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The campfire crackles and pops, spitting sparks into the light dusting of snow still covering the soil. Each one hisses as it makes contact with the frosty ground, as if to express their hatred of the cold. Sugimoto usually found comfort in campfires, the heat a grounding presence amidst the chilly air, the gentle crackling a way to break an eerie silence. Campfires are a source of community, bringing people together for warmth or to cook a much-needed meal. They’ve saved his life on countless occasions, warding off the deadly winter temperatures of Hokkaido or providing light in order to spot and kill an enemy. But tonight, the blaze consumes the logs with an angry fervor, cracking and splitting the wood with a vengeance, breaking the pieces well before they’ve been burned through. The shrill wheeze of sparks hitting snow grates on his conscious, annoyance building with each one.
Ogata smoothes a hand over his hair, a motion so smooth and practiced that Sugimoto thinks it comes as easily as breathing, easier perhaps. The sniper is perched on a log opposite Sugimoto, flames obscuring his scuffed black boots. Then, something slides into place, a realization. It’s not a sudden snap into place, but a slow, churning thought that’s been tumbling through Sugimoto’s head for the last few minutes. Something about this image just looks right, and he finally puts it together. Ogata is sitting, a stoic, unreadable expression cast upon his features, with his feet firmly planted in the flaming pits of hell. He doesn’t have one foot in the grave, but rather passed straight through and into the underworld below. And, it’s not just one foot either. There’s no fighting back out of where he is, no pulling back up to solid ground. He stands proudly, letting the blaze climb up his legs with each remorseless kill, just waiting until the day he stops breathing and he’s finally welcomed in by the devil.
They’d certainly meet there one day. Sugimoto knows he isn’t a saint, or anything remotely resembling one. You don’t get the moniker “Immortal” for nothing after all. Immortal and immoral tend to go hand and hand, despite what gods and saints may have you believe. You don’t live forever by keeping your hands clean. He has the blood of hundreds staining his skin, dripping to the ground below, a message for those who await him in the afterlife. Still, despite the bodies laying at his feet, he likes to think that there’s a difference between people like himself and Ogata. Ogata, who kills without guilt, kills to rid the world of purity, and corrupts the pure into something as twisted and vile as himself. Sugimoto hopes that there’s a special circle of hell for people like that. Somewhere far away from the rest of the sinners, where he won’t have to look at his smug grin and those cold, emotionless eyes in death as well as life.
A sudden shift disrupts the perfect picture, as Ogata bends forward to adjust his cloak. He pulls it tighter around his body, curtaining his figure behind a wall of white fabric, now greyed and dingy from constant travel and wear. In doing so, a sleek lock of fine black hair tips in front of his face. It’s stark against his pale skin, like a slice cutting through his features. It rests against his cheek, brushing the scar curling up the side of his face. Irritation surges through Sugimoto before Ogata even moves. He grinds the heel of his boot into the dirt as Ogata slides the hair back into place, compulsively correcting his appearance. Sugimoto briefly wonders if it’s some form of coping mechanism, an obsession with staying outwardly put-together to mask the broken and smashed remnants of a personality lurking behind the snark and bite. But even pondering such a matter feels like giving Ogata too much credit. Letting the man consume even a fraction of his thoughts feels like giving him more than he deserves. Yet, with everyone else already off to bed, there’s little else to occupy his mind. A drifting snore from Shiraishi is the only reminder that anyone else even exists and it does little to distract him from what’s sitting directly in front of him.
The simple solution to his predicament would be just getting up and going to bed. A warm spot next to Asirpa is surely waiting for him, but chalk it up to stubbornness, he’s more or less decided that he’s not getting up until Ogata does. Ogata is always the last one awake, sitting at the campfire or tucked underneath a nearby tree, while everyone goes off to try and rest. Something about it has always rubbed Sugimoto the wrong way. He’s not even sure why. Maybe it’s Ogata’s way of keeping tabs on everyone, avoiding showing weakness, or maybe he’s actually a demon that doesn’t need sleep. None of the options would surprise Sugimoto. Tonight, he doesn’t feel like letting Ogata get his way. He’s cool and collected in everything that he does and Sugimoto wants to see that waver. More than likely, he won’t actually see any change in that stoic mask, but he wants the satisfaction of knowing Ogata had to cave. He’ll sit, stiff and sore, on this log until the sun casts a warm glow over the horizon if he has to.
Seconds bleed into minutes as both men sit and stare into the fire, watch the splintering wood turn to ash and ember. Sugimoto looks down to scrape blood and dirt from under his fingernails, feeling the sniper’s eyes burning into his frame. The grime is persistent and he spends what feels like a long time methodically picking at it. All the while, he knows Ogata’s gaze is still trained on his figure. His focus is something to marvel at, as much as it pisses Sugimoto off. Personal grudges aside, he acknowledges how talented of a sniper Ogata is. While his motionless stare is unsettling, it’s also useful in combat, which is something they always need more of. As much as he likes to deny it, Sugimoto knows he isn’t the best with a gun, so having a sniper at their backs fills a gap in their combat skills that desperately needs filled.
Prickling annoyance nags at him, crawling under his skin, when he looks back up to see exactly what he’d expected. Ogata’s glaring right at him, black eyes colder than the snow surrounding them. That errant piece of hair has fallen out of place again, settled directly in front of his right eye. Ogata moves to fix it, slide it back into its proper spot. Sugimoto abruptly gets to his feet, knees and back protesting after sitting still for a while. Hands balled into fists and a scowl pulling his face tight, he stalks around the fire in quick paces. Ogata simply watches, eyes following the other man’s movements. He makes no effort to move or even react past that. Zeroing in on his target, Sugimoto stops directly in front of Ogata and reaches out with outstretched fingers. He tangles them in silky black hair and twists, before yanking his arm up, forcing Ogata to stand with the movement. Finally, that blank expression is replaced as a frown tugs at Ogata’s lips and his eyes narrow. One of his hands shoots out to grip Sugimoto’s scarf, pulling hard, while the other connects squarely with his nose. Pain blooms out across the center of his face and he feels the sticky ooze of blood starting to drip down over his lip.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ogata questions, tone flat and devoid of emotion. He’s still got one hand firmly fisted around Sugimoto’s scarf, applying heavy pressure to the back of his neck. The fabric is soft and wide, so it doesn’t do any harm, but it keeps him effectively locked in place. He tightens his grip on Ogata’s hair and sharply jerks his head back, exposing the long column of his neck. The smooth swath of skin looks too perfect. Sugimoto fights back the urge to mark it up, leave it littered with bruises and scrapes, crimson streaking across the ivory.
“Looking at your face was pissing me off.” Sugimoto brings his free hand up to Ogata’s cheek, sliding his thumb over the long scar there. A blunt nail digs into the darkened line, pressing into the dense bone of his jaw. Pride pushes in beside the swelling irritation, despite doing little to change his staunch resentment. On their very first meeting, Sugimoto was able to permanently mark Ogata, a harsh reminder of his defeat, spelled right across his face. Every time he looks in a mirror, Sugimoto’s influence is right there, staring back. “Although, this part isn’t so bad,” he adds, scraping over the skin until it turns an angry red. It’s a sharp contrast against his light skin, just like the inky locks still held tight in Sugimoto’s fist. Everything about Ogata is harsh and piercing, from the jagged edge of an arrogant smirk to the stiff lines of his body when poised to shoot.
“Is that your greatest achievement, Immortal Sugimoto?” The corners of his lips quirk up, a satisfied grin coming over his features, betraying his current position, neck craned at an awkward angle, space crowded by Sugimoto. “Failing to kill me? Or is it saving me when you had the chance to walk away and let that soldier kill me?” Ogata has the nerve to look smug, dropping his free hand down to his side. “That Ainu girl makes you weak, different from during the war.” He taunts, punctuating the statement by ducking to the side. Pulling his gaze away from Ogata’s face, Sugimoto realizes that he was lunging for his rifle, still leaned up against the log. He swings the handle toward Sugimoto’s head in an attempt to knock his grip loose. Sugimoto blocks it easily, wood and metal colliding with his forearm, resulting in a dull ache creeping down the limb. Using the opening to his advantage, Sugimoto releases the tight hold on Ogata’s hair and tackles him to the ground. He hits with a hard thud, the light dusting of snow doing little to cushion the fall.
Sugimoto presses his elbow to Ogata’s throat, applying just enough pressure to strain his windpipe, make it hard to breathe, without killing him. Sugimoto settles his legs over top of Ogata's, effectively pinning the smaller man to the ground. While Ogata was miles ahead of him with a gun, he was woefully outmatched in hand-to-hand combat. “Want to try that again?” Sugimoto’s voice comes out as something akin to a growl, low and rumbling in his chest. He glares down with an intensity matched by few, brown eyes narrowed under furrowed brows. Ogata tries to force out a dark chuckle, but it breaks into a rasping cough. Sugimoto feels the way it rattles in his throat, struggling and fighting against the heavy weight.
“Do it,” Ogata bites out, words falling between shallow, ragged pants. “Kill me, I know you want to.” There’s something wild hiding behind the stoic mask. The mask is cracking, faltering under strain and pressure. It peeks out from behind the cracks, only exposed under high tension. Whether it’s a wild mountain cat or simply someone who’s lost touch with reality, Sugimoto isn’t sure. But, he knows it’s dangerous to corner a wild animal. Not that it’s ever stopped him before. Just kill before being killed. “She’ll never forgive you,” Ogata spits from behind gritted teeth.
“I’ve done far worse than killing someone like you.” Sugimoto leans in closer, adding to the weight on Ogata’s throat. Despite his outward bluff, Ogata’s words hit a nerve. He promised Asirpa he wouldn’t kill if it wasn’t necessary, and his grudge against Ogata isn’t exactly life or death, at least not at the moment. Still, a growing sense of urgency claws at his conscious, desperately trying to convince him that, yes, something needs to be done right now. But, he doesn’t have to die. Maybe this is enough to sate the constant frustration that’s made a home in his body, buzzing in the back of his mind, ever since Ogata arrived. It’s like an itch buried deep under his skin, constantly pestering him, unable to be forgotten.
The logical part of his brain starts kicking back in and he eases his arm off of Ogata’s neck. Even though no one would be too sorry to see him gone, Sugimoto knows there’s no way he gets out of this scot-free in the morning. Ogata pulls in harsh and heavy breaths with hacking coughs littered in between. There’s a heavy flush across his cheeks. It fades as oxygen and blood move freely again. Sugimoto makes no move to stand though, keeping the sniper pinned squarely under his body. Maybe he just wants to see Ogata squirm for a bit, wants to watch him struggle. And maybe Sugimoto’s a little wild too, humanity peeled back in exchange for survival.
All of a sudden, pain flashes across Sugimoto’s neck, his scarf loosened and hanging around his shoulders. Ogata buries his teeth into the muscle there, sharp canines digging in, leaving blood smeared in their wake. It stings, but there’s something else there, layered under the ache, under the blazing anger that refuses to be quieted. It’s a different kind of blaze, something else raw and consuming, exposed without the cover of pretenses or facades. Sugimoto recoils, not from the pain, but surprise.
Ogata’s lips curl into a smirk, blood streaked across their surface. “Don’t like it rough?” His voice is strained and hoarse, words coming out like his throat is made of sandpaper. It does little to dampen his grin though, teeth bared and gaze leveled.
Never one to back down from a challenge, Sugimoto takes a split second to collect himself, then paints a wicked grin over his own features. “You call that rough?” This is a bad idea. Catastrophically bad. He’s playing with fire and he knows it. It doesn’t stop him from risking the burn, waiting for the heat to lick across his skin.
He takes Ogata’s wrists in his hands and pins them above the other man’s head. Ogata struggles underneath, testing how far he can push. Turns out, it’s not very far. More attuned to delicate aiming and careful adjustments, he can’t escape Sugimoto’s grasp. Sugimoto revels in the way long lines of muscle flex under his fingers, tensing and tightening. Closing the gap, he leans down, watching the way his shadow throws patches of darkness across Ogata. He waits, sharing space, heated breaths huffed out between them. Ogata’s gaze, dark grey irises barely distinguishable from black pupils, darts around before settling on the curve of Sugimoto’s lips. “You just going to sit there all night?” He taunts again, spurring Sugimoto to action. He knows he’s playing right into Ogata’s hand, allowing himself to be worked up and provoked. But, he’s never been one to listen to his head. Actions before words. Body before head. Emotion before thought.
“Asshole,” Sugimoto snaps. But, he leans in and takes Ogata’s bottom lip between his teeth. He bites down hard on the soft flesh, pulling and tugging until skin breaks. He shouldn’t be the only one bleeding when all is said and done. That simply wouldn’t be fair.
The metallic tang of iron and copper hit his tongue, the familiar taste sending adrenaline through his veins. Something startlingly close to desire sparks low in his stomach, mixing with the irritation and pain to form an intoxicating feeling. He wants more. Releasing Ogata’s lip, he experimentally runs his tongue across it, pressing into the curve of divots and broken skin. It earns him a quiet muffled sound, locked up in Ogata’s chest. Satisfaction swells in Sugimoto’s chest and spurs him to repeat the motion, pressing harder into the shallow cuts. Blood oozes out, mixing with saliva and filling his mouth. It sits heavy on his tongue, a dangerous reminder of who he’s messing with.
Not content to sit back any longer, Ogata takes charge, sliding his tongue into Sugiomoto’s mouth with little warning. Sugimoto huffs out a short exhale at the feeling, letting his eyes fall closed. He doesn’t even know how long it’s been since he kissed someone. It was sometime before the war, years ago. He was younger then, softer around the edges. He wasn’t Immortal Sugimoto, but Saichi. The only blood on his hands was from a slipped knife or scraped palm. The old Saichi would balk at him now, wondering how he’d even gotten like this. He certainly never would have ended up in this position, with bloodied lips and a bruised nose, making out with a man who annoyed him to his very core. Yet, here he is, heart pounding against his ribs, desire spooling tight, a dizzying haze settling over the rational part of his brain.
Sugimoto shifts, moving to slot a knee between Ogata’s legs, rather than pinning them. All of a sudden, Ogata wrenches a hand free. Sugimoto hadn’t even realized that his grip had loosened. Thin fingers shove under the cap that’s always perched atop Sugimoto’s head. It falls to the side as Ogata fists a hand in his hair, no doubt payback for earlier. He pulls hard and quick, pain pricking at Sugimoto’s scalp. A choked groan fights its way out his lips, muffled into the bruising kiss. It’s all sharp edges and scraping teeth, harsh pants and biting nails. He feels the curve of Ogata’s smirk and it pisses him off. Even now, pinned under Sugimoto’s body, Ogata still has the upper hand. It just adds fuel to the fire, sending Sugimoto’s free hand to claw at Ogata’s collar, shoving his cloak out of the way and tearing at the buttons of his uniform. Some work themselves free, while the thread gives way on others, torn and sent scattering into the snow. Ogata gives his hair another sharp tug at that, fingernails scraping and scratching against his skin. It just serves to send a spike of heat straight down his spine.
Once pale skin is bared, Sugimoto pulls away, chest heaving and lungs aching. He takes in the sight below him, letting a smug grin pull over his features. Ogata’s thoroughly disheveled, silky black strands of hair rumpled and wild, going in every direction. Pink lays over his cheeks, soft and muted compared to the bold crimson smeared over his lips, oozing from an arch of cuts. His eyes are half-lidded, but the rest of expression remains flat and unwavering. Returning to the task at hand, Sugimoto leans down and latches onto the expanse of skin now exposed to the cold night air. He sucks and bites long enough to have the skin going red beneath his teeth, blood vessels breaking and popping. It’ll surely morph into a stark purple by morning. Ogata’s free hand rakes over his shoulder, curling for purchase in the thick fabric of his jacket. He yanks on it, trying to pull Sugimoto away, but he simply moves to another spot, littering Ogata’s neck and chest in angry marks.
Just like with the scars marring Ogata’s cheeks, something nasty and prideful mixes into the want rooted in the pit of Sugimoto’s stomach at the sight of bruises scattered over flawless skin. He isn’t a possessive person, at least no more than the average man. Yet, there’s something about taking Ogata and wrecking that manicured appearance that’s irresistible and deliciously intoxicating. When faced with someone as unflappable as Ogata, Sugimoto takes it as a challenge to find what it’ll take to finally break that mask. That irritating, frustrating, infuriating mask. He doesn’t just want to crack it, peeking through the fractures, but shatter it to pieces, smashed beyond repair. He wants to know that Ogata, the one behind those shallow dead eyes.
Something akin to an amused chuckle, low and gravelly, rumbles in Ogata’s chest, drawing Sugimoto’s attention up to the other man’s face. The bastard is glaring down at him, corners of his lips quirked up, satisfaction clear in his eyes.
“You wanted this, didn’t you?” It’s a question, but falling off Ogata’s lips, it feels like, not even a statement, but a condemnation.
“Of course not!” Sugimoto is quick to deflect, fierce and cutting. He holds Ogata in the lowest regard, only higher than a particularly unlucky few, Tsurumi and Nikaidou for example. There’s no way that he ever wanted this. Yet, there’s a nagging at the back of his skull, poking at him, telling him that’s wrong. He can’t deny that Ogata is attractive, hard lines of muscles stretching over his frame. Pale skin, silken black locks, and a sharp, strong jawline all combine to make a face he’d normally be drawn to. His eyes though, devoid of life, ruin the image, like tearing rips into a flawless painting. Behind the damage, it could have been beautiful, yet it was corrupted before he could get a good look.
“I— I don’t—” He cuts off, searching for the right words. “Not with you.” Sugimoto steels his gaze, locking eyes with the sniper below him. It feels like a lie, bitter and acrid on his tongue. Everything is tangled tight, emotions pulling at one another, fighting to be freed. It just serves to tighten the knot, twisting into something shadowing the want and desire.
“Keep telling yourself that,” Ogata replies, words thick with a knowing satisfaction. Sugimoto thinks there’s an edge of lust in his voice, settled beneath the surface. Or maybe it’s bloodlust. Or perhaps a torrid mix of both, driven by flashes of teeth and nails, keen and stinging kisses serving to rile the combination.
“It’s true,” Sugimoto insists, sitting up to straddle Ogata’s legs. Stubborn obstinacy surges through his blood. It fights to choke out the desire, rationality wrestling with pure impulse. He works to right his appearance, reaching for his cap and dragging a hand through his unruly hair, smoothing it back into place. He pulls his scarf tighter, winding it properly around his neck. Ogata props himself up on an elbow, looking straight through the show of disinterest.
“You’re a terrible liar.” Ogata moves backward, pulling pinned legs away from Sugimoto’s body with a sharp tug. Once freed, he sits upright and crosses his legs, still and calm as always. Only his appearance, not his behavior, betrays that he just had his tongue pressed past Sugimoto’s lips. Eyelids low and heavy, breath coming in shallow pants, and blood pooling and dripping down the swell of his bottom lip make it quite clear, no matter how unphased Ogata may act.
“I’m not lying.” Low and rough, Sugimoto grits the words out with a scowl coming over his features. A sudden desperation to prove his words crawls up, making itself known. He needs Ogata to know that he doesn’t want him and he needs him to know it now. It feels dangerously like overcompensation, covering for dark secrets dwelling in the back of his mind. He bites down on the urge, settling for deepening the scowl etched onto his face.
Ogata narrows his eyes, “Fucking stubborn,” he grumbles under his breath, reaching for the buttons on his collar. He straightens his uniform, blocking the fresh red splotches from sight.
“Wait—” The word comes out before Sugimoto gets the chance to stop it. It’s quickly followed by a sound dying in his throat, putting a swift halt to any words that would come tumbling out after it. Ogata quirks up an eyebrow, keen eyes making quick work of deciphering the lines of Sugimoto’s body. They catch the way his arm shoots out, fingers itching to rip away the offending fabric, the way he pitches forward, narrowing the distance between them, and the way his frown drops, earnest desire replacing downturned lips and lowered brows.
“Wait for what, exactly?” Ogata gets to his feet, towering over Sugimoto. He looms above for an entirely unfamiliar moment. It’s a near perfect mirror of when Sugimoto decided to take pity and save his sorry ass, down to the bloody nose and everything. He’s thrown on the defensive, but fights with an honest hunger. “Did you want to fuck me after all?”
Sugimoto wants to be taken aback by the bluntness of Ogata’s question, but he can’t deny that he knew it was coming. The coiled heat, pulling tight, low in his stomach wants to say yes. His lips and tongue, burned with the memory of tasting skin and blood, urge him to tip his head down in a nod. One simple gesture. That’s all it will take. It’d be so easy. Sugimoto’s never been one to do anything the easy way, though. Desire and heat is caged in by icy stubbornness. It’s not doused or smothered, but contained, held tight while scorching his insides. He’ll let it blaze and burn, consuming thoughts like kindling, as long as he can keep it reined in. He’s not going to let Ogata win this one, not tonight, no matter what.
“You wish,” he spits, pushing back to his feet and dusting the snow off his jacket. It falls in little clumps, fabric darkened where it had melted and sept into the thick material. He stalks around the fire, heading back to his original spot. Settling down onto the log with a pointed glare, Sugimoto crosses his arms over his chest. Despite what could be called a distraction, Sugimoto still has no intention of going off to sleep first. If anything, it steeled his resolve, driven by a simmering combination of irritation, caged desires, and a fierce stubborn streak.
Sugimoto lit a fuse tonight. He knows the spark will eat its way down the string, tension mounting, time ticking down until there’s an explosion. There’s no guarantee of exactly what that explosion will be. It’s just as likely that it’s a bullet to the head as it is a fucking Ogata until he can’t remember why he hates the man so much. Still, something’s been set into motion. Something that can’t be stopped. Only time will tell what.
He really hopes it’s the second option.