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Tsurumi carefully slid off the bandage. It revealed what was once a pillow of gauze, now hardened in a thick bloody crust. It bloomed with stains of red and rusty brown. He brushed aside some stray hair, heavy from obvious neglect.
"When was the last time you’ve changed this?"
He could feel the eye burrowing into his face with a morbid glint. Ogata's lips were tight in a bleak, amused expression, barely evoking a smile. He didn't bother with an answer.
They were alone in the room, joined by a chair and a paper-littered table. It was the best the village could offer to accommodate the First Lieutenant as his group passed through, and he'd never ask for more. Right now, the chair at the table was turned away, and held the poised Tsurumi himself.
The chatter outside was getting sparse. A dull winter night approached. The dying sun intruded on the two, settling in harsh strokes on the walls, in the gleam of Tsurumi's leather boots, in Ogata's eye, on his sturdy arms, as if trying to hide how much the man himself had faded.
He was looking up at Tsurumi, knees resting on the dusty carpet by the chair. His shoulders hung in a casual slouch, and his broad palms lay peacefully on his lap. Ogata's hair, longer than Tsurumi had ever seen it, was tied at the back, exposing his grown-out temples. His skin stretched tight over the sharp outline of muscle, pale and unpleasantly hot on Tsurumi's fingertips.
Ogata sat as if under a tree, enjoying the shade and lazily birdwatching. He was lifeless as a taxidermied mount.
Tsurumi finally caught his eye. He’d changed, but his empty stare, halved as it was, stayed exactly the same.
"This is a shame." Tsurumi studied it for a reaction, which was always a fun challenge. "Symmetry makes a beautiful man."
Ogata was different. He was sick. A rancid piece of gauze hid the wound in the place of a sharp, careful eye — an eye that made him terrifying, gave him worth, one of the two surprisingly fragile parts of him that made him who he was.
Tsurumi touched his jaw and lightly nudged it to make Ogata turn his head. He obliged.
"You know what? I take that back, Superior Private. Change looks good on you."
Ogata let him admire the view, turning his head wherever Tsurumi guided it. He looked bored.
"Is this an attempt to win me over?" he sneered, as if he knew the answer already. His voice came out with a barely noticeable rasp. "You know this doesn't work on me, Lieutenant."
"Oh, no, not at all! I’m being earnest."
Wouldn’t you know it: despite himself, he might've been telling the truth. Tsurumi smiled at the thought. It always came back to this — stealing a moment alone with one of his men — but he never did it for the kick. It was a job he loved doing, but a job nonetheless. Perhaps, today was different because the stray Ogata hadn’t been his man in a while.
Still, there was something he wanted to know.
“How does it feel?”
Ogata shrugged.
“Annoying, mostly.”
“That's good to hear. Life goes on, we humans adapt to the strangest of things, don’t we?”
By that point, Tsurumi was tilting Ogata’s chin up and sideways, making him show off a scar that stretched from the crude cut of his jawline. It was thin, white, beautifully healed, surrounded by suture marks, all but careful pinpoints. Tsurumi never got to see it fresh, which he caught himself regretting. Still, he’d known his Private for years, and it was amazing how age and battle turned Ogata’s blank, off-putting mug into pain-weathered eye candy.
Tsurumi let go, allowing the sniper to rest his neck. Then, he spotted a little miracle.
The last of the sun hit Ogata’s gauze just right. His old bloodstain flared up, alive again for just a moment. The one good eye paled next to the accidental flame. Whatever life Ogata used to have in his eyes, it had always been dim, stunted, and never even close to this. No, this wouldn’t do. The hair falling over that patch had to go. The patch had to go.
“My group has a medic. Let’s change your dressings, shall we?”
“That’s goodbye already, huh? You’re usually chattier than this.”
Tsurumi laughed. Was Ogata disappointed? Hard to tell by his voice, but he felt vindicated nonetheless.
“Don’t worry, I’ll only need him for his materials. I’ve done this more than I can count. Don’t go anywhere!”
He grinned ear to ear as he gave Ogata's shoulder a loud pat and got up to leave.
When he came back, tray of supplies in hand, he felt a stinging breeze. It carried a waft of smell, traces of pine and wood shavings. A window had obviously just been shut. Ogata sat in Tsurumi’s chair, legs outstretched, hair and clothes dusted with melting snow. He sported a brand new 7th Division rifle; a bit of red splattered its stock and his own ill-fitting boot. He stared Tsurumi down with a silent question.
The Lieutenant held back another laugh.
“Look,” he raised up the tray, “this is all I need from you. I won’t let you waste yourself on a treatable infection.” The rifle wasn’t pointed at him, and for some reason, Ogata came back to the same room he’d just fled — that meant he was listening. “That’d be a very stupid end for someone of your merit.”
Ogata allowed one of his hands to part with the rifle and felt the lymph nodes on his neck.
“Okay, but I’m staying in the chair.”
“Be my guest.”
The tray clanked as Tsurumi put it down on the table and leaned on the edge next to it. Truth be told, going full nurse and saving talent from a stupid death was the last thing on his mind. Ogata strapped the rifle over his shoulder. He turned to face Tsurumi, ending up backwards in his chair, arms crossed on its back like he owned the place, and chin resting on top. Once again, Tsurumi met his demanding eye.
Ogata’d never believed in comrades or flirty superiors — the Lieutenant knew that much. Instead, he believed in being above whatever was happening right now, so whole-heartedly it was funny. No, in every human being, every single one, there was a lack, and all Tsurumi had to do was find it. He had to insert himself — fill the pit in the place of whatever was lost, or never given in the first place. Superior Private Ogata, that whole desolate pit of a man, was no exception.
On the tray stood a small bowl. In the bowl, a neat piece of cloth was soaking in warm water.
“That’s not gonna peel off too easily,” Tsurumi said, taking the cloth. “You’re lucky we happened upon the same village. Hold still.”
With that, Tsurumi pressed the cloth to the bandage.
“If this doesn’t work, guess I’ll just have to count to three,” he joked, in a masterful manner that made every target of his jokes profoundly uncomfortable.
“I’ll shoot your hand off.”
"No need for that! I’ll try my best.”
Luckily for both of them, it did seem to work. The gauze softened up. When Tsurumi tugged ever so carefully, it gave. He began to nudge it off, slowly, methodically, supporting Ogata’s jaw with a free hand. The gauze budged, steadily revealing a vibrant bruise. Then, showed the flaking scab; in its cracks, a mess of wet and dry, skin and flesh peeking through. The patch left fresh beads of crimson swelling up in its way as it disturbed the healing wound.
Eventually, the sniper’s gaze was complete. Tsurumi breathed out. Another void had joined Ogata’s gaping pupil. The upper eyelid had been torn and stitched back together, though you could barely tell where the blood crust ended and the suture began. It didn’t hold shape, hanging over the glistening wall of Ogata's emptied socket, stuck in a stalemate between healing and festering. The beads of blood were turning into droplets, dripping and dotting the blush of inflammation underneath. Tsurumi touched Ogata's temple beside the wound. It was burning up.
He’d spent hundreds of days glancing past that face. Now, it was cracked wide open in a chasm of yellows, violets and reds. Its remaining eye kept measuring him, and its lips were curling up in a familiar smile. Ogata must’ve noticed Tsurumi’s fascination. He tilted his head and began to drum a broken rhythm on the wood of his chair.
By that time, the day was finally burning out. Ogata sat dead in the washed-out light, save for his drumming fingers. Tsurumi noticed he’d left that hand on his jaw with no intent in particular. For a moment, he considered taking it off. Ogata, though, seemed to have other plans. He turned to put his chapped lips under Tsurumi's thumb. His palm felt the scratch of the sniper’s messy chin scruff.
Tsurumit grinned. He pushed in without hesitation. They were on the same page. Terrific.
He hooked his thumb over Ogata’s teeth and tightened his grip.
“I'm sorry, Superior Private, but you look like shit.”
Ogata chuckled and rolled his eye. He threw a meaningful look down at Tsurumi’s pants, which had been tight for a while. He pulled away only to speak.
“Take care of that. I don’t mind.”
Tsurumi pushed his thumb back in and turned Ogata's face with a bit more force to have a good hard look.
"Let your hair down for me, will you?" Tsurumi asked as his hand wandered to his pants. Long-haired men were a dearly missed sight in the army. "Just don't get any of it in your face. I want to see you."
Ogata obliged again. The tie came off, his hair fell down, an inky curtain all the way to his neck. He tucked it behind his ears with false modesty.
A thin net of red was already making its way down his cheekbone.
Tsurumi undid his belt one-handed and freed his dick, not taking his eyes off that trail and where it came from. He pulled his other hand away and wiped the thumb on Ogata’s cheek, putting a crude smudge through the blood. Then, he had an idea.
“Would you help me out here?” he graciously asked and presented his palm.
A sly spark crossed Ogata’s eye. He looked at the hand for a second, hummed to himself, and wrapped his own coarse fingers around Tsurumi’s wrist. Then, letting his eyelid flutter shut, he licked a broad, long stroke up the waiting palm. His tongue sent a hot shiver up Tsurumi’s arm. He took his time, licking up the fingers, gliding the tip of his tongue in between them, throwing a smug look that'd always urge the Lieutenant to wipe the ego clean off that face. Who knew what the sniper was after — Ogata barely cared for sex, except for the things that were only sex to him, and maybe to Tsurumi if he squinted — but he seemed to enjoy himself an awful lot.
“Hey, hey- That’s enough.”
Tsurumi got his wrist out of Ogata’s hand, gave his cheek an approving pat — good job indeed — and finally started coating his own straining boner in the slickness. His counterpart looked terribly content. He could use another job.
Tsurumi put his free hand back to Ogata’s mouth and waited for him to open up. His lips parted passively, baring a sliver of teeth, letting in two fingers. Tsurumi pushed down on his tongue. He could admit, symmetry wasn't the only thing that took a man from pretty to beautiful. With his brand new window to the soul, Ogata was magnificent.
He was happy to present, of course he was. Allow his mouth to be pried open, let Tsurumi twist him like a doll to get a better angle, smudge the blood on his cheek with his own saliva, flash his hollow socket when it got him the right audience. What was it, how many people gave a shit about the guy in his entire life? Two? One? And how did that work out for them?
Tsurumi pulled back his fingers, and the Private's tongue moved to follow. He wanted to ram them in, make him choke, make him sick, make him bite the hand that fed just enough to keep him waiting, but the sight was good enough: tongue out, pressed to Tsurumi's fingers, as his eye glazed over and the hole in his skull stared right through.
Tsurumi let go of his dick and reached to grip a handful of matted hair. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his fingers. He yanked both hands away.
"Agh! You bastard!"
The fingers that were just probing Ogata's mouth ached with a nasty bite.
"Fine! I won't touch it. God, you're making this difficult."
Amusement returned to Ogata's face. Tsurumi's hand returned to his cock. Those weaving trails of blood had already reached Ogata's jaw and started pooling under his chin. Tsurumi needed to grab him, yank him close and feel that blood on his own tongue. He needed a kiss, just deep enough to make Ogata taste the iron, just long enough to slather in the red himself and feel the sultry smell of sickness before he'd pull away.
His hand sped up. He wanted to come on that broken face. He wanted to fuck into it, work his mouth with a fistful of dirty hair, and watch his eye roll back instead of jerking off to the pretty picture. He wanted him to remember the feeling every time he changed those bandages. All he could do was look.
Ogata was an intolerable nuisance, a champion traitor, and fuck if he wasn't beautiful. Tsurumi wanted to get into those stitches himself and rip through them like grape vines. He wanted to prod inside him, remind him what he's made of, make him so stunned with pain that he couldn't even think to reach for that stolen rifle. He wanted his only treasured pupil blown wide with terror. Tsurumi didn't want him blind, no — just acutely aware of how easy it would be to take his life without killing him. He knew the man was terrified already. He wanted to learn how deep that terror sat. He wanted to hear him say it. He wanted him back. He wanted to pass Ogata every day of his service and still see the gash of paranoid horror years and years after it stopped bleeding. He needed his piece of it. He wanted to fuck into it. He wanted to watch his last good eye roll back.
The brim of his headplate felt wet.
He gripped onto the back of Ogata's chair.
"Get down."
"You close?"
He huffed in response.
"Sure."
Ogata got out of the chair and lowered himself to his knees. He looked bored as ever, but knowing him, there must've been a sport and a specific kind of pleasure in the whole situation. There always had been.
He shielded his wound with a steady hand. With the last of his mind, Tsurumi imagined how many people would kill to be the one to drive their bayonet right through it.
He gave himself some final erratic strokes. In a second, come streaked across Ogata's fingers, his reddened cheek, and wisely closed eyelids.
Tsurumi caught his breath and clicked his tongue at the sight before him.
"Please don't hide it."
Ogata sighed. He lowered his hand. After a beat, he put it out in a wordless demand. Tsurumi got the message and looked around, but there was not a single towel in sight.
Ah, to hell with it. He picked the fresh bandage off the tray and handed it to Ogata. The sniper slowly wiped his eye and looked at what he was holding. It wasn't dark yet, but the sun had already sizzled out, leaving a dim blue light to line his features.
"I'll need that medic, I think."
Tsurumi chuckled.
"It seems so," he hummed as he tucked his dick away and fastened his belt. "I'd hate to see you go, though. I don't think my men would love that, but just between you and me… you're always welcome back at the Seventh."