Work Text:
Sugimoto waited until the last rays of the sun had faded completely before taking out his phone.
>> to; ogata hyakunosuke [04/09; 18:37]
im so sorry i got caught up w work
can we reschedule?
He paused.
>> to; ogata hyakunosuke [04/09; 18:40]
or how about dinner at my place? ill make it up to you!!
No response. Sugimoto slumped over his kotatsu with a groan. Ogata was probably furious - this was the third time in as many weeks that Sugimoto had either suddenly canceled or otherwise “missed” a text about a midday date. And it wasn’t as if though he wanted to treat his boyfriend badly. It was just…
He turned to stare despondently at the wall. It was just that he would burn to a crisp in direct sunlight, and there wasn’t much he could think of that would be less romantic. Ogata didn’t deserve to be traumatized like that and Sugimoto didn’t want to die, so really this was a win-win for the both of them. If only there was a way to convince Ogata of that while avoiding the subject of vampirism altogether.
How would that conversation even go? Ogata, you’ve unwittingly been committing necrophilia? Shit. He hadn’t even thought of it like that and now he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to come up with anything else. What if he gradually hinted at it instead? He could drop some casual hints a few days before sitting him down for the full conversation. Ogata would be less likely to react badly if —
His phone chimed. Sugimoto bolted upright and snatched it off the top of his kotatsu. That was fast. He had half expected Ogata to leave him on read for at least a full day.
>> from; ogata hyakunosuke [04/09; 18:51]
what do you have in your fridge
Right. That. He started typing a response, deleted it, then typed another and deleted that too. Ogata let him make a fool of himself for another minute before replying in a text so smug he could feel it through the screen.
>> from; ogata hyakunosuke [04/09; 18:53]
thought so
come over to mine
i’m the better cook anyways
He rolled his eyes. Ogata could be such a shithead sometimes.
Ogata’s apartment was located in a sleek high rise in the middle of Akasaka, which meant that Sugimoto had plenty of time to psych himself out while the elevator ticked its way up to the 53rd floor. Ogata had left the door slightly ajar for Sugimoto, and even that looked vaguely threatening.
Steeling himself, he pushed it open. “Ogata?”
“In the kitchen,” Ogata called.
Ogata must’ve heard him coming, because he didn’t react when Sugimoto wrapped his arms around his waist. “Hey,” Sugimoto said apologetically, tucking his chin over his boyfriend’s shoulder and nodding at the steaks sizzling away in the pan. “That smells really good.”
Ogata made a noncommittal noise and pressed his spatula against the steaks for a more even sear. Sugimoto deflated. Maybe Ogata was more upset than he thought. He loosened his arms and made to step back, but Ogata stopped him with a casual kiss to the cheek.
“They’ll be done in a second,” Ogata said, turning back to the stove. “Hand me those plates.”
“Ogataaa!” Sugimoto said, thrilled. He kissed him back, quick pecks all against the side of his face while Ogata batted lightly at the arms still around him.
“The plates, Sugimoto.”
“Right, right,” he said, still smiling. He passed one to him, then the other, both already loaded with rice and grilled oyster mushrooms arranged neatly to one side. He took a second to be thankful that he could still eat regular food. Ogata really was a surprisingly competent cook.
Sugimoto carried the plates to the kitchen island, setting them down between the utensils that Ogata had already laid out. Ogata followed with a glass of water in each hand and perched himself on one of his minimalist barstools.
“Itadakimasu!” Sugimoto said, for the both of them. He picked up his knife and fork and then immediately dropped them, curling his hands into fists. Fuck. Fuck, that stung.
Ogata looked up at the clatter of apparently real silverware against marble countertop and frowned. “Sugimoto?”
“Yeah?” Sugimoto asked, voice pitched slightly higher than usual. There was no way out of this. If he tried to power through and keep eating, the sizzling of his burning palms would catch Ogata’s attention sooner or later. He was so caught up in imagining the worst case scenario — where smoke was leaking out from his death grip and the silverware was knocking against his rapidly charring bones — that he almost missed Ogata’s question.
“—wrong?”
“What? No, nothing’s wrong.” That came out calmer than he felt, and he took a second to mentally pat himself on the back. “These are really nice. Where’d you get them?”
“From Yuusaku’s place,” Ogata replied, which could either mean that Ogata had managed to hold a polite conversation with his half-brother for once and asked to borrow them, or that he had stolen them from a family event out of petty spite.
“Great, awesome. They’re just kind of hot. Did you… leave them near the oven?”
Ogata looked at him blankly, then reached over to touch the silverware himself. Sugimoto’s eyes widened. He grabbed the dinner plate with one hand and used it to whack the knife and fork away, sending them flying in opposite directions.
It was silent.
“Muscle spasm,” Sugimoto said.
Sugimoto adjusted the bouquet he had cradled against his chest and tried to look less pathetic than he felt. The whole thing was mortifying to think about. Sugimoto had gotten up to grab utensils that he could actually use from the kitchen, scooting awkwardly past Ogata with a face as red as the burnt hands he had clasped behind his back. Ogata had been silent as Sugimoto tried to salvage his half of the dinner, gingerly lifting the steak off the countertop and back onto his plate, and on the occasions Sugimoto had been brave enough to glance up, he could see Ogata staring off to the side and biting at the inside of his cheek as if struggling not to yell.
He slapped the side of his face and squared his shoulders, ignoring the looks of alarm from passerby. He could do this. He could. Sugimoto pushed past the revolving doors and made his way up to Ogata’s apartment for the second time in as many days.
“Ogata?” Sugimoto called. “It’s me. I know you’re mad but I can—”
The door swung open. The first thing Sugimoto noticed was the pile of clothes draped over Ogata’s arm.
“Uh,” Sugimoto said.
He watched as Ogata’s gaze shifted to the flowers in Sugimoto’s grip. His face softened, almost imperceptibly.
“Stop disturbing the neighbors,” Ogata said, and stepped aside to let Sugimoto through.
He glanced around. Ogata’s living room wasn’t necessarily a mess — it had a few piles of folded clothes scattered around, and an open suitcase propped open against the coffee table, but otherwise it looked as it usually did. “Are you going somewhere?”
“My grandmother’s place,” Ogata responded. “I told you last week, like I told you about our date.”
Sugimoto braced himself. There it was. “Ogata, I really am sorry about that. And about our dinner. I’ll try to be better about keeping track of the time and, uh…” He paused. “Getting enough electrolytes. I promise!”
Ogata stood in front of him, gaze intent, and Sugimoto knew better than to think his boyfriend wasn’t dragging out the silence in order to make him as uncomfortable as possible. They stayed that way for a few seconds, standing in the middle of Ogata’s living room, until Ogata reached out and lifted Sugimoto’s bouquet out of his arms. Apology accepted.
Sugimoto breathed out a sigh of relief and let himself break into a smile. He followed Ogata into the kitchen, where Ogata was putting the flowers in water.
“But, Sugimoto,” Ogata began, shutting off the tap with a flick of his wrist, “if you miss another one of our dates, I’m breaking up with you. Got it?”
“G-got it.”
“Good.” His smile was sharp.
Sugimoto turned Ogata’s words over in his head as the other man went back to his packing. The ultimatum really wasn’t as difficult to meet as it seemed at first glance. As long as Sugimoto was the one to the propose their dates, they could avoid the sun issue altogether.
He fished his phone out of his pocket. There was a matsuri coming up next weekend; Odaiba, of course; a shooting gallery in Shinjuku — oh, Ogata would like that one…
“—moto. Sugimoto!”
He blinked. “Yeah?”
“I’m ordering takeout,” Ogata said. The piles of clothes scattered around had disappeared, and behind him, his black suitcase was zipped up and waiting patiently by the door. “Do you want anything?”
“Ah, sure.” Ogata ordered from the sushi place downstairs so often he was probably the one keeping them in business. He paused. “Hey, when are you leaving?”
“…If you want to come, you can just say so.”
“What? No, I—” was thinking about date ideas for this weekend, Sugimoto had meant to say, before catching a glimpse of Ogata’s red-tipped ears and the way he was holding his phone closer to his face than strictly necessary. “Wait! I didn’t mean no, like I didn’t want to come, I just— Are you inviting me?”
Ogata huffed and pushed his hair back, turning away. So cute. Sugimoto leaped up from the couch and grabbed his boyfriend’s hands. “Aww, I would love to meet Ogata’s obaa-san, if that’s what he wants!” he sang.
“Die.”
Sugimoto laughed, ignoring Ogata’s half-hearted attempts to pull his hands away. “So when are we leaving, again?”
It turned out that Ogata’s train left at 9 the next morning, which meant that Sugimoto spontaneously had a shift he had to cover, but that was fine. He had errands to run anyways.
“Thank you, Ienaga-san,” Sugimoto said, taking the insulated Daiso bag from her.
Ienaga stuck her hands into the pockets of her scrubs and smiled. “It’s no problem. We have to look out for each other, don’t we?” She laughed, lightly. “Do try to wire me the money a little faster this time, though.”
“R-right. Ah, Ienaga-san?” She turned around. “If your break isn’t over soon, do you have time to talk?”
Ienaga hummed in consideration, tapping polished nails against her lips, but she was already walking past him to the vending machine across the street. “If you buy me a coffee, I might.”
“Sure. Okay. How did you tell Ushiyama that you were…”
“A vampire?” The machine rattled and Ienaga bent down, elegant as ever. “I just told him one night.”
Sugimoto waited. “…and?”
“And nothing. He took it in stride.”
“Wait, but what did you say? When… how did you say it? Was he—”
“Sugimoto,” Ienaga cut in. The fluorescent glow of the machine made her even paler than she already was. “If you’re thinking of telling someone, then they must’ve already earned your trust somehow. Yes? Do you think this person is going to react badly just because you picked the wrong thing to say? Listen to your instincts. Tell them whenever you think the time is right.” She held out a hand. “Now. I believe you promised to buy me coffee.”
He sighed and pressed a 100-yen coin into her palm. “Don’t you make enough as a surgeon?”
Ienaga snickered. “Sure, but you can never be too safe. I’ve seen a lot of booms and busts in my time and so will you. Anyways, good luck with everything!” The coin winked in the moonlight as she slipped it into her pocket. “I’m sure it’ll go fine.”
Ogata picked him up from Tsuchiura station in a car that was visibly more expensive than anyone else’s in the parking lot.
“I thought you took the train?”
“I did,” Ogata said, as they backed out of the space. “This is my grandmother’s.”
“Seriously?”
“Mhmm. I bought it for her for her 70th birthday. Why?” Ogata asked, deceptively pleasant. “Do you have a problem with it?”
Sugimoto rolled his eyes and leaned back into his seat, not bothering to deign that with a response.
“Speaking of, we should probably establish some ground rules. One: if you even imply to my grandmother that I am anything less than a saint, I will suffocate you in your sleep.” He turned towards him. “Understood?”
“Wh— keep your eyes on the road!” He reached over to forcibly turn Ogata’s face back towards the windshield, but the other man wouldn’t budge. “Yes, okay, I won’t mention anything. Asshole.”
“Besides,” Sugimoto continued, after Ogata went back to driving like someone without a death wish, “if she hasn’t managed to catch on after 20-something years, it’s not like anything I could say would change her mind.”
Ogata smiled. “Guess you’re not as dumb as you look.”
“Ugh. Anything else?”
He paused. “No. That was it, actually.”
Unbelievable.
They made it to Ogata’s grandmother’s house just as it begun to drizzle. It was built in the traditional style, a single-story kominka with dark supporting beams and sliding screen doors, and for a second, Sugimoto was glad for the rain. He hadn’t seen one of these in decades.
The woman herself was standing on the veranda, hands folded in front of her. “Obaa-san,” Ogata said reproachfully, hurrying from his car. Damp mud splattered against his trousers. “I told you you didn’t have to wait up for us.”
“Nonsense,” she replied. “What kind of host would I be if I didn’t even greet my guests?”
“Still, you could catch a cold… At least come inside.”
She waved him off. “In a second, Hyakkun. I’d like to meet this friend of yours.”
Up close, it was easy to see the resemblance. She and Ogata had different features but the same serious air, the same economy of movement. He was quick to bow. “I’m Sugimoto Saichi. It’s an honor to meet you, obaa-san.”
“There’s no need for formalities, Sugimoto-kun,” she responded, turning slowly, Ogata hovering close by her side. “Any friend of Hyakkun’s is a friend of mine. Please, come in.”
She fussed over him a little more, taking his wet jacket, pointing out the spare futon she had set up in the main room, and asking if he needed extra blankets — “the nights are colder out here, young man” — before retiring for the night. Sugimoto turned to Ogata the second she left. “Hard to believe someone as sweet as she is has a grandson like you.”
Ogata glared. With the blankets he was carrying to his own room covering half his frame, it was honestly kind of adorable. “Remember what I said, Sugimoto.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He walked up to him and wrapped him into a hug. “Good night, jackass.”
For a while, there was nothing but the chirps of the cicadas outside. Seconds ticked by. But then, muffled: “Good night, Sugimoto.”
Ogata’s grandmother rose before the sun. From his place on the futon, dragged safely away from any windows, Sugimoto could hear her rustling through the cabinets, and soon afterwards, the tell-tale sound of rice being rinsed. Ogata joined her maybe thirty minutes later. He murmured a quiet good morning, but otherwise the two of them maintained a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of them chopping or peeling vegetables.
It would be rude not to offer to help, so Sugimoto got up and stretched, joints popping nicely, and made his way to the kitchen. He was just about to announce himself when Ogata’s grandmother said, “So, tell me about Sugimoto-kun.”
Sugimoto stuttered to a halt. He backed away, slowly, before pivoting around the corner and pressing himself flat against the side of the doorway.
A sigh. “Obaa-san…”
“Hyakkun.”
“He’s… nice,” Ogata said, eventually, as if though the words were being dragged out of him. “Hotheaded, though, and bad at checking his texts. But…”
“He makes you happy?”
“Yeah,” Ogata mumbled, so quietly it was almost drowned out by the leaves on the breeze. “He does.”
He didn’t end up helping with breakfast. After Ogata had said that, Sugimoto went back to the main room and screamed silently into his pillow, trying to work off the excess energy. It didn’t really work, though — when Ogata’s grandmother came to fetch him, he could tell from her expression that he still looked far too overjoyed for 8 in the morning.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked.
“Oh yeah, obaa-san! Absolutely!” Sugimoto lied. He had played rhythm games on his phone until his battery died, then spent the rest of the night squinting at his paperback. He changed the subject. “What did you make for breakfast, obaa-san?”
“Mackerel shioyaki, natto and rice, tsukemono… Hyakkun told me that you have a lot of allergies.”
“Oh, did he?”
“Yes. He said you’re allergic to peanuts, milk, shellfish, eggs, garlic, corn, onions, and citrus fruits.” She frowned. “Not as strong as you look, are you?”
“Ah…” he said. Had his list of fake restrictions really gotten that long? “Um, well, I’m sure everything tastes amazing despite the trouble I put you through, obaa-san!”
And it did. Breakfast was delicious, and the rest of the day was spent slowly and comfortably. At one point, Ogata volunteered Sugimoto to help his grandmother pound mochi.
They were packing up their things at the kitchen table, after the fireflies had emerged from the trees, when Ogata’s grandmother called out to them.
“Wait, Sugimoto-kun, Hyakkun. Before you two go…”
Sugimoto turned around and blanched. In her hands was an old-fashioned camera, the kind you might find in an antiques shop.
“W-wait, obaa-san,” Sugimoto said, frantically. When did analog cameras stop using silver gelatin film again? Did they ever stop? How would he even be able to tell? “I’m, uh, I don’t like having my picture taken.”
She frowned. “What? Why not?”
He thought quickly. “Because of my scars! I’m really self-conscious about them, so you see…”
“Sugimoto-kun,” she said, in that classically matriarchal way, “I would say that your scars make you more handsome, not less. Now hold still.”
Sugimoto’s eyes widened. He grabbed a startled Ogata by the shoulders and flung himself behind his boyfriend, just as Ogata’s grandmother released the shutter.
“What the hell—”
“Sugimoto-kun?!”
He ignored them in favor of the photo softly whirring its way out of the camera. If he was fast enough, he could probably destroy it before either of them had the chance to see what was, or wasn’t, on it. He leaned forward—
—and coughed, hunching over where Ogata had elbowed him out of the way. Ogata snatched the print himself, holding it aloft while Sugimoto made weak grabs for it.
“Ogata, stop— give it to me!”
Ogata scoffed. “I can see why you didn’t want us to look at this. You look awful.”
Wait, what?
Ogata handed the print to him without a fight, no longer interested, and Sugimoto felt his jaw drop. Incredibly, Sugimoto was there. As a motion blur with an exaggerated look of panic, like one of those overpriced souvenirs you could get coming off a rollercoaster or a haunted house, but still there. He turned it over in his hands. How?
“If you’re done staring at yourself, Sugimoto…”
He looked up. Ogata’s grandmother had the camera in front of her face, ready to take another. “R-right,” he said. He set the photo down on the kitchen table and wrapped an arm around Ogata’s waist, smiling through the bright flash and lingering uncertainty.
It came out perfect. “I think I’ll be keeping this one,” Ogata’s grandmother said, voice wry.
“Of course,” Ogata replied, just as Sugimoto said, “Can I see that camera, obaa-san?”
She blinked, but handed it over. In his hands, it was obvious the camera wasn’t the antique it had appeared to be: the brown leather wrapped around the case turned out to be plastic, and the LED display on the back was undeniably modern. He nodded to himself, absently, running his fingers over the row of buttons near the top. Technology had come far.
“Give that back before you break it,” Ogata said, cutting through his thoughts. “I’d hate to have to get her another one.”
Sugimoto rolled his eyes but did as he was told. “Here you go, obaa-san.” When Ogata’s back was turned, he mock-whispered, “I know you must’ve raised him well so who knows where he learned to be so rude—”
“Sugimoto!” Ogata shouted.
They left soon after, not keen on missing the train. As they were walking out, though, Sugimoto saw Ogata pick the blurry photo of them up from the kitchen table and slip it gently into his pocket.
The doorbell rang.
Sugimoto looked up from the magazine he was leafing through, lounging on Ogata’s couch, and called, “Are you expecting someone?”
“And if I was?”
“Then you should probably get the door, asshole,” Sugimoto said, smirking. Ogata scoffed as he strode past, coming out his room where he was trying to catch up on work emails before the weekend was over, and opened the door. “Yes?”
“Ogata-san?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Package for you,” he said, holding out the little tablet for Ogata to sign. Sugimoto peeked out over the top of his magazine to watch. The sleeves of Ogata’s button-down were rolled up to his biceps and made him look unfairly good. He brought the magazine back up to his face when Ogata turned around. No need for his boyfriend to grow an even bigger ego.
The heavy thuds of Ogata kicking a surprisingly large box into the center of the room made him lower the magazine back down. “What did you even get?”
Ogata ignored that, probably thinking that Sugimoto’s question would answer itself once he managed to rip the packaging tape off. “By the way,” he said, over the noise of cardboard being torn apart, “I want to watch the sunset. I have to drop by the office first, though, so meet me at Hinokicho in fifteen.”
“Oh, uh,” Sugimoto said. “Don’t you want to catch a movie instead? Or how about… we could take a baking class! You’re really good at cooking but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you bake anything. We could do that!”
Ogata frowned at him over his shoulder. “Maybe next week. Meet me at Hinokicho, Sugimoto, and don’t be late. You know what’ll happen if you miss another one of our dates.”
Shit. He quickly ran through his mental list of excuses. Pollen allergy? No, Ogata would just tell him to run to the pharmacy beforehand. Work emergency? He used that last time. Dread curdled in the pit of his stomach.
“Ogata.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I have to tell you something. I’m—”
“A vampire? Sugimoto, I know.”
His eyes flew open. Ogata had tried his best to sound aloof, but the self-satisfied smirk on his face told otherwise. “What do you mean you know? This… this entire time? When did you—”
“Since the beginning.” At the expression on Sugimoto’s face, Ogata continued, “The first time we met at that bar, on the way back, you kept asking me if I had blackout curtains. Remember?”
Oh. Now that he mentioned it, Sugimoto could recall a few flashes of that happening, which was absolutely cringe-inducing. He must’ve asked him at least a dozen times. He pushed that memory aside.
“Then you know I can’t come with you! Why did you even suggest watching the sunset if you know I’d die?”
Ogata tsked, getting up to drag Sugimoto from the couch. He led him over to the cardboard box, pushing foam peanuts and bubble wrap aside, until Sugimoto could see what must have been at least twenty bottles of sunscreen, cheerfully labeled SPF 50 and Broad Spectrum, and a wide paintbrush, the kind you’d use to paint a wall. Ogata took the brush in one hand and a bottle of sunscreen in another, and said, “Hold out your arm, Sugimoto.”
He complied. Ogata twisted the cap off the sunscreen and dumped a sizable amount onto his forearm, brushed it out, then repeated it twice. When he was done, he grasped Sugimoto’s hand and led him to the windows, slower this time, until they were close enough that Ogata could hook his fingers against the edge of one of his curtains.
There was a pause. “Do you trust me?” Ogata asked, and for once it was sincere, no mocking edge or impatient demand in his words at all.
Sugimoto would’ve loved to say he didn’t hesitate, but he did, even if it was so brief they could both ignore it. He nodded, and held his breath as Ogata pulled the curtain back and let the tiniest glimmer of light slip through.
It was warm on his skin. Pleasant. And Sugimoto was definitely still alive.
He could hear Ogata say something smug, but he surged forward, causing Ogata to stumble, pulling the curtain open in Sugimoto’s wake before letting go. Sugimoto ignored it in favour of kissing his boyfriend breathlessly. “I cannot,” a kiss to Ogata’s temple, another against his cheek, “believe you!” He was so giddy he could hardly think.
Ogata tilted his head to capture Sugimoto’s lips with his own, then swiped his tongue deliberately across Sugimoto’s fangs. Blood, fresh and sweet and warm, bloomed in his mouth. Sugimoto groaned. With effort, he tore himself away.
Looking at Ogata now, though, with his own blood smeared across kiss-swollen lips and features cast in the orange glow of the sinking sun, it seemed ridiculous to even consider warning Ogata of anything. He knew what he had signed up for, ages before even Sugimoto did.
He watched Ogata’s lips turn down as he realized they were going to miss their date in the park after all.
“What happened to breaking up with me?” Sugimoto teased.
Ogata huffed, and dragged a hand through his hair. His cheeks were flushed a delicate shade of red. “I’m making an exception.” He smiled up at him, a sharp little grin that could rival one of Sugimoto’s incisors. “Don’t make me regret it.”