Archive of Our Own

The glacial gleam of the Okhotsk Sea shrouds the horizon in a white veil, dense and tightly packed as gauze. The moon burnishes the drifts until they are sharp as sabers and scatters over the water like quicksilver. Usami leans against the railing of the destroyer, listens to the groan of the ice against the plow, and breathes the salt-slick air so deeply his lungs lacerate with cold. 

He knows he should return belowdecks- soon, even the moon will extinguish on the horizon, and he’ll be staring into a darkness as dense and slippery as blood- but his limbs are affixed to the main deck. His skin is alive and bristling. His heart races so loudly it almost overpowers the bone scrape of ship against sea. The berth calls to him like a siren, tantalizing and deadly, and he tenses every muscle to remain put. 

He has plenty to be fractious about. The Ainu girl escaped over the ice, and Tsurumi declined Usami’s offer to chase after them- and he could have been so useful, so efficient, sniper be damned- but what needles him most deeply is the simple agony of sharing . Perhaps it is because Usami had the peerless pleasure of Tsurumi’s presence, nearly undivided, in Noboribetsu; even when Rear Admiral Koito arrived and Usami had to endure their unfortunate fraternization, he was able to stomach it. Certainly, being able to spy on Tsurumi in the hot springs had been a salve to the wound- even if it was soiled, unfortunately routinely, by that stout, unworthy old man- and the times Usami had joined him were so blissful they threaten a hot flush to his face and his groin even now. 

And certainly, he’d known that time was limited- and clung to it all the more ferociously because of it, was all the more reluctant to let it go- but it’s never enough. He devours those few, precious moments and is never satisfied. And what else is he supposed to feel, trapped on this ship, forced to endure this charade, forced to share, and share, and share, and–

For what do these men know of Tsurumi? What do they truly know, beyond those palatable pieces he partitions like rations, just enough to sustain their delusions of significance? The idiots– they know nothing of Tokushirou . Not like Usami. Usami knows. And he knows, too, that Tsurumi’s position demands this, but he can’t stand watching it, can’t stand it— it burrows into him until his skin is one squirming sheet and he can just barely contain it. Serving in the seventh division required building a callous over the blister of sharing, but it's chafed and close to bursting all over again, and it's all he can do to keep it from erupting. 

He hates watching Tsurumi with those men, laughing and holding liquor he pretends to drink, hates watching him drape himself over Koito Heiji, hates watching his concern toward Otonoshin, hates seeing any of their pleasure beside Tsurumi. He hates how Tsurumi has to fragment himself, how there’s so little left over for Usami, how he’s received barely more than a glance or a gesture or the merest of acknowledgements since they’ve left; it digs into him until his chest is tight and hot with it. It makes him only the more ravenous, only the more indignant, only the more riled up. 

Can’t Tsurumi see how well he’s behaving? Can’t he see it? 

And the destroyer is the worst part of all, because there’s no vent for his frustrations otherwise, no distraction or escape from the miasma of it all; he’s stuck on a short leash, and he paces around the radius and pulls and pulls until the collar chafes raw and red. He lies awake each night in the berths, suffocated by the soft, sleep-heavy breathing of his comrades, and pictures how deliciously simple it would be to smother each of them. How sweet, how gratifying would it feel? Like the euphoric, demulcent surge he’d felt when he’d lost his virginity, his envy excised with one swift and brutal stomp. It nearly tastes the same now, though he’s swaddled by the dark instead of the setting sun; it’s almost more indulgent, more permissive this way. How simple it would be to let loose. To rip and shred until only their blood remained in his teeth– until Tsurumi would have no choice but to acknowledge him again. 

But he knows they’re too important to destroy, and besides, there aren’t enough horses to blame this time. And Tsurumi’s displeasure, however tempting it might be, would be immense if each of his pieces were cleared off the board. Even if the most important one remained in their wake. 

He spends as little time as possible in the berths; less of a chance to be enticed by soft and exposed flesh.

And so he stands, the winter wind scouring his skin, his tongue tasting faintly of iron, and watches the ice drift past in the ship’s wake. The sight of it reminds him of the one good thing the Karafuto Advance Party brought back; Usami siphoned significant satisfaction from interrogating Tsukishima on the fate of Ogata. Usami should have been the one to see it, should have been the one to carve out his eye, to suck out the poison, if only to prolong Ogata’s suffering. How must he have looked, bloody and ruined, staining the pristine snow? The image sends a shiver of pleasure down Usami’s spine each time it possesses him. To die on drifting ice, insignificant and irretrievable; it suits him. And even if he somehow survives, it was his eye- his eye - and Usami almost can’t contain his glee. What use was a wildcat defanged? Why would Tsurumi ever trifle with him again?

It’s spoiled, somewhat, by the knowledge of what lies beyond the ice. Soon, the shore of Hokkaido will darken the horizon like a bruise, and whatever time he has with Tsurumi will likely become even more sparse. His skin prickles, prickles. The meat of his cheek falls prey to his teeth.

The susurrus of the ship and sea are so complete that Usami doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching until the figure is behind him. He whirls around animal-quick and freezes just as abruptly when it isn’t one of his peers, but Tsurumi who stands behind him, and there’s a sudden rush of heat through him that jumps to warm his cheeks. The ice of the railing bites through his uniform. The lieutenant’s eyes are black in the night, lightless beneath the ivory gleam of his headplate, and Usami is a specimen beneath them, pinned and prepared to be mounted. His breath steams the air.

Tsurumi betrays nothing but faint surprise. “Superior Private Usami.”

Usami hurries to compose himself past the daze that thickens his mind. He lowers his head, straightens his spine. “First Lieutenant Tsurumi.”

“Shouldn’t you be asleep? You need your rest.” 

Tsurumi’s gaze flickers to Usami’s thigh where the gunshot wound still slumbers, and Usami hears the implication in his words- I need you to be at your best- and he shifts his weight onto it, just to feel its dull ache ricochet through his muscle. “So do you, sir.”

Tsurumi’s white hand braces the railing. His eyes, dark and inscrutable, scan the ice. Usami’s own never leave him. “I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been thinking.”

And the intimacy of this small admission of vulnerability is as rich as a caress. But of course; who else on this ship could Tsurumi confide in? Who else could understand his troubles like Usami? Usami sidles incrementally closer until their shoulders are nearly brushing. He fancies he can feel the heat pulse off of Tsurumi, though it’s unlikely anything would escape their uniforms. He leans in so that his face hovers just close enough to catch the edge of his scent and his mind and body alike are suffused with the fullness of it- rich and full, burning in his throat like perfumed smoke. “What about, sir?”

“Sugimoto Saichi,” he says, distantly. “And his little companion.”

Frustration nettles Usami anew at the reminder of his thwarted hunt. How he wishes he could have dragged her back here and deposited her at Tsurumi’s feet, could have basked in his heady praise, especially in front of the others; oh, the look on Koito’s face then! It would be as gratifying as digging his fingers into his wound and twisting and spreading until the blood blooms across his skin like a rose, something Usami pictures in vivid clarity each time Tsurumi speaks to the insufferable brat. And Tsurumi has been paying such special attention to him since the skirmish in Karafuto that Usami nails are digging into his fist at the mere thought of it. So what if he had gotten stabbed; he’s alive, isn’t he? And besides, he has his wretched father here to fawn over him, anyway—

“We’ll have to fan out when we reach Wakkanai. It will be difficult to locate them.” Tsurumi’s fingertips tap against the metal. “Or would they have gone back into Karafuto? It would certainly be closer, and without a ship to ferry them…”

And Usami almost thinks to suggest the obituary again, or simply killing Asirpa’s family in earnest- Tsurumi had been considering it before Kikuta interfered, the presumptuous bastard!- but he remains silent, chewing on his simmering spite, and follows Tsurumi’s gaze to the ice again. 

“It’s such a shame,” Tsurumi echoes, and there’s something absent and hollow about his words. “We have so much to discuss.”

Tsurumi’s hand brushes over his breast pocket, the eternal mausoleum of those detestable finger bones, and Usami’s throat constricts like a hand is throttling him. Even now- even in this moment, the first of its kind in days- Tsurumi is stolen from him. There’s a choked sound that worms out of him as he grips the railing tightly. At least Wilk is dead. At least, once they find the girl and track down the gold, all of this will be behind them, and he can finally have Tsurumi all to himself-

“Is there something wrong, Superior Private?”

Usami doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he merely shakes his head in one sharp jerk. His chest is molten. It will burst out of him if he lets it, thick and ugly and venomous, and so he stares at his trembling knuckles instead. He knows this bloodthirst well; it's his oldest and most sacred friend. Only, he’s never had to deny it.

“Tokishige.”

Those four syllables resonate through him, sharp and clean in the click of his teeth. Usami looks up, coaxed into awareness by the softness of Tsurumi's voice, and he finds the same tenderness on his face. And this– Tsurumi’s special regard, his fondness, his endless patience for Usami, for his number one– overwhelms him until it all spills out of Usami like viscera. 

“I don’t like it, sir. I don’t like watching you with them, I don’t like seeing how they act around you, I don’t like the way they look at you, I don’t like how they think they’re special, like they’re more than what they are, like they matter more than– than—” Usami’s breath comes hard and fast. His knuckles are white on the metal. When Tsurumi does not respond, his jaw clenches. He’s threatened by the enormity of his envy, bowed by it until he’s nearly folded over the railing; his hands beg to release it. “I hate it, sir.” 

And Usami wants Tsurumi to console him, like that day in the dojo all those years before; to press Usami to his chest and reassure him until every roiling mass inside him is expunged and he’s filled with nothing but him once more. He needs it; he isn’t sure what he’ll do otherwise. He thinks of Koito, weak and infirm and so very pampered by Tsurumi, thinks of how simple it would be to overpower him now, disabled and unsuspecting. His fingertips twitch. 

But there is no embrace, no absolution. Tsurumi merely inclines his head, black eyes inscrutable. “I spoiled you in Noboribetsu, didn’t I?” 

And Usami knows it to be a reprimand, softly spoken though it may be, and he merely hangs his head. His skin is hot, hot, and he feels a vein throbbing in his temple. Noboribetsu had been wonderful. Can’t it always be that way? Why does Usami have to share with those cheap mongrels at all? And soon they would be on land once more, and Usami would likely be sent away on another mission, and the mere idea of separation cleaves through him. It would be so simple, to slink belowdecks and do away with the competition, to make it so that Tsurumi has no choice but to rely on him alone–

And then Tsurumi’s hand is on his neck. Usami’s breath catches, his limbs stiffening, ratcheting up to meet that hallowed touch. Tsurumi’s thumb rolls over the strip of skin just above his uniform collar. Slow, methodical circles. Each sear through him. He looks up slowly to find Tsurumi watching him, something implacable smoothing his features, and Usami almost wants to fall against him from the relief of it, from how desperately he’s ravened for it. A small sound escapes the back of his throat.

“You’ve restrained yourself well.” Tsurumi’s voice is warm, cosseting, rich enough that Usami could drown in it. At once the blaze inside of him is extinguished. Coupled with his gaze, Usami feels like he’s swimming in his own head; the winter night is suddenly sweltering. “It has been difficult, hasn’t it?”

Usami doesn’t trust himself to speak for an entirely different reason now. He merely nods, repetitively, trying to tip sideways to press into Tsurumi’s touch. It’s so slight that it’s maddening. Tsurumi’s eyes, shadowed by his lashes, are warm. 

“My Tokishige,” Tsurumi murmurs, and Usami is so faint he has to lean against the banister. My. My. My. Usami moves closer and closer, and Tsurumi doesn’t withdraw, so Usami lets his head fall against his shoulder. Tsurumi’s fingers slip to the nape of his neck instead. His fingers are strikingly hot against the cold. Usami’s skin jumps to attention beneath it. His entire being leans into the touch.

And then Tsurumi’s voice comes from above him, wonderfully intimate. “Can you endure it for a little longer?” 

Usami doesn’t answer. He’s lost in the simple, penetrating euphoria of this, until the solidity of Tsurumi’s shoulder and the gentle sweep of his fingertips is all that exists. Maybe, if he says nothing, if he presses insistently enough, Tsurumi will remain, and Usami can stay right where he’s supposed to be, and everything will be right again. But then Tsurumi steps back, and the loss of his warmth and touch is as potent as a wound. Usami nearly stumbles forward after it. He blinks, looking up to find Tsurumi looking back- awaiting his response- and the only thing Usami can do is nod again. 

And Tsurumi’s fingers return, very briefly, to trace the line of his jaw. “Good boy.”

Those two words shoot so powerfully through him that he sways slightly, blood speeding so rapidly south he feels as if he’s spent too long in a hot spring, dazed and flushed. Tsurumi’s lips quirk just the slightest bit upwards as he bids Usami goodnight, and Usami just manages a response, mind rendered to a soft and ineffectual pulp. He watches Tsurumi retreat belowdecks until the shadows swallow him entirely. He stares at the door even after. Every part of him feels light and unsteady. Tsurumi’s touch still burns his skin.

It’s a marvel he makes it back to the berths before his hands are clawing past his pants. He doesn’t bother to muffle his voice. 

*

Hokkaido’s shores are smothering the lavender horizon when Tsurumi summons Usami to his quarters. Tsukishima is the one who tells him, as gruff and uninteresting as ever, finding Usami on the verge of tormenting a languishing Lieutenant Koito. Usami is shooting off toward Tsurumi’s quarters in an instant. He wonders, very briefly, what Tsukishima was doing with Tsurumi before, but his curiosity is extinguished just as quickly. There were plenty of possible discussions between superior and subordinate about dull and uninteresting missions, perfectly suited for Tsukishima’s prosaic skillset, and Tsukishima has proven he would never be more than just that. Like a pair of old woolen socks; dependable, familiar, and not much else.

But Usami…

The door is just one more obstacle between him and Tsurumi, but he still slows before it and knocks, ever-deferential. He even waits to hear Tsurumi’s muffled permission before he opens it, a little too hard. There’s a staggering rush of relief when he finds the room empty but for Tsurumi, braced by the dying light as he stands by the window. The twilight casts ink-black pools across him, sketching out the room, catching on the sparse furnishings; bed, desk, chair. The sun sets quickly this far north, Usami knows. It won’t be long before the rest of the ship slips into sleep. And he will be here, in Tsurumi’s quarters, alone. 

Tsurumi turns to Usami and smiles in silent greeting. One look- one smile- and Usami is weak in the knees. He shuts the door much more gingerly than when he opened it, and when Tsurumi gestures for him to lock it, his hands tremble in their eagerness. There isn’t another command after that- Tsurumi is facing the window once more when Usami turns around- and so Usami waits on the threshold, pulse thrumming. And he waits, and waits, until the light fades, until the sounds of habitation cease on the other decks, until his injured leg is sore and sweat has begun to creep up his collar. He watches the last of the light caress the beautiful cut of Tsurumi’s torso, indulging the line of his shoulders, the edges of his hair, and then even that is gone. Only the subtle sheen of the snow remains. Usami’s sharp attention begins to grow stale. It takes everything in him to be silent and still.

Usami can just see the shapes of Wakkanai through the window. The knowledge that they will be landing there and split into search parties tomorrow is enough to make his stomach clench, but he refuses to allow it any deeper purchase. Tsurumi is paying attention to him at last, and Usami is about to be rewarded for his patience, and the long northern night is deep and endless before them.

Or is he? Usami has surely been standing in the doorway for at least half an hour. Tsurumi stretches out each minute, until each breath Usami takes feels measured and agonizing, a dog with his treat held just out of reach. Of course, he knows it’s another test, and Usami already waited days; what’s another hour? But as the seconds meander, the reward becomes hazier and more distant, the consequence looming in utter seduction. Usami’s pulse thuds, thuds. His limbs ache.

He wants to bound over to Tsurumi, to press his face against his clasped hands, to kneel at his polished boots, to accept his punishment with an upturned and insolent jaw. He nearly speaks out of turn, just to provoke Tsurumi- how delicious would his disapproval be! Perhaps the disappointment of spoiling the game just before it was up would be enough that Tsurumi would be violent with his consequences; perhaps Usami would get struck, or throttled, or… Usami’s pants are suddenly tight. His lips part, breath quickening. Surely, Tsurumi can sense his perversity, pervading the room like smoke, ruining his every intention? Surely, he’s waiting for the moment his ire builds to a fever-pitch so that every ounce of it can be unleashed on Usami at once? 

A bed. A chair. A desk. Usami’s eyes dart between each of them, fingertips twitching. Any one of them is rife with possibility, though the desk and bed are particularly enticing; to be pinned against Tsurumi’s so very important paperwork, for Tsurumi to ruin it all in the heat of the moment, all because of Usami… Usami almost sags against the doorway, his palms suddenly slick with sweat, and he flexes every muscle to remain standing.

But then there is his bed, where surely only Usami could be allowed purchase. Surely. There’s a slight depression in the crisp duvet; perhaps where Tsurumi may have sat earlier? Usami wants to lay his hands against it. He wants to bury his face in it. The idea of being swaddled in those sheets, surrounded by the thick of Tsurumi’s scent, is overpowering enough that a heady rush of heat shoots through him until his cock throbs. The idea of Tsurumi himself pinning him there, of Usami not merely chasing the lingering ghost of him, but trapped as a prey animal beneath the full brunt of his physical force…

Surely, those other men Tsurumi has allowed here- that horrible Koito Heiji, that bland Tsukishima, that pompous Otonoshin, that irritating Kikuta- surely none of them could ever be permitted the same privilege. Usami has spied on Tsurumi enough times to know- has seethed over the times he was wrong, though that carriage ride was years ago, and Ogata’s frozen corpse is certainly drifting along Sakhalin now- but even Usami cannot be by Tsurumi’s side always. Could they have…?

It is with resolute certainty that Usami quashes his ignoble strain of doubt. For if Usami has never been awarded that peerless prize, how could an inferior man ever be? And at once he knows exactly what he will ask for if he’s given the chance. He can picture it so vividly that his mouth floods and he’s uncomfortably hard. It takes every ounce of effort to keep his hands at his sides. But Tsurumi called him here for a reason, and Usami has been so patient. Tsurumi sees that, Usami is sure. He’s sure.

Usami snaps to attention at the first rustle of Tsurumi’s uniform, forcing his lax and stiff muscles back into awareness, and he feels each minute motion as if it were his own body turning. His blood roars in his ears. 

Tsurumi’s face slips into the shadows. Only his eyes and teeth gleam in the dark.

“Well done, Superior Private Usami.”

It takes him a moment to find his voice. Even then, it’s weak and wavering. “Sir?”

“Seventy-three minutes,” Tsurumi says. “And I was certain you’d make a scene at five.”

Usami realizes Tsurumi is praising him with a pleased, dizzying jolt. He wants to run over to him so badly it aches. He very nearly does. But until Tsurumi sanctions it he will remain, even as his feet grow numb and cold from the waiting, even as the seam of his pants feels ready to tear. 

The edge of Tsurumi’s mustache quirks up, just visible in the semidarkness. “Do you know why you’re here?” 

“No, sir.”

“Do you have an idea, Tokishige?”

Those syllables, slipping from Tsurumi’s lips, couched in his lovely voice, wrap around Usami until his chest constricts and his brain buoys. It takes a moment for him to part that pleased, permeating daze and focus on the content of his potent speech. Usami has an idea- a hope- but he wouldn’t dare to voice as much on the precipice of receiving it. “I don’t know, sir.” 

“No need for formalities when we’re alone.”

A shiver works through Usami. His head spins, spins, until he’s so lightheaded the edges of his vision prickle. Could it be that Tsurumi finds their distance just as difficult, just as grueling, just as unbearable? Usami trips over the syllables, hallowed and unfamiliar as they are on his tongue. “Tokushirou, sir?”

Tsurumi’s teeth glow as his lips peel back. “I have always believed in rewarding good behavior.”

And, oh – Usami really will faint this time. Despite his efforts to remain at attention, he sways slightly. But Tsurumi merely watches him, and even in the dark, Usami recognizes the fondness on his face. He can hardly utter the words, he’s so breathless. “Have I endured, sir?”

Tsurumi extends his hand.

Usami is so eager he nearly trips. He just manages to slow as he reaches Tsurumi so that he does not barrel into them both, but it’s in an inelegant tangle of limbs, and his face crashes into Tsurumi’s hand anyway. Usami nearly cries out from the contact. He makes a small, choked sound nonetheless. Tsurumi attempts to anchor himself on Usami’s cheek, but Usami refuses to still until Tsurumi clicks his teeth. His palm slides, fingertips settling beneath Usami’s ear. 

“There we are,” he murmurs, so low that Usami’s thighs tense. “Well done, Tokishige.”

Usami merely whimpers; he’s too overwhelmed to make another sound. Tsurumi gazes down at him with infinite softness. His thumb passes over Usami’s rightmost tattoo, again and again, and Tsurumi’s shoulders shake with his head in a silent, soft laugh. It reverberates through Usami, pooling low in his abdomen. Usami maneuvers so that he can press a kiss to his palm, and, when Tsurumi does not draw back, he does it again, open-mouthed. The salt of his skin is ripe against Usami’s tongue and shockingly cold from where it rested along the windowsill. Usami works higher, pushing back the lip of Tsurumi’s sleeve, and Tsurumi grips his jaw so that his last two fingers dig into the soft flesh of Usami’s throat. Usami’s breath shudders in.

“What will you ask for, I wonder?” Tsurumi leans so close that Usami can feel the words whisper over his own lips. “You’ve been so well-behaved.”

And his grip is so delightfully tight, painful where his thumb clenches his jaw, wonderfully constricting where those two fingers bear down, and Usami’s blood can’t decide where it should settle. Tsurumi is halfway there– if the rest of his hand just slides down and squeezes and squeezes– and Usami whimpers again, knees trembling. If Tsurumi releases him, he’ll crumple to the floor.

“Tokishige,” Tsurumi admonishes, even as his knee presses against Usami’s groin. “Where has your mind gone now?”

Usami’s hands clamp around Tsurumi’s wrist, but not in alarm; he pushes him closer, closer, urging him to constrict, to crush him… And Tsurumi indulges him with a vicious smile, hand molding around Usami’s throat like it was made to fit. Usami gasps- his cock strains- and Tsurumi squeezes . His knee presses in, and Usami thoughtlessly bucks against it, head falling back. Even dulled by every layer between them, the contact shoots through him so powerfully he nearly comes then. His skin prickles from the lack of oxygen, vision vague and swimming, but even as his flesh turns cold he keeps his gaze pinned on Tsurumi. 

Tsurumi’s voice is endlessly pleasant, as if he’s presenting Usami with a fine watch or pen. “Is this your reward, then?”

Usami’s grip is beginning to slacken. His vision closes in around them. How lovely would it be, to die like this? Shamelessly grinding against Tsurumi’s thigh, Tsurumi’s hand around his neck, watching him like nothing else in the world exists? Another moment and he’ll come- or lose consciousness- and he almost doubles down in his efforts, nearly urges Tsurumi closer. He has just enough reason remaining to shake his head. “No, sir-“

“No?”

Tsurumi’s hand tightens- Usami’s hips stutter, thighs trembling- and he’s nearly unable to force out the words. “Your bed, sir.”

“My bed?”

Tsurumi loosens his grip, though his hand remains, and air rushes into Usami’s lungs once more. He coughs despite his attempt to suppress it. The returning oxygen paints the room in deeper shades until he’s able to perceive it all again, particularly the corner Tsurumi has turned to, surprise etched into his face. Usami is twice as hot now, his blood reenergized- twice as bold, even as his voice rasps from its deprivation. “Please, sir. I’ve been good, haven’t I?”

Tsurumi lets him dangle there- propped up by a hand that will almost certainly leave bruises, pinned by a merciless knee- and Usami knows he’s asking too much, which is precisely why he’s asked for it. This is the ultimate intimacy; this is what none of the others can ever obtain. And Tsurumi has emboldened him on purpose, hasn't he, with his intimate familiarity? Reminding him of the unique privilege of being number one– Tsurumi’s most special companion.

And then Tsurumi turns back to him, gaze lidded and low. Something claws at Usami’s chest at the sight, gouging at his throat; his entire body is flushed and slick. An eternity passes. Usami’s heart pounds. Tsurumi must feel it against his fingertips. Is his own heart racing, too? Is he just as aroused? Usami has waited so long- surely, for all his restraint, he deserves this one, lofty reward-

“So you have,” Tsurumi says at last, and he hauls him upright by the collar.

Usami is so flushed with anticipation his limbs won’t obey him. When Tsurumi sits on the edge of the bed, knees spread, and beckons Usami to join him, Usami can barely jostle his body into obedience. He falls so clumsily onto Tsurumi that he has to readjust Usami, tucking his knees against his waist, pushing his hips in, and then Usami shudders again, a single breath chasing a shiver through his muscles. He’s certain now that Tsurumi is hard, too. 

“Well, then.” The words are whispered, shaped by a curl in Tsurumi’s lips. His hands brace Usami’s thighs. His thumb skims, pressing where Tsurumi knows Usami’s scarring wound lies. “What now?”

Usami’s breath is coming quickly, lips parted. He’s flooded by choice, and in the midst of it all he’s immobilized by indecision; how far can he push? He knows what he wants, but his hands remain affixed to Tsurumi’s shoulders. Tsurumi watches- his lips part as if to speak- and before the sound escapes Usami is diving forward, winding around Tsurumi’s torso, burying his face into the crux of neck and shoulder. And here, pressed against Tsurumi’s collar, Tsurumi’s smell and the faint underscore of his sweat is so strong Usami is lightheaded. And Usami knows at once he wants nothing between them, not even enough space to breathe, just their skin pressed so flush together Usami can no longer tell where Tsurumi ends and he begins. Usami is so overcome with the notion his throat burns. Like this, so utterly enveloped by his embrace, it’s almost like he and Tsurumi are one flesh, like Usami is truly an extension of him. 

And that’s all Usami has ever wanted. Only to surrender himself, only to serve him, only to press so closely they would bleed into each other until even their marrows mixed. Surely he can see that, can’t he? The simple fact that Usami is straddling him in his bed attests, but Usami can’t help himself; his doubt from earlier still squirms inside him like a maggot. Once it burrows deep, it eats and eats until even Tsurumi’s embrace starts to taste sour. Usami clings closer to Tsurumi, and clings, and clings, until Tsurumi makes a noise of discomfort, tugging back slightly on Usami’s collar. “Tokishige.”

“Hyakunosuke is dead.”

“Sergeant Tsukishima did not include that in his report,” Tsurumi says, mildly. He pulls at Usami’s shirt again, firmer this time.

“He’s dead. ” Or at the very least incapacitated, but Usami won’t even entertain the idea. “And Koito is such a coddled brat, and Tsukishima is so plain, and Kikuta is-”

“Usami.”

The loss of familiarity shoots through him with cold clarity, but he can’t stop, breathing hard against Tsurumi’s shoulder. Even his nails are digging into his back now.

“They don’t know what they are. They don’t know who you are. But I do.” Usami pulls back, hovering just before Tsurumi, and his hands press so hard on the sides of Tsurumi’s face Usami can feel his teeth imprint against them. “ I do, Tokushirou.”

And that’s the simple, devastating truth of it: the utter purity of his love. That whatever assets the others may be, they are distracted and deluded- that Usami has only ever wanted Tsurumi, ever since he was twelve years old and Tsurumi’s approval was tantamount to life itself. It had been like that during the war, too, when Usami was surrounded by weak men seduced by lofty ideals of honor and courage and whatever smarmy bullshit they’d swallowed wholesale. Usami has never cared about any of that. He’s only ever existed to be Tsurumi’s tool, and he delights in his utility in Tsurumi’s hand. He’ll deliver himself to hell if Tsurumi asks. All he's ever wanted in return is his love, and he covets it with a clarity unfettered by delusion, so consuming and so complete it has shaped him for nearly his entire life.

The enormity of it has engulfed him since he first felt it, and it engulfs him now, subjugating and divine. Surely, no one has ever loved like this; surely, no words could ever hope to articulate it. But Tsurumi has always understood. Tsurumi, whose ink-black eyes are inscrutable, who feels so unbearably unreachable even when Usami is twined around him. There’s a moment where Usami merely presses, presses, until he can feel his pulse in his palms. 

And then Tsurumi’s features melt, and his thumb rises to stroke along Usami’s cheek, and Usami nearly weeps with it. Tsurumi’s voice saturates with affection. “Of course I know that, Tokishige.” 

An insensate sound escapes Usami. Of course– of course– and his face contorts as he burrows against Tsurumi’s neck again, hands scrabbling with the buttons of Tsurumi’s jacket as his lips find the skin beneath his jaw. Tsurumi does not assist him- merely grips his waist very tightly- and Usami all but rips it off, trembling fingers jumping over his undershirt next. There’s the same fond amusement coloring Tsurumi’s features when Usami draws back to pry off his, and he’s throwing himself against Tsurumi before his undershirt is even entirely removed, and his breath ratchets in at the sensation of their bare skin pressed together. Tsurumi’s hands climb up his naked waist. 

“Impatient,” he murmurs, crisp and wet as his lips press beneath Usami’s ear, and the heat of it pours into him, rich with fondness. Usami mouths at his clavicle, runs his palms along the ridges of his ribs, senseless beneath the tide of his devotion. A sigh works through Tsurumi as he presses into the shear of his scalp and Usami is maddened, maddened by it. How far can he push? He drags his teeth along his throat- earning only a subdued hum, buzzing intoxicatingly against his lips- and then sinks down, right where shoulder meets neck. 

Tsurumi’s hand shoots up, enclosing around hair Usami does not possess, and then grips tightly at the back of his neck, like scruffing a dog. He pulls back, firm. “You’ll behave yourself now, won’t you?” 

There’s a moment of resistance before Usami regrettably relents. A faint red ring rims where his teeth dug in, but nothing that won’t fade by the morning. If only he could mark him so that everyone could see him and know what transpired… but none of that really matters, because Usami will know. They never needed to prove their love, after all; this will be just one more precious secret shared between them, as loving as a heel against a windpipe. And then Usami feels Tsurumi’s teeth edge his jugular, nipping along his trachea, and Usami gasps and arches into it, exposing his throat. They scrape against the peak of his chest. His blunt fingertips travel over every divot in Usami’s spine. His cock aches anew.

There’s a twist to Tsurumi’s lips when he speaks- a jest in the syllables. Usami can feel it against his skin. “Are you satisfied, Tokishige?”

“No, sir-”

And Usami bucks against Tsurumi, breath hitching. Tsurumi tuts, parting his thighs further and pressing so very close to where his erection strains that for a moment Usami doesn’t breathe at all. Tsurumi traces maddeningly light lines over his inner thigh. 

“You shouldn’t be aggravating this.”

“I don’t care, sir.” To prove his point, Usami thrusts against him again, wrapping his arms around Tsurumi’s shoulders. Let it be aggravated– let it split open anew, so that Usami is reminded of this each time he tends to it.

“You certainly should.” 

But Tsurumi’s voice is slightly breathier this time, and his hands have slipped back to his hips, pulling him closer. It’s all the permission Usami needs to start grinding against him in earnest until his mouth falls open and he’s panting slightly, every part of him feverish. His eyes never leave Tsurumi’s. A droplet of fluid leaks from beneath his headplate, and Usami’s fingertips trace the edges of Tsurumi’s face, nudging just under the headplate.

“Can I see it, sir? Please-” And Usami’s hands are moving toward the straps before Tsurumi has even given permission. But Tsurumi’s lips simply quirk upward again, and he lowers his head, and Usami undoes the buckles and removes the headplate with trembling, reverent fingers. There’s a slight resistance for a moment as the suction is broken, and then the porcelain pries free with a soft, wet sound. Usami sets it gently aside. His breath stutters high and short in his chest. It’s as magnificent as the first time he saw it- the bright and gnarled twist of flesh spanning his forehead, the raw gleam as it gives way to the diaphanous depression in the center, still bright and oozing slightly, like a pool of nacre- and it resonates through him with an erotic, terrible beauty. 

He runs his fingers along Tsurumi’s cheekbones, where the smooth skin begins to unfurl, skims his lips over the abraded texture of his forehead. There’s a line of fluid just beginning to creep down his ruined brow, and Usami chases it to its source, first with his lips and then with his tongue. Tsurumi’s hands jump as he makes contact. His breath hitches, his fingertips digging deeply into Usami’s waist. It’s as warm and salty as the southern sea. Usami trembles, his hips grinding tight little circles against Tsurumi’s. He can feel Tsurumi’s breath, hot and humid against his chest, coming faster as Usami presses in again. 

But even this is not enough, and with a wrung-out, impatient sound Usami wrenches back, working at the clasp of his pants and struggling out of his fudonshi. There’s only a brief moment of relief when he springs free before he’s upon Tsurumi, shaking fingers fighting with his waistband, and he hears a sharp exhale from above him. 

“Greedy boy,” Tsurumi murmurs, but his own, steady hands reach down to assist him. And then there’s nothing between them at all and Usami is struck silent, captivated by the magnificence of Tsurumi’s splendor unveiled. His undisciplined gaze drops to Tsurumi’s cock and he’s devoured by a vindicated rush when he finds it just as slick and hard as his own. He inches forward once more, caught in a venerational hush, and even his limbs folding around Tsurumi again are deferential. 

One hand drops between them. He wets his lips and finds a lingering trace of Tsurumi there; his cock twitches. His eyes dart from Tsurumi’s face to where their thighs press together. “Sir- can I-”

And Tsurumi reaches forward and grasps them both in his fist. Usami cries out, hips spasming. To be touching him like this– Usami could never earn such an exquisite honor in his entire lifetime. He’s so aware of each place they press against each other that he’s faint, his heart hammering, every ounce of him pouring into that sacred touch. It’s too much- too much-

Tsurumi exhales sharply again. His teeth flash with his smile. “Quick as always, Tokishige?”

Usami shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut, and tenses very valiantly, resisting the urge building at the base of his cock. Tsurumi’s tongue drags along his neck before his teeth do and Usami nearly succumbs when they pinch. He’s leaking so much precum that Tsurumi’s palm is already slippery as he jointly strokes them, thumb teasing Usami, and Usami is consumed by a savage shudder. Tsurumi’s other arm wraps around him, grounding him. Usami barely holds on. He feels like he’s unraveling, like Tsurumi has reached inside of him and is unspooling him, thread by thread.

“Are you satisfied now?” There’s a new huskiness to his voice, humid against Usami’s ear and shooting directly to his cock, and Usami feels his orgasm threaten him anew. He peels open his eyes to find Tsurumi a hairsbreadth away, so close Usami can taste the smoke of him, and it fills him with such a thick, heavy heat he can scarcely breathe past it. He nods, swallowing hard, and places two hands on Tsurumi’s chest.

“If I can, sir-”

And Usami presses gently until Tsurumi leans back, and he doesn’t stop until he’s flat against the mattress, Usami wedged between his thighs. Tsurumi beholds him with faint interest, allowing himself to be laid prone, both hands falling to the sheets. His hair splays across it like crow feathers spanning snow, a few stray strands sticking to his damp forehead. His entire body is on display like this. A thrill feathers Usami. Surely- surely no one else has ever been gifted with this view. Usami has never seen something more beautiful. 

“Well, now. You’ve gotten shameless, haven’t you?” Tsurumi says, with a tilt of his head that almost seems practiced, it’s so perfect. His palm alights on the sharp edge of Usami’s hip, thumb rolling over the tender of the bone. Usami trembles. There’s something so impenetrable about him even now that a cold shiver works down his spine. He feels like he’s being dissected beneath it- like he’s being flayed alive.

“Yes, sir.” How lucky Usami is, to be privy to it, to know every part of him. He wants it all so badly, every terrible and wonderful thing, all lovely from his Tokushirou. He runs awestruck hands along the undersides of Tsurumi’s thighs, the simple pleasure of being able to do so buzzing through him until he’s dizzy. “Only for you, sir.”

Tsurumi hums. “Ever since the start. All the way back in Niigata. Isn’t that right?”

Usami nods fervently, lips parting, a bright, hot flash searing through him. For Tsurumi to remember that day! Could it be that it holds the same sanctity for him? But of course it would; they’re partners in crime, after all. That evening is the thread that connects them, sacred and sweet, and Usami is so swept up in it his throat aches. 

Tsurumi’s leg hooks around his hip then, drawing him in. His long lashes shadow his black eyes. “That’s quite a long time to wait, isn’t it, Tokishige? Why wait any longer?”

Usami lurches forward as if Tsurumi has yanked him. Hastily, at first, and then carefully, until he has climbed atop him altogether and there isn’t a place their bodies aren’t touching. The utter fulfillment of the sensation floods him with a shaky gasp. He and Tsurumi are close enough in height that Usami could lean over him, eye-level, but Usami presses his lips against Tsurumi’s neck instead, just above the fading mark. And then he thrusts experimentally- is rewarded with a shuddering breath from above him, Tsurumi’s hands rising to brace his back- and loses all remaining vestiges of restraint, grinding against him with an ardent violence. 

Tsurumi’s arms enfold him again, hands gripping the sides of his ribs tightly, and Usami’s voice is caught in tiny sounds in the back of his throat, falling from him with each buck of his hips. He can feel everything like this. Every inch of his body, every tense of his muscle, every part of Tsurumi’s cock as Usami’s slides against his. They’re so very close that the hollow cavity within Usami feels close to bursting in the way only Tsurumi can fill, and he’s so content and besotted that his vision blurs. Usami kisses his throat, his chest, his shoulder, the line of his jaw. His palms travel desperately over whatever his body cannot press against. One of Tsurumi’s hands slides up to scratch at his shorn scalp, massaging into the skin, fingertips tensing each time his chest does. Usami feels the whisper of Tsurumi’s breath on his shoulder before he bites. He whines, pushing needily into it, and Tsurumi rewards him again, so hard that Usami is certain the skin will break. He wants it to, needs it to, to bleed out and into Tsurumi, to give everything to him, everything… 

And then Tsurumi falls back, and Usami manages to look upward at him, flushed and dimly glimmering with perspiration in the wan light. The scar is leaking freely now, dampening his raven hair, streaking over his closed eyes. Usami is so struck by the vision he shudders; he reaches up, runs one hand through Tsurumi’s ruined hairline, tangles it into a fist at the crown of his scalp. “Is it good, sir?”

Tsurumi’s eyes drift open, just enough for Usami to see the gleam of his black irises. He’s panting softly above him, yet when he speaks he’s as composed as if they were still a room apart. “Your performance is as enthusiastic as always, Tokishige.”

Tsurumi’s fingers find the back of Usami’s ear. Usami thrusts particularly hard and Tsurumi’s head lolls, a low, halted moan escaping him. It resonates through him, pooling low, and he moves the same way again and again until Tsurumi’s voice is slipping from him unbidden. Oh– Usami has never heard a lovelier sound. He kisses Tsurumi’s neck again, just to feel it vibrate against his lips, and wraps his arms around Tsurumi’s waist so he can bear down with greater pressure, his hips lost in erratic, rough spasms. Tsurumi’s breath turns ragged, gripping Usami so tightly that it’s dizzying. Usami tastes salt against his tongue. 

“Are you close, sir?” Usami’s words are broken and pitchy. “Please, sir- cum on me, please-”

“Always so perverse,” Tsurumi says, and it’s half a gasp now. Usami shivers at the sound, pressing closer.

“That’s right, sir–” And Usami can feel Tsurumi’s abdomen beginning to tense beneath him, and he doubles down, both of their bodies slick with sweat. “Please- I want to see it-“

And Tsurumi laughs breathily before his body stiffens, his head throwing back, and Usami peels away just in time to see Tsurumi’s navel convulse before he comes, spilling against Usami’s cock and his own abdomen. The sight is so arrestingly erotic that Usami only makes it another thrust before he’s caught in his own orgasm, pitching forward again, gripping Tsurumi so tightly he’s all that exists, filling Usami until nothing else can defile him. For a long moment, Usami is suspended in that consuming, purging radiance, ravaging through him again and again until there is room for nothing else. But then the ice groans against the plow, and the wind bashes against the window, and he’s swathed in the dim light and slumped against Tsurumi’s chest and so spent he can barely breathe past it. Tsurumi is still stroking his neck lazily. 

And it all bubbles up within him at once and Usami’s vision is burning with tears. He presses into his neck, shoulders pitching. He can’t get close enough; he grips at Tsurumi’s shoulders, at his chest. “I love you, sir,” he sobs, winding around his ribs. “I love you, Tokushirou–“

“I know that, Tokishige,” Tsurumi murmurs, so suffused with affection that Usami weeps, holding him very tightly.

When Usami’s limbs obey him again- when his lungs cease contracting- he pulls back. The dry pads of Tsurumi’s fingers swipe over his face, wiping away the salt-stained tracks down his cheeks. The moonlight indulges his features, falling powder-soft over the planes of his face, the expanse of his chest. Usami is so swaddled by his love his chest is painfully tight. 

And then he looks between them and sees the semen still streaking Tsurumi’s abdomen with a powerful jolt of arousal. The image sears deep into his mind- here is evidence of Tsurumi’s desire for him, Tsurumi’s favor- but Usami has never been one to leave a job half-finished. He glances up to find a quirk to Tsurumi’s lips, nearly hidden in his mustache, and he knows they share the same thought; Tsurumi doesn’t have to utter the command for Usami to obey. 

“Ah-” Usami extracts himself carefully, moving downward. “Excuse me, sir–”

Usami begins between Tsurumi’s ribs, dutiful licks spanning his abdominals, and works toward the line of his pelvis. He wishes he had done this first, had caught some of it on his tongue when it was still warm, but even this sends his mind into a contented, fuzzy spin. When he reaches his cock, he lavishes particular attention as he laps along before he takes the whole of it, half hard, into his mouth. Perhaps Tsurumi will let him remain until Usami coaxes him into arousal again, and then they can go again, and again, and... The very thought sends a hot pulse gathering in his groin once more. But then Tsurumi grunts and pulls at Usami’s neck and Usami, reluctantly, pulls back with a lurid pop. 

Tsurumi maneuvers under the sheets. Usami lingers at the edge of the bed until Tsurumi smiles at him, beckoning him forward with the crook of two fingers. “Surely, you won’t sleep there?”

Usami’s breath hitches. He scrambles forward, settling beneath the covers with Tsurumi, and Tsurumi’s arm loops around him until Usami is brought against his side and his head is propped against Tsurumi’s chest. Usami is giddy with delight; he can hear the steady thud of Tsurumi’s heart and the susurration of his breath like this, right against his ear, and everything smells like him. Tsurumi’s hand returns to Usami’s scalp and Usami squeezes his eyes shut so they do not start burning again, as lovely as Tsurumi wiping his tears may have been. Usami floats in blissful contentment for a long moment. And then he takes another risk; he sidles closer until he’s flush against Tsurumi and the burgeoning swell of his cock nudges against his thighs. 

There’s a sigh from above him. “Tokishige.”

“Yes, sir.” Usami moves his hips so his position is not as offensive, still pressed against Tsurumi at nearly every angle. “Tomorrow?”

A whispery laugh, settling like heady smoke into every hollow in Usami. “We’ll see.”

Tsurumi’s breaths grow long and even. Outside, a harsh wind whips snow against the window. Here, Usami is wonderfully warm. He wants to stay awake all through the night, soaking in every precious, incredible moment, so that he has something to wring out of his mind in the long nights that they’re apart. Wakkanai is growing ever-closer, he knows, and it’ll be upon him in an instant if he falls asleep. Why is it that his time with Tsurumi ever has to come to an end? Singular, too-short hours dispersed throughout the months, years, and Usami spends the rest of his life waiting for the next…

“Don’t send me away, sir.” The words spill from Usami unbidden. He presses closer to Tsurumi, arms wrapping tightly around his waist. “Please, sir. I want to stay beside you.”

“Tokishige,” Tsurumi chides, blunted nails skimming over his scalp. His voice is heavy with sleep.

“Please, sir.” And he knows he sounds pathetic; he feels pathetic, clinging to Tsurumi like a wet blouse, a desperate, pitiful ache rendering him helpless and childlike. Like he’s a boy again, doing anything he can to draw Tsurumi’s attention, even if it’s just for an instant. He knows Tsurumi must send him wherever he is most useful- he knows it's his duty to obey- but he can’t help himself. “Please.” 

“Do well, and I’ll be beside you again soon enough. We have to be apart, sometimes.”

“Do we?” Usami shifts now, so he can look up at him. “Can’t we always be together?”

Tsurumi’s lashes flutter open. He cocks his head so that he can gaze down at Usami, and Usami is as arrested and senseless beneath those dark eyes as he was all those years ago, hopeless from the first moment they were bestowed upon him. There’s a gleam to them now as they crease at the edges. His hand slips down to cup Usami’s cheek, and his thumb presses into his tattoo, startlingly cold against Usami’s skin. 

“Tokishige,” he murmurs, with his bewitching smile, “I am always with you.”