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Usami buzzes with curiosity as he walks briskly to Lieutenant Tsurumi’s quarters. It was hard to not look too happy to be called for when the Nikaidous peered into the barracks at nearly lights-out, telling him in sync that they were sent to retrieve him. Their identical impassive faces hadn’t given away the nature of why he’d been called, positive or negative, and their message contained no information either. Which was just as well—for praise or for scolding, both were wonderful to receive from Tsurumi. He didn’t care what kind of attention he got as long as he got it.
Nothing immediately came to mind for either. Usami was a good soldier; volatile, skilled, obedient—when it suited him, anyway. His incredible knack for violence, the will to survive if only to be of use to Tsurumi again, his ability to shake off pain like a wet dog shaking off water—they made him a valuable front-line soldier who didn’t fear getting his uniform soaked with blood and gore. Capable of being both a sharp weapon and a blunt instrument of destruction, he killed many enemies and saved many comrades. He didn’t find it particularly noteworthy to be just good at the job.
And to his knowledge, he hadn’t done anything important in the way of fucking up either.
When he knocks, formal and polite, he hardly needs to announce himself. He’s sure Tsurumi can sense his energy on the other side. Receiving a curt come in, Usami slides the door open and enters. Tsurumi’s face is carefully neutral as he gestures for Usami to lock the door behind him. Usami turns and does so, suppressing a smile—that kind of meeting.
“Sit.”
Usami kneels on the floor in perfect seiza before him. Sure, there is a chair, but that was no fun. His place was unique, his adoration unique too. He likes to remind Tsurumi there is no one more loyal than he is, no one more subservient. He likes the view of looking up at Tsurumi.
“Usami.”
No titles, no given name. The way Tsurumi speaks to him when he’s annoyed, angry. The way he speaks to him when he’s being scolded. His back gets a little straighter in response.
“Sir.”
“Do you know why I’ve called you here?”
“No, sir.”
It sounds obstinate, even in his polite tone. But it’s true; Usami does a million insignificant things wrong every day, some on purpose, some out of carelessness. He can’t possibly know which minor indiscretion is to blame for this round of disapproval.
Tsurumi tuts at him, disappointed. Even the little sound is appealing and clear in Usami’s well-trained ears.
“Do try a little harder to think about it.”
He talks down to him, like a child who can’t solve a simple arithmetic problem. He folds his hands under his chin, resting on the steeple of his fingers as he looks at Usami. Usami tries very hard not to squirm under his stare, eyes dark and impassive. Such a beautiful thing, to be torn apart under a predator’s concentrated gaze.
Usami swallows hard, tucking his hands behind his back as he fidgets, digging his thumb nail into his fingers. He does try to think about it. Was it when he talked back to a superior officer last week? Perhaps when he leered at Second Lieutenant Hanazawa as he walked by, whistling at him just to make him jolt when he bent over? Could also have been when he was caught masturbating by the stables by Officer Kikuta, again. There really was so much to think about.
“I really don’t know, sir,” Usami says, soft, apologetic, head bowing like a guilty dog.
Tsurumi tuts again, shaking his head just a little. A shiver of anticipation rolls down Usami’s spine and he represses a noise of want—scold me, scold me, scold me.
“I would have thought this incident would be important in your memory,” Tsurumi begins. “This isn’t the first time you’re being scolded for it, after all.”
Usami fidgets again as he racks his brain for a prior scolding. He tries not to do anything twice to irritate Tsurumi—he’s supposed to be playfully annoying, pushing the envelope, a pet looking for enrichment. But he’s not stupid, never stupid—would never do anything to make Tsurumi doubt his usefulness, his intelligence, the idea that Usami was the perfect tool in his arsenal. His nail digs deeper into the thin skin of his index finger.
Before he can offer some meager apology for failing to remember, for failing to learn the lesson the first time, Tsurumi continues on.
“Sergeant Tsukishima informed me he removed the razor from your kit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is because you stabbed Superior Private Ogata with it.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
Well, that explains why he didn’t remember. Usami didn’t care what Sergeant Tsukishima had to say. He had scarcely even heard him when he, in his usual quiet gruff voice, told him off for fighting with another private, ripping the razor out of his hand. He had been too focused on how Ogata’s eyes looked alive for the first time in a while, ignited by spite and anger and hate—just as thirsty for blood as he was. Ogata was so fun to rile up, fun to overpower. He was more caught up in the way his pant leg had darkened from the blood welling up, leaving a beautiful stain—about how Ogata was forcing breaths out of his nose to try not to give Usami the satisfaction that he had wounded him, made him hurt—the way Ogata was going to be irritated and annoyed the next time he had to crouch in the snow and muck and the wound would strain and likely split open all over again—
“Usami, are you listening?”
His attention snaps to Tsurumi again, narrowing in again on his eyes. Focus, focus, focus.
“Of course, sir.”
Could Tsurumi see through him with those black eyes, see right into his thoughts and memories? Did he see him replaying the scene over and over? Does he see how his eyes dilate and his lips part just a little over it?
Tsurumi breaks their eye contact as he reaches into a desk drawer. With a careful hand, he pulls something out and reveals the very razor he stabbed Ogata with, twirling it between his pianist fingers. He toys with it, the affectation of nonchalance, but Usami zeroes in on the action—it is precise, a weapon master’s movements. Usami briefly considers, fantasizes, about Tsurumi returning the damage.
“You could have really hurt him with this, you know.”
Of course he knows. Of course he does. He thinks about it every time he uses it to shave, sliding the sharp edge over the vulnerable skin of his throat. He is lucky it isn’t often that he needs to, or his fantasies might have consumed him.
“Yes sir.”
Ogata was lucky Usami had gone for the razor and not his bayonet, like he had fantasized so many times before.
“I need my men to work together, and here you are, causing trouble for me. Why, then, would you do something like this?”
It’s so embarrassing, the way he asks the question. There is no satisfactory answer. Because I was bored, sir. Because I like it when he suffers, sir, it’s the only time he’s interesting to me. Because I was jealous sir, because of the way you look at him. Because he’s a threat to me, sir. Because I couldn’t help myself, sir.
The longer he goes without answering, squirming in his position, the more heat can’t decide if it should rise to his face or shoot low to his groin. He feels so hot all over, under his collar, on his cheeks. He shifts his hands into his lap. He never knows how to play these punishment games with Tsurumi, and that’s precisely why it’s so exciting to play.
“I don’t know, sir. I felt like it.”
It’s a bad answer; it’s exactly the answer Tsurumi is looking for. It gives him the exact leverage he needs to deal the next blow.
“Come now, Usami, don’t disappoint me any further. I know you have a better answer than that.”
A shudder down his spine, a slow breath forced out of his nose. His heartbeat pulses faster. Scold me, scold me, scold me.
Can Tsurumi see his excitement, the way his eyes widen, his lips twitch, his face flushes? Can he feel his arousal, leeching perversion into the room?
“I hate him, sir. I hate the way you look at him,” Usami admits. “I don’t want you to like him more than me. I hate how he looks at you. I don’t want him to think he’s special. I just couldn’t help myself.”
He’s lost the sing-song lilt, the soft nature of his voice as the truth tumbles out at Tsurumi’s request. It comes out stilted, edging on hysterical. He remembers, vivid and sudden, the overwhelming urge for violence the first time it erupted ten years ago—remembers the dead body in the courtyard, the warmth of his lieutenant’s body when he held him and said I’m sorry, remembers being coddled after his fit of jealousy.
There is none of that to be found now.
“Be that as it may—”
Usami tries not to whine as his feelings are cast aside. Of course they were. They are insignificant, in the grand scheme of things.
“—I can’t have you causing trouble. I let it slide when you were childishly playfighting, perhaps that was a mistake to trust you to not escalate.”
“No, sir, of course not, sir. You’re never wrong, sir.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Tsurumi says curtly, not deigning to look at him as he twirls the razor between his fingers. “Certainly not as you interrupt me.”
Usami bites his lip, presses his thighs together. Tsurumi must know the effect this has on him, even without raising his eyes to see it. The tension in Usami’s body could be cut with a knife. Sitting still has never been more difficult.
Tsurumi lets the silent pause hang a moment longer, as if expecting Usami to cut in with an ill-timed apology, before he is sufficiently satisfied with Usami learning to hold his tongue.
“What good is Ogata to me if he can’t comfortably shoot his rifle?”
He isn’t any, of course. Ogata is nothing but a walking gun—his only purpose is how good he is at killing others from a distance, and he does that best when there isn’t slash down the swell of his thigh. But that’s not what Tsurumi is saying, not what he wants to hear. Usami knows that. He knows his Tsurumi.
How dare you damage my weapons, my toys?
He knows better than to ruin Tsurumi’s things. He knows better than to interfere with Tsurumi’s pawns. He should have been more held back, should have limited himself to his usual roughhousing, the silly dog-chases-cat game he plays. Usami was too caught up in his own feelings, his own wants, to think about what actually mattered.
“You’re right, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
Usami nearly folds himself in half in his effort to bow low enough, a dog bowing before it’s master after making a mess. He knows no matter how close he gets to the polished surface it won’t be good enough, just as the dog cannot put the shredded chickens back together, cannot put all the feathers back on their eviscerated bodies.
“You are really an unruly thing, aren’t you?” Tsurumi muses, as if he hadn’t heard him apologize. Rather, ignored his apology. That was just as well.
He nods. He is. It’s usually his shining quality. Its saved him and Second Lieutenant Hanazawa and others countless times in the field. But it’s not like Tsurumi is really asking him, as they both know this well.
“I wonder what I should do with you.”
Scold me, scold me, scold me.
“What would get through to you? I really need you to behave to stay by my side.”
Usami is having a hard time breathing. Tsurumi still wants him around, even when he misbehaves. His head feels fuzzy with it, his face warm, a pleasant shudder all the way to his toes.
“I’ll be good, sir. I can be good.”
I want to stay by your side. Your number one friend. I promise I’ll be good.
“You’re interrupting again,” Tsurumi says, but it’s softer this time. It’s not the sharp edge of criticism. Rather, it’s almost fond. He knows his Usami—Usami, who can’t help himself, Usami, his loyal dog among sheep.
Usami makes an apologetic noise against his uniform, turning his face up to see Tsurumi’s expression.
“My, Tokishige, I have a half a mind to bend you over my knee and spank you,” Tsurumi chides, sparing him a sidelong glance.
Usami resists the urge to drool, barely-contained excitement trembling through his body. Tsurumi’s hands on his body, Tsurumi’s hands hurting him, hurting him because he deserved it. Tsurumi using his given name, the syllables so pleasant the way they fit in his mouth. Tsurumi treating him special, his number one friend—the intimacy laced in the way he says his name. Usami is comforted by the use of his given name, the way it reveals Tsurumi isn’t stepping away from him, but rather closer—he hasn’t fucked up too badly. Tsurumi is simply playing with him, at this point, which he both craves and doesn’t deserve.
Unable to hold it in, he blurts out, “Please?”
Tsurumi raises an eyebrow, tips his head up to properly look down at him. It’s as if he’s calling Usami’s bluff—as if giving Usami a second to rethink his position. Usami shivers—such a simple action giving him such pleasure.
He slides into a better position—on his hands and knees, before reconsidering and bracing his weight on his forearms, ass in the air. Pathetic, teasing, a dog at play.
“Please?” he begs.
Tsurumi nearly breaks character, mustache twitching as he fights off a smile. It’s almost imperceptible—anyone else might have missed it, but not Usami. His lieutenant sheathes the razor he had been playing with and puts it away. Tsurumi stands from his desk, rounding it, heading for his private quarters.
“Very well then. Come along.”
Tsurumi says it as if Usami had suggested they go out for a late-night walk, or perhaps to get a sweet treat. The softness in how he says come along could be confused for a suggestion, an encouragement; but Usami knows an order when he hears one.
With a glance, as if to check if Usami is following properly—which, of course he is, of course he knows what to do—Tsurumi snaps his fingers by his thigh, only once and incredibly crisp. Usami follows, giddy and shivering, on his hands and knees with the slightest sway of his hips. He doesn’t deserve to walk by his side, only to crawl, subservient and humiliated. Tsurumi is merciful in his pace, measured steps that Usami can keep up with. He butts his head against Tsurumi’s hand, so he knows he’s not lagging, to get just a taste of a touch.
Tsurumi poises himself on the edge of the bed, face impassive. Wordlessly, Usami settles in seiza in front of him, between his spread legs. His hands tremble where they rest on his thighs as he awaits his next command.
“Stand and strip.”
Usami stumbles as he rises, the undercurrent of excitement under his skin making him unsteady. He is grateful for something to do with his hands, making quick work of his boots and gaiters. He tries not to appear too eager, unbuttoning his uniform jacket before shrugging out of it. He folds it and sets it aside—he knows Tsurumi hates it when he’s careless with his clothes. He makes it a bit of a show as he undoes his undershirt next, as if his body isn’t something Tsurumi has seen a dozen times. Like he couldn’t identify Usami by the feel of his abdomen in the dark for the amount of times he’s splayed his hands across the flat expanse of his skin, or by the shape of his shoulder, the curve of his bicep.
Do you like it? Do you like it?
He folds the white undershirt, places it on top of his jacket. Usami is nearly playful about unbuttoning his trousers, taking care to slowly slide them down his thighs, down his calves. He has nice legs, he knows this—slender, muscular, honed by years of being a judoka and specializing in grappling. He has the legs of someone built to chase, restrain, suffocate, break others—calves that Tsurumi has pressed gentle kisses to, thighs that he’s squeezed in appreciation. A well-honed machine.
Do you like it?
Usami hooks his thumbs under his fundoshi, opting to simply lower the garment rather than unwind it.
“Stop. Keep that on.”
Usami pauses, finally raising his eyes to Tsurumi. He hopes his face doesn’t look confused or doubtful of his choice. It’s not as if the cloth hides much – he’s sure his half-hard cock is noticeable.
Tsurumi crooks two fingers at him – come here – and Usami obeys. Usami is remarkably graceful as he lays across his thighs, settling like a pampered lapdog. He tugs a pillow over to prop up on, tilting his head to the side as he gets comfortable. Oh, it smells so good, smells like his Tsurumi. He inhales and nuzzles into the softness. Despite his nudity, he feels so warm.
While he drifts momentarily in his contentment, this fuzzy headspace of getting what he wants, anticipation floating him away, Tsurumi makes some minute adjustments. He shifts Usami’s weight here and there, balancing him perfectly, his hands moving him like he weighs nothing. Usami resists a noise at how his arousal is trapped between his body and Tsurumi’s thighs, the fundoshi and Tsurumi’s uniform keeping him from the skin-on-skin contact he craves. Surely, Tsurumi must notice that. Does it excite him too, what they’re doing?
Do you like it?
Usami is pulled from the dreamy world his mind wanders to as Tsurumi brushes his thumb over the curve of Usami’s cheek, then his knuckles softly trace the same arc. The touch is nice; it’s not enough. He craves it; he needs more. His eyelashes flutter, his attention zeroing in on the sweet repetition. His face feels so warm, so, so warm where Tsurumi touches him. He wants it burned onto his cheek forever.
“Tokishige, my boy, I’m afraid you don’t know what you’re asking for.”
His words, his touch, are remarkably gentle in comparison to his other hand, nails dragging up the back of his thighs, over the plump curve of his ass, as he prepares to strike. It’s as if giving him one last chance at an out, both of them knowing he wouldn’t take it—couldn’t take it.
Of course, he knows what he’s asking for, of course he does. Usami resists squirming, lest that convince Tsurumi he’s right. It’s excitement, lust, desire – not anxiety – that fuels him. He’s seen what Tsurumi’s hands are capable of.
“Yes, Tokushirou-san, I do.”
The hand on his face leaves him, instead settling around his abdomen—the hold secure, as if to keep Usami from leaving. As if Usami would want to. As if Usami would ever fight back.
The anticipation makes sweat drip down the side of his face, thrumming with need. Slender fingers stroke his soft underbelly, toying with where he is most vulnerable. The false lull of security and compassion.
Hit me, hit me, hit me.
Out of his line of sight, Tsurumi raises his hand, moves it loose and easy. Warming up.
Hit me, hit me, hit me.
When he strikes, it’s swift and explosively painful. Usami jolts as the sensation blooms across his cheek, a shudder rippling up his spine. It hurt, how his hand stiffens at that last moment, his palm hitting him with perfect precision.
This is no playful swatting between lovers, nor the corporal punishment of an unruly schoolboy. Tsurumi struck him with no hesitation, no restraint. Tsurumi hits him like he means it, like he aims to hurt him in a way he won’t forget any time soon.
Usami realizes he’s pausing on purpose—testing if Usami can take it, if Usami understands what he meant by what he was asking for. Usami raises his hips, wigging his ass as if Tsurumi has forgotten his target.
Hit me, hit me, hit me.
Whip-quick, Tsurumi spanks him again, and Usami can feel the irritation at the provocation just as sharp as he can feel the handprint in his soft skin. A soft gasp follows the next two strikes – ah, ah! – and Usami can’t help but rut forward against Tsurumi’s thigh. The layers of fabric separating them both frustrate and arouse him more, all the sensations combining to bring him to a full erection.
“Tokishige. I’m going to hit you until you cry.”
A momentary pause, a moment to let his senses reset, prepare for what’s coming. Usami finds himself already breathing heavy as he settles back into his body. He hopes Tsurumi won’t stop again, will carry out the rest of the spanking without pausing, without caring for his senses. He hopes he makes good on that promise.
Hit me, hit me, hit me.
The sound of Tsurumi’s uniform shifting is the only warning he has that Tsurumi has cocked his arm back for another strike, upping the ante to his full strength for the real beating.
“Insubordinate.”
Whack!
A sharp exhale, a shudder. Yes, yes he is. He is an insubordinate boy. He never wants to listen to anyone—not Kikuta or Hanazawa or Tsukishima, no one except his dear Tsurumi. The pain is a sharp, welcome thing.
“Selfish.”
Whack! Whack!
One on each side.
A gasp, a rock of his hips. Yes, that’s true. No one else should be allowed to be near Tsurumi but him. He should be the center of attention. They were partners in crime. His cheeks tingle with the pain that spreads across them, blooming like beautiful flowers with red petals on white snow.
“Pathetic.”
Whack!
His breath comes a little shallower. He supposes that was true. But it was wonderful to be pathetic, wonderful to be just a thing to be looked down upon. The spank turned from stinging to white-hot –Searing, like a brand. He rolls his hips forward as best as he can, a low sigh escaping.
“Desperate.”
Whack! Whack! Whack!
Who wouldn’t be, in his place? How was he expected to help himself? The word alone turns the strike from pain to pleasure—what a beautiful thing to be called. He wonders if the drooling of his cock can be felt. He wonders if Tsurumi notices how he pants, drooling into his pillow.
“Attention whore.”
Whack! Whack!
A whine, a wanton, needy thing. Tsurumi’s attention is the only one that’s ever mattered to him, and he’d do anything to keep it. He was Tokushiro-san’s number one friend; he was the best. Tsurumi’s attention – that was all he had. Of course, he’s an attention whore, of course he is. He’s been that way since he was twelve, tugging on Tsurumi’s sleeve, following him like he’s a lost puppy. He’s been that way since he was twelve, stomping that kid’s throat in for trying to take Tsurumi away from him, his Tsurumi, his Tokushirou, his his his—
“Bad dog.”
The final strike stings worse than the others, more agonizing than any before it, the scolding tearing inside his brain just right. His whole body tenses as his hips stutter against Tsurumi’s thighs, a sudden climax taking even him by surprise. He comes in his fundoshi, sticky and hot and overwhelmed, a sound that’s eerily close to a whinny punching out of him.
Usami struggles to catch his breath after, his chest feeling tight and his breathing coming funny. It doesn’t help that he has his face buried in the pillow. But it’s like he’s locked up, unable to move. He’s felt like this before, but he can’t remember when, his face scrunched up ugly and pitiful. His face is hot, and also sort of wet, he realizes belatedly when he’s turned to lay very carefully on his back.
Usami is crying, just like Tsurumi promised, like Tsurumi wanted.
Tsurumi’s face is blurry, but a few blinks, gentle swipes by his eyes bring him into view. Those dark eyes are still unreadable, but his expression is softer, not as stern as before. He recognizes this expression; he made the same face that day he took Usami’s virginity, when he held him and apologized for making him so upset. He sniffles, his breath coming a little easier now, the tears on his cheeks slow.
Eventually, he realizes Tsurumi is speaking to him.
“Tokishige… Tokishige…” There’s a sweet lilt to his voice, almost cooing at him.
Usami takes in a long shuddering breath, makes his mouth curl into a smile. “Here, Tokushiro-san.”
Tsurumi offers him a little smile. Looking at him now, Usami would never be able to tell he’d ever been angry at all. That switch might alarm others, but Usami considers it a special private little treat. No one knows his Tsurumi as well as he does.
Tsurumi cups his face with the hand he’d spanked him with and Usami presses into it insistently, using his own to hold him there. It’s so warm it’s almost unbearable. He smiles with delight; that Tsurumi went to such efforts. His hand must be so sore. Or, perhaps not—Tsurumi had complimented the softness, near-effeminate curve of his ass before. Maybe it’s pillowy quality canceled out the force Tsurumi had been using.
When Usami’s breathing is steady again, eyes closed with contentment, Tsurumi chuckles quietly as his other hand comes up to pet the top of his head.
Usami peers up at him. Words are hard. “Hm?”
“It’s nothing, just thought I heard something earlier.” Tsurumi raises a brow at him, still soothing him with strokes over his closely-cropped hair. “I could have sworn you… neighed, perhaps.”
Usami’s face feels hotter, and he feels the urge to retreat sheepishly. But he doesn’t. His best quality is his unabashed honesty and lack of care for conventional displays of emotion. Still feeling soft and boneless, he just nods.
“What a silly boy,” Tsurumi teases. “A silly little pervert, isn’t that right?”
Usami nods, turning to kiss Tsurumi’s hot palm.
Don’t you like it?
Usami would be content to lay like this for hours, the discomfort down below be damned. His mind zeroes in on the gentle caress of Tsurumi’s hands on his cheek, on the top of his head, the fond set of Tsurumi’s mouth. He thinks about what tomorrow will bring, about if Tsurumi’s handprint will be noticeable on his ass, what color his skin is going to turn. The thoughts, the fuzzy feelings dulling his senses, make it so hard to keep his eyes open.
“You look tired,” Tsurumi comments. “But we must clean up.”
Usami must have been making a face because Tsurumi tuts at him.
“Come now, don’t be like that. I’ll help you clean up of course.”
That’s much more appealing. He lets go of Tsurumi’s hand and Tsurumi pats his thigh. It’s difficult standing, a pleasant ache in his backside that shoots down his thighs. Tsurumi makes good on his word, helping him get cleaned up. The idea of having to put his trousers back on makes him whine, imagining how much it’s going to rub up and chafe his already sensitive and bruised skin.
Tsurumi stops him before he can pick them up.
“Don’t worry about that just yet. You need to get some rest. I think we can spare a little more time; don’t you think?”
“Of course, sir.”
Usami buzzes with the dopamine rush. More time with his Tsurumi. All the time in the world, as far as he is concerned. It isn’t like anyone is going to notice him missing during the night—if anything it would be a blessing, given his particular night-time habits. And even if they did, well, Tsurumi is smart enough to come up with some clever excuse for it. He’s not going to worry about that.
Tsurumi gestures for the bed and Usami struggles to contain his excitement. When Tsurumi finally strips out of his uniform, setting it aside with care, Usami watches like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. Tsurumi’s body is beautiful, a well-honed weapon. He’s been on the receiving end enough time to know how powerful it is, how deadly he could be if he needed to be. He enjoys his private little show—surely no one else gets to see him this way. Naked in the bath, sure, but not like this. Not when he’s stripped of his title and his responsibilities and his worries—when he is nothing but his Tokushirou.
When he slides in beside him, he tugs the blanket up around them and nudges him into place. Usami easily conforms to his shape, adoring how he feels strong and warm. He curls into his side, resting his head on his shoulder. Tsurumi wraps an arm around him, traces idle patterns into his flank, his arm, wherever it suits him. A picturesque moment.
Usami tests his luck by pressing his hips forward against Tsurumi’s thigh.
“Please do try to behave, Tokishige-kun,” Tsurumi says with a sigh, both expecting such nonsense and slightly disappointed by it. “You said you could be good.”
“Of course, sir.” Usami nuzzles into him apologetically. “Good night, Tokushirou-san.”
If Tsurumi replies, Usami isn’t awake to hear it.
---
Not long after dawn, Usami straightens his uniform carefully as he exits Tsurumi’s private quarters and heads for the mess. He’s wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, suppressing a yawn as he comes across the unmistakable broad shape of Second Lieutenant Hanazawa coming from the direction of the infirmary.
“Good morning, Yuusaku-dono,” he greets cheerfully. “Are you feeling well, sir?”
“Yes, I was actually visiting Ani-sama,” Yuusaku replies.
“Oh, right, of course. My apologies, sir.” Usami even makes the effort to avert his gaze, a real show of guilt.
“Mistakes happen, Superior Private Usami. I imagine tensions run high and as I understand it was a mutual skirmish. I’m sure Ani-sama will forgive you,” Yuusaku assures. “Lieutenant Tsurumi told me he would speak to you…?”
The second lieutenant glances over Usami’s shoulder, toward Tsurumi’s quarters, wordlessly asking if that’s where he had been at such an early hour. Asking outright would be too impolite for such a virtuous and pure gentleman, though Usami wonders if he could even conceptualize what the alternative would be. Is fraternization even in his vocabulary?
Usami smiles, feeling sharp around the edges. “Not to worry sir, I’ve been thoroughly disciplined.”