata’s single unbandaged eye, pupil blown wide with painkillers and antibiotics and who knew what else, stared- not at Tsukishima, but just to the side of him. He watched the empty air for a moment, expression one of exhaustion and disorientation. Then he shifted again, this time drawing his arms back as if to help himself out of bed. At that, Tsukishima moved. He stepped in, taking Ogata’s arms in his hands and gently but firmly pressing Ogata back into bed. Ogata’s skin was clammy, swathed in a rash of goosebumps. “Stay still.”
Ogata blinked, his reduced gaze finally encompassing Tsukishima’s presence, then meeting Tsukishima’s. Drug-delayed recognition crept across his face. “...Hajime.”
Tsukishima nodded. In the process of withdrawing from Ogata’s arms, he paused. Whether it was the fault of the injury or the drugs, Ogata looked so much more vulnerable than Tsukishima had ever seen him. It was an unpleasant sight, one which twisted in Tsukishima's chest. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m here.” He gathered one of Ogata’s hands into his own. It felt so much colder than Tsukishima remembered.
An odd smile wandered aimlessly across Ogata’s face. “Hajime,” he breathed. His hand tightened ever so slightly around Tsukishima’s. “Hah. Haha.”
It was more of a statement than a laugh.
Tsukishima held his hand even after Ogata drifted away again. He was grateful, suddenly, that he found himself here.
As far as Tsukishima could tell, Yuusaku was the one incorruptible cop in the entire city. An oxymoron personified: a good cop. It was a problem, then, that he was so invested in getting to know his big brother better.
Tsurumi tasked Ogata with the job of dealing with the issue that was Yuusaku, and Tsukishima with the job of keeping an eye on them both. Nothing Ogata tried worked; Yuusaku remained pure. Tsukishima watched Ogata grow more and more discontented, as if Yuusaku’s mere existence were his anathema. With Ogata so typically expressionless the others probably couldn’t see it, but if there was one emotion Tsukishima was good at recognizing, it was anger. An angry person was one more prone to mistakes than usual, and mistakes in such a circumstance were dangerous. Tsukishima doubted Ogata was any different.
As much as Ogata might like to act as if he didn’t, Tsukishima, of all people, knew he had emotions just like anyone else.
Ogata came when Tsukishima called- eventually. Tsukishima waited on the shore rather than the dock, and watched Ogata’s approach. Anyone else might have mistaken the blank expression he carried as one signifying his typical impassivity, but Tsukishima recognized fury in the tightness of his shoulders and the sharp line of his spine. When he reached Tsukishima he stood still and silent, guarded and taut.
The black water reflected the thin sliver of moon above and very little else, with the haze of the city lights behind them providing just enough ambient glow to see by. Tsukishima offered Ogata a cigarette and for a few moments they smoked in the quiet.
“You took longer than usual,” Tsukishima pointed out. “Where were you?”
“Are you asking?” Ogata’s cold eyes met his, finally. “Or is Tsurumi?”
It was a fair question. “I am.” Tsukishima frowned. “You’re angry.”
A sneer of a smile. “And you’re being indirect. Why?”
So much for that. Ogata could read him too well. Tsukishima had intended to coax out Ogata’s rage- but being direct better suited them both. “You’re going to get yourself into trouble if you stay angry.” Tsukishima stamped out his cigarette beneath his heel and met Ogata’s gaze with an order. “Punch me.”
Ogata didn’t react. He took a long drag, watching Tsukishima with narrowed eyes. “You always win,” he said. But there was curiosity in his tone. All Tsukishima had to do was fuel it a bit further. “What’s the fun in that?”
“Who said it’s about winning?” Tsukishima stripped the shirt from his back and tossed it onto the rocks, taking note of how Ogata’s eyes followed his movements. He stepped into Ogata’s space, pulled the cigarette from Ogata’s lips, and replaced it with his mouth. It was a brief kiss, meant more to entice than to fulfill. When Tsukishima pulled back, he met Ogata’s smirk with one of his own. Voice low, he repeated, “Punch me.”
And Ogata did.
Tsukishima let him get in a few good hits before actually applying himself to the fight. Their brawl wasn’t about victory or technique. It was about the sting of split knuckles and the heat of spilt blood. It was violence for the sake of violence. They disconnected and crashed into one another with the inevitability of the tide, as unconcerned for their pain as the ocean is for the shore.
Ogata was not the strongest nor the most enduring, and could generally be beaten in a fistfight by his peers, but he enjoyed pain in a way which granted him a wretched, crazed kind of tolerance. When Ogata staggered, Tsukishima caught him and dragged him to his feet, and that was enough for Ogata to continue.
Their sex afterwards was a drastic change from their usual. Fresh bruises against fresh bruises. It was harsh, hurried not for the limitations of time but for the brutality of desire. All the rage remaining from the fight, exhaled in exhortations of a kind which no one else ever heard from either of them.
Ogata tore him apart with teeth and tongue. He took hold of Tskushima’s ribcage and pried it open to reveal the empty cavity where his heart should have been and filled it with his violence.
Tsukishima was surprised by how much he enjoyed it. He was not surprised, however, when Yuusaku ended up dead.
“So,” Ogata said. He sat with his back against the hospital bed’s pillow and headboard, a fresh bandage wrapped around the right side of his face. “You have a cigarette?”
Tsukishima, seated in that awful chair, didn’t look up from his phone. “You’re not smoking in the hospital.”
“Then I leave the hospital.”
“You’ll leave when you’re discharged.” Tsukishima finished typing a message, but kept his attention on his phone even after sending it.
“I could just leave now. It’s not like they could stop me.”
At that, Tsukishima allowed his glare to leave his phone and instead reach Ogata. “I would.”
Ogata grinned at him with that terribly unhappy smile of his. The one that reminded Tsukishima a bit too much of a cat toying with prey it had already maimed. Prodding for the entertainment of it rather than the need. “Why?”
“You’re drugged beyond belief right now. You’d just get yourself hurt.”
A disbelieving snort. Ogata’s gaze left Tsukishima to instead roam around the room. Tsukishima was accustomed to Ogata making too much eye contact, staring enough to bore holes. But since Ogata woke, Ogata had barely looked at him. Instead, Ogata kept fixing his single eye on a random spot in the room and letting his sight draw in anything but the most transient of glimpses at Tsukishima’s face. “Don't you want me to get hurt?”
There was a time when Tsukishima absolutely did want Ogata to get hurt. A time when Tsukishima would gladly have been the one to do the hurting. A time when Tsukishima wanted to kill him and would have done it himself, with his bare hands. But he was entirely honest when he replied, “No, I don’t.”
Ogata lulled into a silence far briefer than what Tsukishima was accustomed to. Tsukishima had no way of knowing if some of the differences he was seeing in Ogata’s behavior were a result of the meds or of the time they’d spent apart. His frame of reference was for a photograph years out of date. Ogata’s unfocused gaze meandered from over Tsukishima’s shoulder back to Tsukishima’s face. “That’s a lie.”
“If it was, then why would I be here?”
Ogata let out a breath that could have been either amused or annoyed, settled back against the pillow, and closed his eye.
When Ogata left, it wasn’t just a betrayal of the organization. It was personal, in a way Tsukishima had never wanted to admit, and hurt accordingly. Sometimes a dull ache, sometimes a sharp one, but all the worse for its persistence. The space in his chest drained slowly, emptying out everything Ogata had ever placed into it. Not only his violence, but his subdued affection, too, which had collected over the years into a shape approaching tenderness. The casual mundanity of their shared lives was moulded by every touch they traded, soft and brutal alike. It had been a familiar relief even amidst their problems. And now, their relationship- whatever it could be called, whatever it was worth- left a trail behind Tsukishima as he walked on from the loss. Like blood from a wound.
He’d never wanted to admit that he cared so much for Ogata. He’d never wanted to admit what it was they were doing when he spent nights in Ogata’s bed and mornings in Ogata’s kitchen. He’d never wanted to admit that Ogata’s hands were the only ones he wanted to be touched by, the only ones he wanted to hold. He’d never wanted to admit that he might’ve moved even the slightest bit on from Chiyo. He’d never wanted to admit that the sight of Ogata’s face was a relief, the sight of his body a reward. He'd never wanted to admit he had desires of his own, and that Ogata was one of them.
Maybe, Tsukishima thought in the occasional desolate moment, if he had ever admitted any of that, Ogata might not have left.
Once Ogata was, after discussions with doctors and police alike, discharged from the hospital, Tsukishima ferried him back to his apartment. He was surprised that Ogata still lived in the same place; Ogata wasn't typically one for stability or consistency. Even if just for the convenience of going to a place he already knew, Tsukishima was glad that Tsurumi hadn’t just burned the place down after Ogata’s departure.
Tsukishima fished the apartment keys from Ogata's belongings on the ride there- done easily enough, as Ogata dozed off on the way. Tsukishima had to push Ogata off his shoulder to wake him once they arrived. Ogata trailed behind him when they approached the door to the complex, and Tsukishima felt Ogata's eye on him as Tsukishima punched in the keycode. He remembered it from all those years ago.
Once at Ogata's door, Tsukishima- didn't hesitate, but- his movement hitched for a single moment. Beyond the door lay old memories of an old life that Tsukishima never again wanted to confront. He wanted to press the keys into Ogata's pale hands and walk away. The doorway was a chemocline and he wasn't certain his biology was still adapted to the darker water.
Tsukishima unlocked the door and stepped inside.
It was much as Tsukishima remembered it. Sparse and clean with only the barest of signs that it was actually a home rather than a housing office's poorly staged tour. Kitchenette ahead with bedroom and balcony doors beside it, bathroom to the left, couch to the right. Afternoon light poured in through the glass balcony doors, giving everything a bright glow.
Without a word, Ogata kicked off his shoes and slipped past Tsukishima into the bathroom. He closed the door and the sound of running water followed. Tsukishima sighed. He hoped Ogata was cogent enough to remember how the nurse told him to care for his wound. He was concerned, but not enough to join him. Instead, Tsukishima removed his own shoes and gave himself a moment to adjust to the environment. Or to readjust, really. He remembered too much. He’d been such a different person when he was last here. He’d had such a different life.
Tsukishima wanted so badly to leave. He needed something to do. Keeping busy always kept his mind occupied, and if his mind was occupied then he wouldn’t have to think about who he used to be.
He checked the fridge first, inspecting the food there and tossing what seemed dubious, then moved on to the cupboards. There wasn’t much food left by the time he was done, so he took note of what needed replacing. He’d always been better in the kitchen than Ogata. He cooked a lot when he used to visit- he cooked a lot now, too, but the feeling of it was so different when he was only cooking for one. Tsukishima doubted the kitchen had really seen much use in the past years. There was nothing new about it, no new utensils or pots or pans, and all the necessary tools were still in the same place as Tsukishima remembered.
Tsukishima collected the garbage- both the old and the new, whose odors combined to a truly awful stench- and hauled it outside. Once returned from the chore, he considered for a moment checking on the state of the bedroom, but decided against it. Not out of respect for Ogata’s privacy- he’d seen everything of Ogata’s by now, and then some- but because there were more than enough memories to deal with in just this part of the apartment. Tsukishima had no interest in thinking of anything beyond that door.
Instead, he went to the couch. The coffee table and television in front of it were new, but the couch itself was worn and familiar. Tsukishima knew it was remarkably comfortable just as much as he knew each of its stains. He ignored the memories the couch evoked and looked behind it. A familiar matte black metal case sat between the couch and the wall. Tsukishima frowned at it.
He left the case untouched and abandoned the couch for the balcony. A pair of old sandals sat just past the sill. Tsukishima recognized them- but they were far more weathered than they'd been, the cushioning worn nearly bare. He slipped them on anyway.
The balcony was small, just like the rest of the apartment, with barely enough standing space for two. It was partially occupied by a single plastic chair and a washing machine with a string of clothes above it. The clothes were frigid to the touch; they’d been out here for some time. Despite the cold, Tsukishima slid the door closed behind him and sat in the chair. There wasn’t much of a view, as office buildings and apartment blocks filled most of the space. But it was calmer out here than inside. The sound of traffic and wind put Tsukishima at ease.
Considering the injury, Ogata would probably still be in the bathroom for a while. Tsukishima had time. Though Tsukishima had been keeping him updated via text, his boss had asked him to call when he could.
Koito picked up on the second ring. “Hajime!” he exclaimed. Even over the phone, Tsukishima could picture his expression perfectly. “How are you doing?”
Tsukishima allowed himself a smile. “I’m well, sir.” Just hearing Koito put him at ease. “How are you?”
Tsukishima listened and responded and let himself recuperate. Hearing about the normalcy of work, of Koito’s life, helped to ground Tsukishima in it, to remind him that it was his life too now, not this. Koito’s words were a kindness. Koito himself was a kindness, in all the ways Ogata was not.
The door slid open behind him. Ogata, hair damp and wearing only sweatpants, medical patch rather than bandages over his right eye socket, looked from where the slippers had been to where they were now, on Tsukishima’s feet. He stepped out anyway, bare feet and bare chest in the cold, and picked up a lighter and pack of cigarettes from their place atop the washer. He lit his, then offered the pack to Tsukishima.
Tsukishima took one. “Koito, sir,” he said, quiet despite that Ogata could hear him no matter his volume, “I have to go. Please let me know if there’s anything you need done remotely.”
“Just tell Ogata’s sorry flat ass to get better quickly so you can come back to work,” Koito said.
Tsukishima let out a huff of a laugh and closed his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
Blissfully, Ogata allowed him the silence.
When he opened his eyes again, Ogata was still watching him. So the lack of eye contact in the hospital had been due to the drugs, then. Tsukishima almost wished that trait stayed. He used to enjoy Ogata’s gaze, years ago. Used to like the intimacy of it, used to like how it made him feel as if he was wanted despite his worthlessness. That intimacy was not his to feel anymore, and the reminder of it hurt more than Tsukishima expected. And Tsukishima was accustomed to Koito’s gaze, now, despite the chaste nature of it. Koito’s gaze was the warmth of the sun where Ogata’s was the cold of winter, and Tsukishima had grown unaccustomed to the season.
Ogata offered the lighter. Tsukishima slipped the cigarette into his mouth and allowed Ogata to light it for him. Ogata did so, eye fixed on Tsukishima. He returned the pack and lighter to their place on the washer, trading them for the metal ashtray beside them. He set the ashtray on the arm of the chair so they both could access it. Tapped his cigarette on the rim. “Really,” he mumbled, a faint smirk around his cigarette. He took his eye off Tsukishima to watch the smoke. “Wouldn’t have figured you were the type.”
As much as Tsukishima did not want to rise to Ogata’s bait, he knew they’d have this kind of conversation at some point. Better to get it over with. He sighed. “What type.”
“Oh, just…” Ogata’s eye returned to Tsukishima. “Koito is awfully young, isn’t he?”
"He's an adult." Tsukishima recognized what Ogata was doing, but that didn’t make it any less annoying. “And it’s not like that.” And it wasn’t- not that Tsukishima hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t hoped for it. But Koito was life itself and Tsukishima was an open grave. Wishing for anything beyond what Tsukishima already had would accomplish nothing more than dimming Koito’s light.
Ogata leaned against the washing machine, one arm folded across his torso, free hand propping up his elbow. For all the world, he looked more interested in the cigarette than the conversation. But Tsukishima knew better than to let his guard down. “Is it a kink for him?” Ogata mused. “Do you think he wants you to wear a mask? Tie him up?”
“Ogata,” Tsukishima warned.
Ogata grinned at him. The smile was entirely lacking in emotion and entirely failed to reach his eye. “Just curious what a kidnapee would see in his kidnapper.”
Tsukishima wished he hadn’t answered the call that had led him to the hospital, to this conversation. “I’m not doing this with you.”
A chuckle. “I’d say you don’t do anything with me anymore, but here you are.”
“And whose fault is that?” Tsukishima growled, irritated despite himself. “You’re supposed to change your emergency contact when you leave someone.”
“You came, though,” Ogata pointed out, smile and cigarette forgotten as the honesty he so detested crept into his voice. “We both know you’re the only person who would.”
“The Koito kid got you good,” Tsukishima said, holding Ogata’s chin in his hand, inspecting the damage. It was minor, but noticeable enough- at least to Tsukishima. He doubted anyone else would look close enough to realize it, let alone bring it up. Well, maybe Tsurumi. “It’s not like you to let your guard down.”
Ogata shrugged, but didn’t pull away. He remained still as Tsukishima dabbed at the small cuts with convenience store rubbing alcohol.
Tsukishima frowned. It could be so difficult to elicit basic conversation from Ogata sometimes, let alone answers that Ogata didn’t want to provide. “So why did you?”
“...It was nothing. I thought we might have something in common. We don’t.”
So often the odd one out, Tsukishima knew Ogata craved belonging. It was part of why he was here in the first place, working for Tsurumi. It was part of why he was here in Tsukishima’s hands. Tsukishima knew enough of Ogata’s family to put the pieces together. “Ah.” He pressed a small bandage to the deepest of the cuts- hardly deep at all, really, hardly worth any attention- and smoothed it out with his thumb. “Nothing to get beat up over.”
“No,” Ogata agreed.
The job had gone flawlessly, regardless. The Koitos were indebted to Tsurumi now, the kid set up as a tool for later use. Those involved were even granted a night off in reward; Tsurumi was in a good mood. For once, Tsukishima and Ogata didn’t have to rush things. Tsukishima tugged Ogata’s chin closer and guided him into a kiss.
They’d intended to only briefly stop in the hotel room before spending time in town. Instead, the allure of a leisurely fuck won out.
Tsukishima knew they each offered something coveted by the other. Tsukishima offered commonality and some measure of understanding; Ogata offered need of a kind which was perfectly suited to Tsukishima’s defective sense of care.
Tsukishima had become accustomed to his only value being found in the way Tsurumi could utilize him. But he’d come to realize he had additional uses. He had value in the way he could bring color to Ogata’s pale skin, the way he could quicken Ogata’s breath. He had value in the way he could separate all of Ogata’s disparate layers, like siphoning blood and oil from water. He had value in whatever it was that lay between Ogata and himself.
That nameless thing. That unspeakable emotion. Whatever it was.
While Ogata was curled up on the couch, sleeping off the pain before the new dose of drugs could be taken, Tsukishima put together their dinner. It was nothing much- Tsukishima would get new groceries tomorrow- but it would be warm and filling enough for Ogata to take his pills with. Tsukishima set the bowls and utensils on the coffee table and nudged Ogata awake. His lone eye crept open and he watched Tsukishima blearily.
“Food,” Tsukishima announced. Ogata blinked away the remains of the nap and pulled himself upright, rubbing at his face in the process. After the process of waking up, he reached for his bowl. But Tsukishima moved it out of his reach. “With one condition.”
Ogata stared at him, deadpan. “Sure. I won’t shittalk your babyface boytoy anymore.”
Tsukishima let out a long exhale, breathing out the sudden spike of violent desire to just smash the bowl onto Ogata’s head. “Alright, two conditions. That. And also, you tell me what the hell happened to you.”
There was a long pause. Neither moved. “A job didn’t go my way,” Ogata said, eventually. His voice was flat, his expression calculating. Judging just how much he had to give and providing nothing beyond that bare minimum. “That’s all.”
“A job,” Tsukishima repeated, incredulous. Everyone Ogata might have been working for that Tsukishima knew of should have been either dead or retired. “Who the hell are you working for these days?”
“Freelance.” Ogata held out a hand for the bowl.
Tsukishima glanced behind them, towards the space between couch and wall. He shook his head and relented, allowing Ogata the food. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”
Rather than refuting him, Ogata just smiled.
<“Don’t get yourself killed,”> Tsukishima said, getting in the last moments of Russian practice before he’d have to actually use it.
Ogata smiled. It was small, barely more than a suggestion, and tinged with cynicism. But it was an acknowledgement, nonetheless. <“I wasn’t planning on it.”>
<“Good.”> Tsukishima adjusted and readjusted his tie. <“I’m relying on you to watch my back.”>
Ogata returned his attention to caring for the sniper rifle spread out before him. Performing last minute maintenance, last minute checks. He was nothing if not thorough when it came to caring for his rifle. Tsurumi went through a great deal of effort to acquire such a gun; it would be wasted in the hands of anyone but Ogata. <“I know.”>
Tsukishima glanced from the mirror to Ogata. While he was dressed in his nicest suit, Ogata wore his work uniform for the evening. Turtleneck and cargo pants, all black, discrete and warm. While Tsukishima was attending the meeting as Tsurumi’s translator- not that he needed one, but the Russians didn’t know that- Ogata was attending from a much, much further distance as their backup. It never hurt to have a little insurance, and a round from a sniper rifle was more than just little.
Knowing that Ogata would be watching him through his sights made Tsukishima more at ease.
The meeting went well; Ogata didn’t have to shoot anyone after all. But Tsukishima still thanked him afterwards and helped warm him up from his long wait out in the cold.
After the meal, and taking his next dose of painkillers at Tsukishima’s insistence, Ogata fell asleep again on the couch. Ogata always looked so peaceful in his sleep, so much more open and warm than when he was awake. Tsukishima debated between his options before eventually relenting and going to the bedroom door. He paused there, hand on handle, then pushed through himself and into the room.
He’d spent so many nights here.
Ogata’s bedroom was small and tidy. The wall opposite the door was occupied by a single large window draped in a blackout curtain, a pristinely made bed before it; a closed closet door to the left. Nothing else indicating an actual person actually slept there. Nothing new was present either, though Tsukishima almost wished there were. Tsukishima sighed and tugged down the bed’s comforter, then went to the closet. Sparse and organized, it was easy to find a spare blanket, folded neatly on a wire shelf. Blanket in hand, Tsukishima returned to the couch.
It would be easier for Tsukishima to leave Ogata to sleep where he was and take the bed for himself. Instead, Tsukishima tossed the blanket onto the coffee table, gathered Ogata’s huddled body into his arms, and carried him to bed. Ogata went unresisting, shifting only slightly. His head lolled against Tsukishima’s chest, his breath warm through Tsukishima’s shirt. He was lighter than Tsukishima remembered.
Tsukishima laid Ogata down and covered him with the comforter. His eyes and hands lingered of their own accord. He remembered doing this so many times before. Remembered, sometimes, rarely, Ogata waking partway through and pulling Tsukishima into bed with him.
Instead, Tsukishima made himself comfortable on the couch.
Fresh from the shower, Tsukishima collapsed onto the couch. He sprawled out on it to sleep, unwilling to risk waking Ogata by going into the bedroom. He could’ve- maybe should’ve- gone to his own home, but Ogata’s was closer and he’d been covered in blood. He was sore and exhausted and was pretty sure he had bruised ribs and was definitely sure he’d have a black eye in a few hours. But he’d gotten the job done, and that was what mattered.
The bedroom door opened, Ogata standing muzzy in the threshold. Without a word, he stumbled over to the couch and held out a hand.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Tsukishima murmured.
Ogata grunted in response. Tsukishima took his hand and let Ogata lead from couch to bed. Let Ogata push him onto his back, let Ogata cage him in with arms and knees, let Ogata press his mouth to Tsukishima’s collarbone and kiss his way down all Tsukishima’s injuries.
As nice as the couch was, the bed was far better. The pain wasn’t so bad with Ogata’s heat on his skin.
Tsukishima woke early, as he always did, and left Ogata to sleep while he went out for groceries. When he returned, the bedroom door was still closed. He delivered the groceries to their respective places in the kitchen, then went to the door and knocked with his knuckles. He thought he heard a grunt in response, but it was difficult to tell. He opened the door.
Sitting on the floor was Ogata, still wearing the same clothes as the previous night. But two things were different: one, his right eye was uncovered; and two, the black case from behind the couch lay open before him. The sniper rifle it typically housed had been removed, and was currently fully assembled and nestled against Ogata’s left shoulder, pointed at the wall.
His sightless right side was to Tsukishima. Without the patch, Tsukishima could, for the first time, clearly see the full extent of Ogata’s injury.
Tsukishima had seen many injuries in his time. Caused many injuries. He’d performed every violent act Tsurumi had ever asked of him. In comparison to his own carnage, a missing eye was not particularly severe. It was the kind of wound easily enough resolved by virtue of having been inflicted on one of a pair. But seeing it made him stop. It was wrong. Ogata had a face suited to condescending smirks and muted expression, to Tsukishima’s hands and mouth. Not to such injury. Not to such loss.
Ogata had to lift his head from the rifle’s stock and turn in order to actually look at Tsukishima. They stared at each other for a moment, Ogata’s thoughts entirely concealed behind an inscrutable mask, Tsukishima attempting to present the same.
Ogata turned his attention back to his rifle. He lowered it into his lap, then raised it again. Memorizing the motion of shouldering into his left rather than his right.
“What the hell are you doing?” Tsukishima demanded.
This time, Ogata didn’t bother looking up. “Exercising.”
An unanticipated anger split hot through Tsukishima’s chest. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Tsukishima attempted- and failed- to clamp down on the rage even as he tried to understand its cause.
That got Ogata’s attention. He turned again to look up at Tsukishima. He seemed for all the world to think this was normal. Like there was nothing out of the ordinary or remarkable about what he was doing. Like he wasn’t missing an eye, like he wasn’t shouldering a rifle on his bedroom floor in the clothes he’d been carried to sleep in. It wasn’t until Tsukishima stepped closer that he lowered the rifle once more and frowned. “What?”
Tsukishima reached for the rifle and Ogata, surprisingly, didn’t resist. “You’re fucking with a gun while on drugs,” he growled. Tsukishima confirmed that it was unloaded and presented no actual sign of danger. But he held onto it.
Ogata leaned back, propping himself up with his hands, and laughed. It was a grating sound, like a knife on porcelain. “Haven’t taken my pills for the morning yet,” he said with an icy smile. “I’m perfectly sober.”
“That’s not-” Tsukishima hissed before cutting himself off, and knelt down. He set about taking apart the rifle. He focused on the mechanics rather than his own emotions.
Silently, Ogata watched him work. Watched Tsukishima disassemble his precious rifle and return it to its case.
Once it was put away, Tsukishima shut the case. He left his hand on its cold metal surface, kept his eyes on the way it seemed to absorb the light. He waded through his emotions enough to quietly ask, “Why do you still have this?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Tsukishima looked to see Ogata’s harsh smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth.
“Because-” Because Tsurumi was gone, and his weapons should have gone with him. Because everyone who could have given Ogata a reason to still have the rifle should have been dead. Because Ogata was worth more than a gun. Because Tsukishima had realized the same about himself, so why hadn’t Ogata? Because Tsukishima had gotten out, so why hadn’t Ogata?
But Tsukishima knew why.
“Because you don’t need it anymore,” Tsukishima said. It was not what he wanted to say. But when did what he wanted ever matter?
“Hard to snipe without a sniper rifle.” That wry tone, the one Tsukishima knew all too well. The one that meant Ogata’s walls were firmly in place.
Tsukishima had gotten out. Ogata had left first, but Tsukishima was the one who had gotten out. Tsukishima had Koito’s light to guide him to shore, and wouldn’t have escaped without him- but escape he did, in the end. Ogata, meanwhile, may have left the organization, but he’d been alone at sea this whole time. It was a wonder he didn’t drown.
Maybe if Tsukishima-
Maybe-
Devoid of a target, Tsukishima’s hands curled into fists in his lap. His knuckles burned white beneath his skin. Anger without outlet, guilt without relief. The flood siren sounded as emotion filled his lungs. “Why did you leave?”
All traces of humor gone, Ogata just watched him. With all the sympathy of a glacier, he held Tsukishima’s gaze and remained silent.
Tsukishima tried again. “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”
“You would have just told Tsurumi,” Ogata said, and Tsukishima knew it was true. Ogata’s eye bore into Tsukishima, the intensity of it scratching into the marrow of his bones. “You were his dog.”
But I was yours, too.
But he was Tsurumi’s above all.
He was Tsurumi’s before Ogata, after Ogata. If Ogata had given Tsukishima even the slightest reason to think he meant to betray Tsurumi, Tsukishima would have betrayed Ogata first. In one way, it was a kindness that Ogata had withheld such an opportunity for Tsukishima to break himself further on Tsurumi’s behalf.
Tsukishima himself had only been able to leave Tsurumi’s shadow because of Koito and his impossible light. He wouldn’t have even thought to leave, had Koito not taken his hand and guided him through the abyss. Out of Tsurumi’s grasp, out of the organization, out of the violence. But Ogata was a darkness of his own; Tsukishima couldn’t fault him for escaping in the only way he knew how. Even if it meant abandoning Tsukishima. Even if it meant Tsukishima’s worth hadn’t been enough to outweigh Ogata’s reasons for leaving.
Tsukishima had always known he wasn’t worth much, anyway.
“At least you were an attack dog then,” Ogata added, rising to his feet. He turned to leave. “You’re just some rich boy’s pet now.”
Without thinking, Tsukishima caught Ogata’s wrist in his hand. “And what are you?”
Ogata looked down at Tsukishima with something Tsukishima couldn’t quite place. Some unspeakable emotion. Some nameless thing. His gaze traveled from Tsukishima’s eyes down to the closed rifle case beside him.
Ogata didn’t speak, but his answer was clear.
“No.” Tsukishima’s voice was no less certain for its softness. He stood, releasing Ogata’s wrist to instead run his hands up Ogata’s arms. They settled on the sides of Ogata’s face, barely touching. Ogata remained motionless, expressionless. Eye tracking Tsukishima focused but distant, as if through a sight. “No. You’re more than that.”
Ogata’s smile was like cracks from a bullet hole. Fractures in the ice. “There’s nothing more than that.”
There was. Tsukishima knew there was. But Koito had shown that to him through his soul, his humanity; lacking such things, Tsukishima didn’t know how to show it to Ogata. How could a murderer’s fist prove to a murderer’s gun that they weren’t weapons after all?
So when Ogata turned again to leave, Tsukishima let him go.
<“Please,”> the man begged through the blood bubbling in his mouth. <“Please. I have a family.”>
“Why do they always think that makes a difference?” Ogata wondered aloud. He glanced over from his position as lookout, standing with binoculars at the bow of their little boat. With the heavy fog and darkness, he was difficult to see even at this short distance. The Russian they’d collected was on his knees in front of Tsukishima, arms bound, face broken, head bloodied. <“Everyone has a family,”> Ogata spat. “Whether they want it or not.”
Tsukishima looked down at their captive as the boat bobbed beneath his feet, wryly considering that he and Ogata may have been the worst possible people to garner sympathy for family from. Maybe that was why Tsurumi liked to send them on these kinds of jobs so much. Their parricide gave them a unique resistance to such entreaties. <“If you tell us what we want to know, maybe we’ll let you take your family and leave the city,”> Tsukishima lied. <“So just answer our questions.”>
The man didn’t need much more coaxing. He cooperated fully and answered each of Tsukishima’s questions that he could, in as much detail as he could. He didn’t know anything unexpectedly useful- Tsukishima didn’t expect him to, he broke too easily to have much status- but what he did know was still valuable.
He struggled when Tsukishima held his head beneath the water. His thrashings sent jolts up Tsukishima’s arms, made stronger than his previous fighting for their panic and desperation. Tsukishima waited for the last spasms to kick through the man’s legs. Only after that, once the familiar weight of death threatened to pull the man from Tsukishima’s grasp and into the water, did Tsukishima haul the corpse back into the boat. He made quick work of readying the body for disposal, then pushed it over the side. It entered the water far more peacefully than when it had been alive.
Tsukishima watched the water until it stilled. The darkness swallowed up the offering in silence.
“We should get going,” Ogata said through the fog. “If we’re quick, we can make it to the bar before last call.”
That evening, after spending most of the day asleep, Ogata disappeared into his bedroom and reappeared fully dressed, patch on eye and jacket in hand. In answer to Tsukishima’s questioning look, he just shrugged. “Could do with some air.”
Tsukishima shut his laptop and joined him. Work reports could wait.
Ogata led them from street to metro to street again, following their familiar old footsteps to the rocky shores of the industrial district where they’d once spent so much of their time. Those rocks were where they’d spilled each other’s blood, each other’s sweat; those waters were where they’d drowned and dropped bodies. The perfect intersection of the lives they’d once shared and the lives they’d once ended.
As it always seemed to be when they were here, it was dark. As if seeing such a place in the light would bring their violence too close to the world in which they didn’t belong. Ogata’s boots left dark footprints among the snow-dusted stones of the shore as he walked towards the water. He stopped just beyond its yearning reach, eye on its depths.
The night was cold. Tsukishima stood at Ogata’s left side, searching for lights in the distance. He listened to the rhythmic rush of tide in and tide out, the whispering heartbeat of water pumped through open veins. For all the ways they’d changed, for all the new water that had poured in, the shore was still the same.
Voice as low as the tide, Ogata asked, “Why did you come?”
Tsukishima looked from the water to Ogata. Despite his impassive expression, Tsukishima could read his concern like glimpsing ripples beneath the surface. He answered calmly and honestly. “You needed me.”
Ogata’s gaze met Tsukishima’s and held it. There was bitterness in the downward tilt of his lips, resentment in the set of his jaw. “That didn’t matter before,” he said, icy and approaching combative. When Ogata left. When Tsukishima wanted to kill rather than understand him as a result. “What changed?”
Koito had opened Tsukishima’s eyes; Tsukishima had closed Tsurumi’s. He’d been granted the unreasonably kind opportunity to see the world as if he were a man rather than a murder weapon. “I changed.”
Quiet, Ogata’s eye fell once again to the water. “Ogata,” Tsukishima said. Ogata remained still and distant. Unresponsive. Tsukishima’s hand once again found Ogata’s wrist. “Hyakunosuke.”
Ogata recoiled like a gun fired, but he did not attempt to leave Tsukishima’s benign hold. He stared at Tsukishima with an eye as dark and hypoxic as a dead zone.
Tsukishima wanted so badly to breathe some hint of life back into him. He didn’t have much life to give, but maybe it would be enough. And, maybe, sometimes what he wanted did matter. “I changed. But I’m not all that different. I’m still me.” Whatever that me was, to Ogata. I’m still yours. Gently, gently, Tsukishima asked, “What do you want?”
Searching Tsukishima’s face, Ogata didn’t answer. Not at first. Regardless of his injury, regardless of the time passed, Ogata was still just as gorgeous as he’d ever been. As much as Tsukishima didn’t want to admit it, there was beauty in the winter, despite all its death. Snow despite the blood. And then Ogata pressed in, slow and certain as a building wave. Their lips met, for the first time in years. Merciful in the hostility, warmth in the cold.
When Ogata pulled away, it revealed his expression had melted into a faint suggestion of a smile. One with just enough sincerity for Tsukishima to want to kiss him again. One with just enough arrogance for Tsukishima to want to cover it again. So Tsukishima caught Ogata’s face in his palms and pulled him in.
They disconnected and crashed into one another with the inevitability of the tide, as longing for the other’s touch as the ocean is for the shore.