Work Text:
It is funny at first.
"Ogata," says Sugimoto, "there's a monster in the woods."
"What monster," Ogata says, feeling rather silly. "You mean a bear?"
Sugimoto shakes his head. "No," he insists. "Don't you feel it? Something is watching us."
It’s probably a deer; there are so many deer around these parts. But Sugimoto has been unusually tetchy for the past few days, jumping at any sudden flicker of shadow. Ogata should drop by town soon to ask around.
“Remember to shut the windows at night, then,” Ogata taunts instead. Sugimoto’s lips curl, the crease between his eyes deepening, but when Ogata kicks him under the table, his face smooths out into surprise.
As though he has newly awoken from a dream, Ogata thinks. “If you have so much time letting your imagination run wild, then help me make sense of these documents I dug out from the local library.” He digs out some folders from the bag. “Mostly old articles, but some of the details seem to resemble what you’ve told me about the corporation.”
The pages are warm and smooth, the prints stark - Ogata adores newly printed papers. Sugimoto accepts the documents and holds them up. “I don’t think I can help much,” he admits, “not without an internet connection, at least.”
“You can cross-reference them to the data that we already have.”
Sugimoto frowns. “It’ll be faster to do a quick search online first before -”
“It’ll be even faster if you stop whining and just do them,” Ogata cuts in. It will also take Sugimoto’s mind off his monster in the woods, which, while amusing, is not something that Ogata wants Sugimoto to fixate on when they are both on the lam and off-grid. “Do you want me to get you a tinfoil hat while we’re at it?”
“Not funny,” Sugimoto scowls. But he doesn’t bring up either topic for the rest of the night, retiring early to their makeshift basement-study for the night, and Ogata counts that as his win.
-
Ogata is always the one to visit the nearby town, mostly because Sugimoto and his face full of scars stand out too much to be unforgettable.
Yet Ogata’s eye patch attracts stares too, but it is an ironic twist of fate that Ogata’s personality seems to evoke aversion rather than curiosity, and Ogata manages to get around relatively undisturbed and unquestioned by the locals. A small blessing.
He brings Sugimoto this time, after Sugimoto’s pacing gets on his nerves and Ogata decides that this may be a case of cabin fever and some social interactions will do Sugimoto good.
“I’ll meet you outside the library at around four,” Ogata tells him, “if you’re late then I’ll have dinner without you. And no, if you run out of money, you can’t ask for more from me.”
Sugimoto sulks. “Penny pincher.”
That isn’t fair - Ogata would say such measures are necessary after Sugimoto wheeled home a full barrel of potatoes a day after Ogata makes a flippant comment about expanding their garden into a proper farm. “I’m not letting you spend money without supervision. Anyway,” he barrels on, “finish up whatever research you need to do too. I refuse to trek the three hours it takes to come to town again if it turns out that you’ve forgotten anything.”
“This wouldn’t be an issue if you let me get a horse.”
“Then we’ll need to build a stable, when we’ve barely figured out how to build a coop. No.” Ogata makes to leave. “Why are you pulling on my sleeve? Let go.”
“Oh.” Sugimoto drops his hand, recoiling as though burnt. “I hadn’t meant -”
“Ooh, someone’s feeling clingy.”
“Shut up.” Then: “Stay safe,” Sugimoto adds, a little frantically, “I mean, in case there are…” He scrambles. “Visitors.”
The turn in conversation makes Ogata wonders if all those years when Sugimoto has gotten himself trapped has had a greater impact than both of them realised. Corporations and their shiny new tech - probably fucked with Sugimoto’s brain, which would further support Ogata’s theory that both their memories are implanted.
But that’s neither here nor there. At the moment, all Ogata cares about is to alleviate Sugimoto’s frenzy, not explore the reasons behind the frenzy. “If they come, I’ll make sure to cut off their tongue and slice their tendons,” Ogata assuages, “now get lost.”
He shakes off a few more questions before he finally chases off Sugimoto. Takes a moment to appreciate the lines of Sugimoto’s back, the long stride of his legs and all the bite marks hidden underneath his jeans, before moving along.
Ogata makes his usual rounds: groceries, common medicines, dropping by that one teahouse that makes delightful matcha mochi, before detouring to the hardware store. At each stop, he makes a point to ask about animals encroaching into agricultural lands or stalking behaviours towards hunters recently.
“Nothing at all,” says the young waitress, the grouchy cashier, the bored staff. “Only the usual problems.”
Which means petty farmer disputes and the occasional cheating that is typical of small town gossip; Ogata doesn’t bother thanking them as he takes his leave.
He eventually heads to the library, slithering behind Sugimoto as the latter apologises to a librarian for whatever trouble he's caused.
"Finished your research?" Ogata comments, and it is disappointing that Sugimoto barely startles.
"Had a bit of a hold-up at first, but yes." Sugimoto pats his messenger bag. "Found some interesting names too."
Finally, some progress. "Show me later when we're back home."
"About that." Sugimoto hesitates. "What if we stay in town for a night? I'm a little tired."
Ogata arches an eyebrow. "I didn't bring enough money for a night at the local inn."
"Oh. Then what if we hid in the library? They don't check the stacks before locking up -"
"Sugimoto," Ogata interrupts with a tight smile, "no."
Sugimoto's jaw clicks shut. He purses his lips. "But -"
Ogata makes a face.
Sugimoto ducks his head. "You never let me have my way."
"I let you have your way plenty," Ogata retorts, feeling like he's arguing with a petulant preteen. "Enough. I'm hungry, let's go get dinner."
They end up at a soba restaurant, which makes Sugimoto's mouth twitch and his eyes go distant at something nostalgic, but he doesn't offer an explanation, and Ogata doesn't needle him for one either.
(Ogata also thinks of playing footsie under the table, but the last time either of them has attempted that has ended up in an all-out brawl.
That has been ages ago, back when Ogata first found him again - or is that the second time, if say, these memories of another life are real?
("You," he has snarled, lowering the dagger in his hand and feeling very much like a fool.
Sugimoto has smiled then. A little too wide, a little hysterical, and a little helpless. Ogata hasn't known it, but this is deja vu in reverse: his turn to chase.)
The semantics doesn't matter anyway; they are ruling out any mischief during mealtimes.)
“Order anything you want,” Ogata informs, “this is your last chance before it’s back to that few home-cooked meals again.”
At least for a while. Ogata bets tongues are already starting to wag about the mysterious scarred companion that Ogata has brought around with him today.
Sugimoto picks up the menu. “Anything you recommend? I -” He drops it onto the ground with a sudden ferocity that is startling.
The menu stares up innocuously from the ground. Sugimoto’s eyes are blown wide open.
Slowly, Ogata picks up the menu. “Is the price of the dishes,” he begins, “truly that shocking?”
Sugimoto stares blankly at him.
“Or are you so hungry that you’re jittery?” Ogata continues. “You really eat like a salivating wolf, all appetite and no manners.”
“Can it.” Sugimoto scowls as he snatches the menu back. There is a finality in his voice that Ogata doesn't bother to challenge. “Just get me the house specialty.”
-
They finish slower than expected, Sugimoto playing with his food until Ogata snarks at him for wasting food, and then they’re trekking home again in the dark, the branches snapping in their face.
Every few steps, Sugimoto stops to look over his shoulders. It won’t be an issue if it helps appease his paranoia, except Sugimoto stumbles every few steps too, and Ogata has only so much patience before it gets annoying. “What’s that thing in your back?” he demands, stepping over a protruding root.
“What?” Sugimoto promptly trips over said root.
“That jangling. What did you buy?”
“Ah.” When Ogata glances back, Sugimoto has hugged his messenger to his chest to suppress the noise. “Some equipment from the hardware store.”
“Nails?”
“Among other things,” Sugimoto temporises. “You’ll see.”
The moon is a faint sliver in the sky, the humidity is wet on his skin; Sugimoto’s mouth is stretched into a thin line that seals in any straight answers. Ogata turns back forward and, reluctantly, let it rest.
-
It takes a week before Ogata learns that the jangling turns out to originate from a bag of locks.
“Sugimoto,” Ogata informs, “at this rate, I will get you a tinfoil hat.”
“Shut up.”
“I mean, just look at you.”
“I know what I look like,” Sugimoto growls, perching by the window with an axe, two knives, and a rifle. All the shutters has been drawn, and he is staring out from between the gaps like a fucking psycho. “But there is something in the woods, and I’m not going to rest easy until I get rid of it.”
Ogata shrugs. “Whatever you say.” He tries to unlock the column of locks, pausing midway to figure out the sequence when he gets stuck, and then gives up. “Come untangle this maze for me.”
“It’s not that hard.” Sugimoto slouches over. “If you do it like this -” His hands flitter rapidly over the locks with a familiarity that suggests practice, “- here.”
Ogata thinks he manages to catch what Sugimoto did. “Wait, let me try.” Sugimoto locks them up again. “And then - huh.”
“That one gets stuck sometimes; twist it a little harder to the left.”
“Right.” It clicks open. “Then… huh.” A new question arises. “This can only be opened from the inside? How do I get back in?”
“I,” Sugimoto starts, then flounders. “Shout for me?”
Ogata contemplates this. “What if my shout attracts your monster?” When Sugimoto’s face blanches, he hastily corrects, “I’ll knock thrice quickly, then thrice slowly.”
“Or you can just stay in.”
“What? No.” They still need to check on their chickens, for one. Haru has been getting pretty grouchy, and it is affecting the hens and the quality of their eggs; Aki has screamed bloody murder when Ogata tries to clean out her nesting box yesterday, even though she hasn’t laid an egg.
(“Stuff it, you stupid chickens,” Ogata mutters, “or I’ll deep-fry the bunch of you.”
The chickens cluck dumbly before Aki starts squabbling with Fuyu over a single seed. Mentally, Ogata calculates the financial soundness of slaughtering one of them for dinner.)
Sugimoto thumbs the handle of the axe. In that corner, the strips of light slant upon his face, and it strikes Ogata a little absurdly of that infamous scene in The Shining.
… At least there isn’t any chance for them to be snowed in anytime soon, what with winter being ages away. If Ogata is to have his life threatened, he’d rather it not occur in the midst of snowy grounds. He’s experienced enough of that in his memories of a past life, thank you very much.
“Sugimoto,” Ogata repeats, “you’re acting insane. Take some sleeping pills from the kitchen cabinet and go to sleep.”
“I’m not insane,” he insists, crossing his legs. Ogata rolls his eyes and leaves the house, slamming the door shut behind him.
-
Ogata grabs a blanket from storage and drags it over to Sugimoto’s room.
“Hello,” he says, and jumps onto Sugimoto’s back.
Sugimoto chokes, but recovers quickly enough before he’s struggling to push himself up. When Ogata squeezes his knees around Sugimoto’s side, the grappling is abandoned, and Sugimoto flops down on his front again.
“What are you doing?” he grumbles, folding his arms.
There is a baseball bat by his bedside; Ogata is lucky that Sugimoto hasn’t reached for it. “Helping you chase away the monster under your bed,” he mocks, and tosses the blanket over Sugimoto’s head. “Your blanket is still drying on the clothesline; it’s getting chilly, so here’s a spare.”
“Not under my bed - it’s outside the window.” He pulls the blanket off his face. “Thanks, though.”
“I still can’t believe you’re actually serious.” Ogata rolls off to lodge himself between the wall and Sugimoto. “How old are you, twelve?”
“You don’t get it.”
“Of course I don’t. It’s irrational.” Ogata flicks Sugimoto on the forehead. “It’s a lot likelier that our pursuers find us than for monsters to exist, and I made sure that it is damn near impossible for them to find us without us seeing it coming. So.”
Sugimoto shakes his head. “I trust my instincts,” he says, before pulling the blanket over both of them. “My bed tonight?”
God, yes, Ogata has been too tired with chores to do anything but knock out for the past few nights. Their first winter will be arriving in about eight weeks. “I’ll be going back to my own bed. Need to head to town early tomorrow; the mason’s closed by afternoon.”
"I packed some fruits that I've dried," Sugimoto mutters, pushing up Ogata's sweater, and Ogata can almost sob with relief when Sugimoto rubs his thigh between Ogata's legs. "They're in the containers with the yellow lid; pick them up before you leave tomorrow."
"Yeah, I saw them."
"Good." Sugimoto kisses him, soft and easy, and for a moment Ogata feels like they're back in his old bedroom again again, back before Sugimoto killed a man and before the shadows of another life and a greater conspiracy looms; those sunny days when they're still young and experimenting and Ogata manages to steal Sugimoto's first kiss before pretty Kaori from the next class over can.
A moment of hesitation as Ogata decides whether he wants to be on top or not, and then figures that their current position suits him just fine.
"Oh." Sugimoto chuckles suddenly. "We ran out of lube, by the way."
"I'll get it tomorrow." Ogata paws at Sugimoto's pants. "What do you want to do? Six nine?”
“Actually, I’m somewhat tired.”
“Don’t be lazy,” Ogata accuses, shoving Sugimoto away when he leans in for another kiss. “Flip over.”
“Nah. You do it”
“Fine.” Ogata sits up. “The next time, I decide what we do, and you can't say no.”
“Whatever you want. I -”
A sudden prickle at the back of his neck; the window rattles. Ogata gazes up. Nothing but curtains fluttering, not even a shadow. He looks back to Sugimoto. “You’d better not get spooked.”
“I’m not,” Sugimoto defends clumsily. His eyes dart between Ogata and the window. “I know it’s the wind.”
“You don’t sound like you do.”
Sugimoto chews on the inside of his cheek, and Ogata has known him for long enough to know that Sugimoto will be too distracted to fuck properly.
“I can’t believe I got cucked by the fucking wind,” Ogata complains. “Lie on your back; I’ll get myself off then.”
“What are you going to do?” Sugimoto rolls over. His eyes are still nervous, and Ogata thinks about Kiroranke and his horses before he straddles Sugimoto, body blocking his view of the window.
When he pushes Sugimoto’s shirt up, he allows himself a moment to ogle at the lines of his chest, the scars cleaner than the ones in his past life, but familiar nevertheless. “This,” Ogata declares, and rubs himself against Sugimoto’s pecs.
-
He gets off in the end, and manages to get Sugimoto hard enough that he comes too.
Ogata finishes off the night by covering Sugimoto’s eyes with a palm as he kisses him.
Sugimoto kisses back, tentative and nervous but sincere, always so sincere, and Ogata takes what he can get.
-
There has been a time when Sugimoto has his left hand broken because he fucked up, I fucked up, Ogata, fuck I - and Ogata hasn’t mixed up with the wrong corporation yet, so he whisks Sugimoto to the hospital to get it fixed.
The wrists still ache from time to time these days, especially when the weather gets colder and the physical labour that Sugimoto has to do increases. Once, the pain gets particularly bad, and Sugimoto is holding a hot towel to his wrist when he suddenly recalls, “I once met a tattooed prisoner who believes that he is five different people, and that a wenkamuy haunts him.”
Ogata digs out a container of balm from the cupboard. It’s his grandmother’s favourite brand, and she uses it for everything from insect bites to bruises to old sores. “He’s delusional?”
“I guess.” Sugimoto attempts to flex his wrist, and predictably grimaces. Ogata grabs his arm and presses it flat on the table, before slathering on the balm. “He tries his best, but he’s also extremely tortured by what he likes to call his greed.”
“You disagree?”
“I don’t think it’s fair to call it greed.” Sugimoto flinches when Ogata rubs especially hard at the joint. “It feels more like - repression, I guess. And guilt.”
“Sounds boring.” Ogata caps the container. “Rest it for a minute, and it should start to feel better.”
“Thanks,” says Sugimoto.
Ogata shrugs.
-
Ogata kneads the furrow between his eyebrows and wonders when this becomes so tedious.
“You killed all the chicken?” he questions. “All four of them?”
Sugimoto refuses to meet his eyes.
“At least pluck them outside,” Ogata berates. He can still feel the weight of sleep, groggy at the back of his brain. “Remember to bleach the bathroom floor after bleeding them; it’ll stain.”
“I know that,” Sugimoto snaps. Ogata blinks; Sugimoto is easy to rile up, but he isn’t irritable per se. He gets flustered: a cold violence that simmers - not agitated.
“Right.” Ogata clears his throat. “I’m going to get some bags - put the feathers in them, I’ll bring them to the farmer’s market next weekend and see if we can sell them to some old grandmas looking to restuff their pillows.”
“No.”
“What?”
“Not next weekend,” Sugimoto stresses. “Not until it’s gone.”
The realisation dawns slow and horrifying. “Is that why you kill the chickens?” He doesn’t even know where to begin. “You fucking idiot. I know you didn’t grow up on a farm, but when we suspect a predator, we reinforce the coop to keep the chickens in and the predator out, not kill the damn chickens!”
“It won’t matter.” Sugimoto slaps the chicken onto the ground. “You don’t get it, do you? They won’t be safe even if we lock them in with us, and we won’t be safe unless we shoot that thing out there.”
Ogata wants to tear out his hair. “What thing, Sugimoto? Because I don’t see shit.”
“If you see it, you’re dead.” Sugimoto grabs the chicken and dips it in the pail of water again. “Don’t you feel it watching? It’s hunting us.”
“The only predator left on this land are humans and bears,” Ogata reminds. “Is there a bear? Because I don’t see any tracks or traces.”
“It’s not a bear.”
“Then what is it?” Ogata presses. “Tell me, or admit that it’s all in your head, because there is nothing out there.” Sugimoto continues plucking the chicken. “Don’t you dare ignore me, Sugimoto Saichi.”
“What is the point of me explaining when you won’t believe -” In a motion too rough, Sugimoto tears open the skin. “Fuck this.”
“Happens all the time at the farm, don’t worry.” Ogata pushes himself off the door-frame to crouch beside Sugimoto. “Although we don’t usually tear it this bad. Hand it over, I’ll finish this one. Who was this?”
“Natsu.”
“Ah.” Natsu has always been a quiet one. Ogata likes her. “What about Aki?”
“She was kicking up a fuss, so I killed her next. After Haru, since he’s the rooster.”
That’s how Ogata will go about it too, except he has been thinking of waiting for at least a year more, maybe after they have a new batch of chicks. And he would have kept at least one of them too. As a pet, perhaps. He likes them.
But there is no point in what-ifs; he’ll get new ones next spring, and hope that Sugimoto’s paranoia will be gone by then. “So we’ll have chicken for the next few days?” Or if they freeze it and pack it properly, they can keep the meat longer. “Make them into sausages? Salami? It’ll keep.”
“You decide.” Sugimoto pushes a pail of ice water over for Ogata to submerge the defeathered chicken. “I’m fine with anything. Although we should probably have stew for tonight for the parts that can’t.”
Ogata contemplates this. “And then fried chicken for tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Sugimoto struggles to pluck the final chicken - Fuyu, probably, so Ogata takes over and defeathers her. The bathroom stinks of fresh meat and stale blood; Ogata wrinkles his nose.
“Look at us,” Sugimoto suddenly says, “working as a team.”
They have been doing it for quite some time, but putting it in perspective makes something squirm in Ogata’s chest. “And so?”
“Nothing,” Sugimoto replies. “Just an observation.”
-
Ogata hasn't had cause to go out and so he rarely does, but each time he tends to the garden, he spots Sugimoto watching from the window, the sharp glint of a rifle at his side.
"Stay in,"Sugimoto demands, orders, commands, and each time, Ogata shakes his head no.
"There are things I need to do," he points out. "Things that you should be doing too."
"There are things to do inside," Sugimoto replies, "how is your investigation going?"
And Ogata is struck silent. Sugimoto can't work on anything because he only knows what Ogata gives him, and Ogata hasn't been able to give him anything because he's too tired and too burnt out to want to slough through those papers.
"That can wait," he argues anyway, "letting the garden be overtaken by weed after weeks of work cannot wait. Get your priorities right."
"My priority is keeping us alive," Sugimoto counters, and Ogata feels the familiar drag of dread at having to rehash this entire conversation again. "Stay in, Ogata."
"No."
"I stayed in when you asked me to, why can't you do the same for me?" Sugimoto pleads.
"Because I don't know what I'm hiding from," Ogata tells him, and that silences Sugimoto for awhile.
-
In hindsight, all the warning signs are there.
But Ogata still doesn't know why he hasn't cared, so hindsight being 20/20? Bullshit, it's still murky.
But Ogata is always sharp, and after, when he has time to think it through, he buries his face into the pillow and reaches back for the warmth of Sugimoto's chest.
Perhaps, he reasons, basking in the coziness, the details have never been the real problem, and somewhere deep down has always been aware of that.
-
So the boiling point, as you call it, is reached when the windows are boarded up overnight.
Ogata should be impressed. He is, actually, except this is his house too, and he can't live like this.
"Did they do something to you before I got you out?" Ogata finally asks, because he has to. "Because this is too much."
"What do you think?" Sugimoto pushes a chair infront of the door, hooking the back to the knob. He examines his handiwork, then heads back to grab some ropes. "Although I don't see why they'll implant this specific feature. How is it to their advantage to make me conjure monsters?"
"Maybe they fucked up."
Sugimoto pauses. His hand stills midway through uncoiling the ropes. "Ogata," he says slowly, "you have spent years investigating them, and you uprooted our lives because of them. Do you think they're the type to make mistakes?"
Yes, because of all people to research, they picked someone as volatile as Sugimoto. "We couldn't have led a normal life in the cities anyway. Going on the lam isn't that far of a leap."
"If you say so." He starts fastening the rope onto the legs of the chair. "Hey, hand me the scissors." Ogata picks it up. "Pass it over," Sugimoto repeats.
Ogata hesitates. "And help you barricade us in?"
"It's to keep us safe."
The scissors are heavy in his palms, and so, so sharp. These are supposed to be kitchen shears, but Ogata has bought one too many by accident, and figuring that it is much more efficient than office scissors, they appropriate it for general and workshop uses as well. Ogata can cut bones with them.
"Ogata?" Sugimoto's voice has a warning edge to them. "Give me the scissors."
"Wow." Ogata huffs, and it sounds bitter even to his own ears. "And they used to think I'm the weird one between the both of us when we're schoolboys."
"Ogata." Sugimoto straightens up. "The scissors. Hand it over."
"I'm heading out."
"No you aren't." He takes a step forward. Ogata has to remind himself not to back away. "Give me the damn scissors."
"There is nothing out there," Ogata declares firmly. "I'm heading out."
"Please," Sugimoto says, yet his tone doesn't match his words one bit. His gaze is so hostile that it makes Ogata's skin crawl. "After all we've been through, can't you trust me?"
Ogata thins his lips. "Let me out."
And it as though a flicker of the light, but Sugimoto has always jumped into action so fast that Ogata is already bracing himself when Sugimoto lunges.
He manages to avoid the first hit, and he seizes the chance to punch Sugimoto in the guts.
"Funny," Sugimoto pants, immediately gripping Ogata's wrist, and in a move so swift he has twisted them around and forced Ogata to the ground.
Ogata doesn't have time to be winded before he instinctively swings his head back; it connects with a crunch, and Sugimoto swears, but the weight on his back doesn't let up, and the hands on his wrist tightens so painfully that he's starting to lose sensation in his fingers.
He holds on more firmly to the scissors, to make a point.
"Sucks that this body doesn't have the same muscle memory, doesn't it?" Sugimoto taunts coldly, holding firm as Ogata grapples. "Although you can't beat me back then either. Give up."
"And if I don't? Will you kill me?"
"That'll defeat the purpose," Sugimoto answers.
Ogata can't shake Sugimoto off. Fuck this - he goes limp. "And if we run out of food?"
Sugimoto relaxes, but his grip remains tight. "We'll figure something out."
"Huh." Ogata has tried this before, but not with Sugimoto. Maybe if he spread his legs - Sugimoto doesn't react. Damn it. "What if your barricade doesn't hold?"
"It won't; this is temporary. When it tries to break in, I'll kill it."
Ogata tries to peer over his shoulder. "Then why don't you kill it now?"
"I can't," Sugimoto answers too simply. "I have to wait."
It is infuriatingly irrational, but Sugimoto has always had a weird sense of logic. Ogata can't get through to him like this. "Sugimoto," Ogata calls quietly, "let me up."
"You'll run."
"I won't," Ogata says, and he knows Sugimoto doesn't believe him. "Please." Sugimoto's face hardens - too far? "Fine, I will. But not now, because you're a strong fucking asshole that I can't beat."
"Why do you always want to leave?" Sugimoto asks, desperation leaking into his voice. "Why can't you just stay, for once?"
"Isn't it enough that I come back?"
Sugimoto answers him by releasing his grip. Ogata thinks of darting off, but he only drags himself out from under Sugimoto, tossing the scissors across the room before rubbing at his wrists.
"Sorry," Sugimoto utters, crossing his legs. His nose is crooked. Blood trickles down onto his lips, but he doesn't seem to notice. "But I can't let you go. Not yet. Not until it's safe."
"You're insane." Ogata cups Sugimoto's face, and Sugimoto lets him, expressionless and unseeing even as he meets Ogata's eyes. "You know that? You're absolutely mad."
"You aren't any better."
"I know," Ogata admits. "But not like this."
The space of a heartbeat, the whistle of the wind, and he kisses Sugimoto, because it seems appropriate and because Sugimoto looks so lonely, staring forlornly at nothing. When it bores no reaction, he tries harder: sloppier, more eager, and eventually, Sugimoto opens up under him.
Please, Ogata thinks, and is surprised to find that he is not sure what he means. He clambers onto Sugimoto's lap, deepening the kiss and ignoring the salty tang on his tongue, and feels an unfamiliar thrill when Sugimoto's hands start to wander.
Please, he thinks again, with more conviction as he pulls away. "Clothes," he mutters, tugging at the shirt until Sugimoto starts pulling it over his shoulders. Ogata helps him along, pushing it over the elbows inbetween kisses.
Then he grabs the shirt and twists it around the wrists.
Sugimoto's eyes snaps open. "Wha -"
"Oops." Ogata reaches for the end of the rope and loops it quickly around Sugimoto's wrist before he can squirm free.
Sugimoto is already starting to flip them over - fucking reflexes - and Ogata barely manages to climb off before Sugimoto is on his knees, trying to bite off the rope.
"Oh no you don't." Ogata throws the whole pile of rope over a rooftop beam and pulls, wrenching Sugimoto's arms upwards. There is an audible pop when Sugimoto's shoulders are yanked too hard; Ogata sprints into the kitchen to tie the end of the rope around the leg of the freezer before his own arms give way from pulling the rope taut.
By the time he's back in the living room with a rifle slung over his shoulders, Sugimoto has already found purchase by tangling both feet in the rope above his wrists, and Ogata takes a moment to admire Sugimoto's core strength before he moves to dislodge the chair from the door knob.
"I'm going to head out to hunt," Ogata announces, unlocking the locks. Then he pulls on his boots. "Then I'll come home, and I'll prove to you that I'm alright and nothing will happen."
Sugimoto halts his gnawing long enough to roar, "Don't you dare."
Ogata grins. "Try and fucking stop me," he challenges, smoothing back a stray strand of hair, and steps out of the house.
-
They still have enough meat left, cured, or otherwise, but Ogata has developed a habit of hunting to clear his mind, and these parts are overrun with deer and wild ducks anyway.
He wishes he had time to pull on another layer; the air has that crisp, wintry taste that it always puts on at the tail-end of autumn.
It doesn't take long before he starts missing Sugimoto's scarf - an old Burberry from a thrift shop that always keeps out the cold effectively, yet never as well as the cheaper one that Sugimoto has gotten in his past life.
("Perhaps you feel the cold less back then. You're more used to it," Ogata tells him, because even though Sugimoto's body is always so warm, he shivers at the slightest chill.
Sugimoto sneezes then. "What if I try to make a coat from deer hide," he suggests, "do you think it'll help?"
"Probably." It'll likely keep out the cold as well as a leather jacket. Useful for layering.
"What about bear hides," Sugimoto wonders, and Ogata cuts him off before he gets it in his head to try to hunt a bear in a fit of nostalgia.)
The leaves crunch under his boots. Ogata wishes he is eloquent enough to describe the sounds of the forest, but it's just - noise. Not birdsong, not the buzz of insects, not the rustling of trees or the gushing of water, but all of them and none of them, white noise blurring into a low drone that rises and ebbs.
The woods are quieter than usual today, but not silent, never silent. Ogata traces the tracks and revisits popular spots, and it doesn't take long before he reaches his favourite marshland.
Ah, and there are the ducks, soaring in the sky. Hunting season, he thinks, although he usually doesn't expect this many of them this late in the morning.
He finds a good blind to aim from. When he raises his rifle, Ogata finds himself suddenly overwhelmed with vertigo before he remembers that yes, left-handed firearms exist now. Strange how far technology has come when those memories are still so fresh; but that is how memories work, compressing time and space into an incoherent narrative, a mess in a cube. No point fussing over it.
Through the sight, he sees the eye of the duck, beady and focused. Does it know, Ogata thinks, before he takes aim and fires.
The shot connects. The duck falls, its companions flapping away in panic.
One more, he thinks, and searches the horizon again. Another one down, and he has to move his spot before trying again.
He stops when he has three down; he only needs to make a point. Ogata wades carefully through the marsh to pick up the ducks. The actions ring in older visions that ache still, and it is so surreal how even in this life, he is plagued by a childhood of yearning for the love of a mother that hasn't been quite capable of it anymore.
Erroneous thoughts, he dismisses as he fishes out the last duck by its feet. Useless distractions. It doesn't matter anyway: better a dead mother than one heartbroken over her son, the way that Sugimoto's mother has shed tears alone at the funeral - not for her husband, but for her lost son, now exiled with blood on his hands.
But that has been years ago. He wonders how she is. Maybe she has finally moved on, now that all her family is gone.
By the time he is making his way back into the woods, the sun hangs at its peak, harsh and unrelenting, but the woods are even quieter now, almost silent with how still it is.
Ogata recalls tales of dead wolves and giant snakes, and quickens his steps.
It doesn't take long before he realises that he has been wandering in circles. Ogata halts. This route he traverses is a frequent one that shouldn't have confused him, and he has passed the usual series of landmarks.
Yet here he is, back beside the same hollow tree with the squiggly scratch that resembles a child's drawing of the ocean.
Hysteria is contagious, Ogata reminds himself, and attempts to recalibrate.
The sun is starting to lean towards the west; Ogata climbs onto a tree to verify and yes, there is that copse in the distance. If he reaches it, it'll be an easy fifteen minutes walk along the stream that runs behind their cabin.
He tries again, checking his position every couple of metres to make sure that he is walking straight.
… And he finds himself staring at the same squiggly lines again, approaching the tree from the same direction at the same angle.
Something is wrong, Ogata figures, resting against the trunk. Dehydration?
The sweat drips into his eye; Ogata blinks it away before reaching for his canister. The water is warm as it slides down his throat, and Ogata has a second to realise that even the weather is off - too humid - for this time of the year, before he passes out.
The last thing he sees is a pair of yellow eyes, staring at him from atop the tree.
-
When he wakes, it is already nightfall, and Sugimoto is shaking his shoulders.
"I told you," Sugimoto berates, but his movements are gentle as he slings an arm across Ogata's back. Ogata staggers to his feet. "Are you alright to walk?"
"I'm fine," Ogata says.
He blinks, and suddenly he's sitting on the ground again. Sugimoto squats beside him, a face of alarm. "You're not fine," he tells Ogata, "I think you had a heatstroke. Come on, I'll piggyback you."
"I don't need -" Sugimoto waddles until his back is facing Ogata. "You'd better not drop me."
"I won't." When Sugimoto hoists him up, Ogata vaguely experiences a torrent of nausea before the bile settles sharply at the back of his throat. "You alright?"
"I'll try not to puke on you."
"Please don't." Sugimoto picks up Ogata's rifle and starts to walk. "So what did you hunt in the end?"
"Ducks." They're already gone when he's woken up. Perhaps some animal dragged them away. "I shot three of them."
"That's good," says Sugimoto.
Ogata buries his face against Sugimoto's nape. He has worn his scarf, and it is soft and fuzzy against his skin. "I think I'm going to doze off."
"Don't worry, you aren't going to slip off my back."
"I'm not -" There is something hot and wet against his ribs. Ogata jerks back, and his front is covered with blood, sticky and dark, except it's not his blood, it's -
Ogata wakes up to the sunlight shining on his skin.
His cheeks hurt. He might be sunburnt.
One of the ducks has been ripped apart, it's entrails scattered messily on the grass. Another is missing. Ogata slings his rifle properly before picking up the remaining one.
His back cracks as he straightens it. Ogata rolls his shoulders and wonders how much time has passed, when there is a sudden rustle of the undergrowth that has Ogata reaching for his rifle -
"Sugimoto?" Ogata drops his hand. "Oh. You broke free."
"Obviously," Sugimoto snarls, and without hesitation, pulls Ogata into a hug.
His instincts kick in and Ogata freezes.
(When Yuusaku hugs him and Ogata feels like the rug is pulled from under his feet, itching to shove away the unbidden physical contact, his visceral disgust at the pity that is directed towards him because how dare he, how dare Yuusaku force a hug onto him and invading Ogata's personal space when he's already barged so rudely into his life and demanded a space when the Hanazawas never gave Ogata any -)
The next thing that he registers is that Sugimoto's arms are trembling.
"Su -"
"Don't you dare fucking die," Sugimoto threatens, his voice hoarse, "I swear, Ogata, if you die, I'll burn down this world and then kill myself."
There is nothing Ogata can say that doesn't sound fucking hysterical, so he ignores the last part. "Weren't you so eager to kill me in our past lives?" he replies, pulling on a smirk because he doesn't know how else to react. "If they're real at all."
"Well," Sugimoto says, finally pulling back, "in this life, you're the only one I have left, so you don't get to die."
Sugimoto's hair is a mess, and his grip is so tight that it'll leave hand-shaped bruises on Ogata's arms to match those on his wrists. And it - it's strange, to have someone care this much about him. He hasn't experienced this before.
"I'll be fine," Ogata promises, a little uncertain until the words are out of his mouth. Then the breeze whispers and the leaves shake, and Ogata knows instantly that this is true. "I'll be fine, Sugimoto."
"You'd better be." There seems to be physical effort before Sugimoto pries his hands off Ogata. "Let's go home," he says.
-
In the dim light, blue and purple, the beads of cooling sweat look like stardust.
Sugimoto’s fingers dance on his skin. Ogata pretends to have fallen asleep.
"Ogata," Sugimoto asks, careful, as though trying not to wake him. When that hails no response, Sugimoto chuckles quietly and presses a kiss on Ogata's nape. "Before Toraji died, in that past life that you dismiss but I know is real, Toraji gave me a gift: he told me to take care of Umeko. And that gave me a reason to keep fighting. Then when I met Asirpa, I found something else: I remembered how it is to hope again."
Ogata's eyes flicker open, but he doesn't turn around. Sugimoto's fingers flitter over the jagged ridges of his ribs.
"I don’t want to die," Sugimoto confesses. "I really don’t want to die. It scares me. But I don’t know why I'm alive either. Asirpa said it’s because I still have a duty left unfulfilled, but is that really the case? Am I ever necessary to the narrative?"
His fingers now curve down Ogata's waist, pressed flat against his diaphragm. Up, down, up, down: the rhythm of the living.
"I think the only reason I am alive is because of those around me." Sugimoto starts rubbing circles, and it is so tender that Ogata almost squirms. "I am so tired, Ogata. There is only so much capacity to care in me, and I've used it all up on those that I hold dearest. But even they are gone too. You are the only one left." He draws Ogata in, and Ogata can feel Sugimoto's heartbeat against his back. "Don't leave me, please. You can't do this to me."
Ogata doesn't answer him. He counts the number of exhales until Sugimoto falls asleep, and then he detaches himself from Sugimoto's arms.
"Idiot," he mutters, tracing Sugimoto's hairline. He looks so young when he's asleep, so much more peaceful when he lets himself relax.
Ogata entertains the thought of climbing back into bed before dismissing it altogether. He pulls on his sweatshirt, and then snitches Sugimoto's scarf from its perch on the chair, and heads out of the house.
The coop has fallen into disrepair after they've neglected it now that there are no chickens left, and its depressing conditions are made even more stark in the dark.
But it's nothing that Ogata can't fix; give him a week, and he can bring in new chickens again.
He walks around the parameter to the garden. Ogata hasn't been as diligent after Sugimoto's paranoia worsens, and the weeds are starting to encroach too, although it is nothing that isn't salvageable. He'll tend to it come morning.
Sugimoto has taken down the boards, although not the locks - Ogata must have given him a scare.
But the locks never mattered. Sugimoto's monster, it isn't malicious as much as it is arrogant, and it will never strike first because it is confident that Sugimoto will go to it.
When Ogata feels the familiar prickle of being watched again, he turns out towards the woods and asks, "Why do you want Sugimoto dead?"
There is no answer. For the first time, the woods are silent, as mute as the dead, and Ogata heads back into the house again.
-
Once upon a time, when they are young and silly and Sugimoto hasn't had to run away, Ogata reads an old translation of the Iliad aloud to Sugimoto.
"Ganymede was the loveliest of mortals," he intones, "and therefore the gods caught him away to themselves, to be Zeus's cup-bearer, such that he would be among the immortals."
"Funny how so many mythologies have gods whisking away their favourites." Sugimoto glances up from his notes. "Still Book Twenty, right?"
"Yes." Ogata marks his place in the book with a finger. "Makes you wonder what happens to them when the gods get bored of them. Are they chased back to the mortal realm?"
Sugimoto snorts. "Won't that be a good thing? They are spirited away, they didn't always leave willingly." He scoots closer to Ogata. "Hey, I once heard a folktale about a forest god who fell in love with a human maiden, so be transformed into a bear and ate her. Then when the hunters killed him, the forest god brought her soul back into the heavenly realm with him."
Ogata arches an eyebrow. "Ate her, you say?"
"Yup."
"Bet it's an allegory for premarital sex." Ogata laughs when Sugimoto swats at him. "What, am I wrong? I bet he ate her out good and swallowed her whole -"
"You shut your mouth!" Sugimoto leaps up and tries to smother Ogata with a pillow, and Ogata laughs even harder when both of them ends up tumbling off the bed.
"Make me," Ogata taunts, and Sugimoto flushes so prettily that Ogata can't help but kiss him.
-
In the morning, Ogata sits Sugimoto down and tells him, "I will kill it."
Sugimoto stares. "Kill what?"
"Your monster." Ogata picks at his breakfast. He misses miso. "I am going to kill it, or nothing's going to change."
Sugimoto's face twists into a myriad of expressions before it finally settles into horror. "What are you talking about? You don't have to put yourself in danger - it's my monster, I'll kill it."
"Nah." That's what it wants, and Ogata can't be bothered to play by the rules. "I'm more efficient. Don't worry about it.'
"But -"
"You can have your turn if I failed," Ogata dismisses. "For all the trouble that you've given me, it's only fair that you let me kill it as an apology." Sugimoto frowns, but Ogata presses on before he can be interrupted, "Treat it as a little toast to our days to come. Or are you going to be a bastard and reject my goodwill?'
"You have no goodwill," Sugimoto grumbles, but backs down nonetheless.
-
Ogata grabs his rifle and heads out into the woods again.
-
Sugimoto's monster lies unmoving at his feet, and Ogata loads a few more bullets into it until its head is a bloody pulp and those bright, yellow eyes are smashed into mush.
The woods reclaim its creature, swallowing it beneath its foliage. Perhaps it will return someday and perhaps it won't, but when Ogata returns home that night, he helps Sugimoto rips out all the locks from the door.
"Thanks," Sugimoto mumbles, "I guess," and Ogata preens smugly for the rest of the day until Sugimoto tries to smother him with a pillow again.