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A wrap of knuckles at the door. Attuned to all sorts of sounds, Ogata recognized that hand immediately. He untucked his knees from his chest and rolled his chair at a quarter angle to watch the door. His brother that once stood behind him idly, vanished as company approached. Typical for him, cowardice in death as in life.
“Come in… Tsurumi,” he rasped, not having spoken any words out loud today; nor any days before.
Not as if he required much of an invitation, he paid for the apartment, he owned keys, yet he held on to a semblance of privacy for the younger man. Ogata blinked and slicked back his greasy hair. Tsurumi appeared, freshly off work shrouded in that glow he always possessed. Or the fucking sun shone at his back.
“Hyakunosuke,” the words rolled off his tongue, dusting off his oxfords on a rarely touched entry mat, then shutting it behind him. Shoes left latched to his feet most likely due to the apartment’s state. “I hope you’ve been well.”
Ogata breathed through his nose in reply. Tsurumi smelled the stench of excitement on the man through his puff of indifference.
“You haven’t cleaned up in here,” he sighed dramatically, his stoic face betraying that surprise - like he knew it wouldn’t happen. No progress made when left to his own devices. “Is your brother still around?”
The offense not given the respect of an acknowledgement.
“Oh well, for later, then. I know these are hard times, my boy. I brought something for you to lighten your spirits.” A knowing, wicked grin.
“You know me,” Ogata croaked his underused vocal cords, holding out his hand expectingly. That plastic convience store sack slung on the crook of the man’s arm in his sights the moment Tsurumi entered.
“Ah, but I need a moment,” Tsurumi continued to hold a simper.
Of course. Nothing so simple as an offering - nothing without trade. Tsurumi no longer visited Ogata in person for virtuous idle chat. He saw himself in deep shit, long term punishment, the blackest pit for kittens whom ran out of their nine lives.
“I require your aid tomorrow afternoon,” Tsurumi admitted and then strode by closer, a specter amongst garbage bags and the stench of caked on unrest.
Ogata watched him approach over the rim of his glasses, his pupils bleary from hours spent at his florescent computer screen. With no answer, the man took another step, wood heels clicking against the gaps in the floor not coated by trash - the of sound Tsurumi’s shoes made Ogata’s heart skip a beat. Watching over him, that demure and mild intensity across his features, pinning Ogata’s broken will. Raised a hand and traced the outline of Ogata’s plush jaw with his fingertip.
“Should get to shaving that down soon, a bit took unruly now, isn’t it?” He remarked, chiding, lips twitched down.
A full body squirm, punching out a grotesque sense of desire from Ogata’s gut, he shivered as his stomach turned. Like he could throw up from the overwhelming tingles of infatuation.
“Yessir,” he replied simply. Unable to get many words out to Tsurumi these days.
“Good,” he chirped, removed his tantalizing finger and bestowed another placid little smile. “Let’s crack into some of this, shall we?” He questioned rhetorically and retrieved a clear wrapped dango from the bag. “Went out of my way to find this one,” he started, unwrapping it, “let’s share.” Slid his teeth across the stick and violently sucked in syrup covered mochi.
Ogata watched blankly as the man chewed, salivating.
Promptly, Tsurumi leaned down, placing his palms on the rickety desk. Locked his lips around Ogata and rolled the ball into his mouth, forcing a parting.
“That should get you started,” he hummed, graciously watching with a glint in his eye. A single line of spit and syrup.
Greedily Ogata chewed it, swallowed it in a rush, licked his lips to relish in the sticky sugar and traces of Tsurumi. Body throbbing to chase more of the sweet distractions. The well-groomed scraping of his mustache left on Ogata’s skin.
“Now,” Tsurumi began, returning to his previous tone.
Ogata blinked and he suddenly returned to the dull world of his apartment, trash and sin and everything that came with his failures. His tongue peaked out searching for another drop of escapism, but none returned to him.
“I brought you a playmate for your sleepover,” Tsurumi announced, faux-excitement dripping from his silver tongue, clapped his hands. “I believe he will allow you to prepare for tomorrow-”
Usami. Last wretch Ogata wished to see.
“-as I’ll need you in top form.”
Definitely not Usami then.
He threw his face over his shoulder. “Tsukishima, care to join us now?”
Door left unlocked and Tsukishima gathered with them, casting more light, garnering another wince from Ogata. Clad in his collared work shirt and slacks, barring a blazer, unlike Tsurumi, he toed off his shoes. All the man did to greet was nod, closing up behind him afterwards. A bag of belongings balled in his fist.
“Thank you,” Tsurumi’s lips twitched, communicating something deeper Ogata did not understand. He broke off, stepping closer to the new visitor. Placed his palm on the small of his back, Tsukishima released enough self-restrain to lean into it. “Your Tsuki-tan will help you bathe and put you to bed. I believe he even cooked you a real meal, how thoughtful. Be sure to thank him properly.”
“That won’t be-” Tsukishima started.
“You’re all set then, Hyakunosuke?” He beamed, already on his way out.
“Yes sir, thank you,” he answered, too flustered to espouse much else.
“Goodnight, sir,” Tsukishima spoke, his usual scowl unchanging.
“I will see you boys tomorrow then, rest easy!” He chortled airily and left as soon as he came. That bright stain left where he once stood, like double vision, all a memory for Ogata to obsess over.
At least thirty seconds of silence passed, Tsukishima staring at the door and Ogata at him.
Tsukishima released the deep well of air that built in his chest. “I brought incense. It smells like spoiled milk. And cheap hash.”
“Usami only brings me the stuff he won’t smoke,” Ogata replied, clearing his throat, swiveled his chair to face him. Glassy eyes inspecting each inch of the man’s tired frame.
That only earned a chuff, an unsurprising agreement.
Tsukishima flicked on the lights earning a groan from Ogata whom promptly shut off his computer in frustration.
“You’re only damaging your eyes further by staying in the dark like this,” Tsukishima retorted in an admonishment.
“Whatever,” Ogata hissed.
“They’re staying on for now.” Tsukishima ran his hand across his exhausted face.
The statement not dignified with a response.
Tsukishima produced his lighter and a few sticks of incense from within his belongings, placing some through out the small room.
“You can eat after the bath, your microwave still work?” Tsukishima asked, clearly trying to move things along as quick as possible.
“Yeah.”
“Good. I already ate. I’m exhausted from today, let’s wash up and sleep,” he continued, dropping his bag next to the futon bare of sheets and circling back to the bathroom.
The moment he opened the door he froze.
“Oh for fucks-” he cut off his own swearing. “Do you even have soap?”
“What?” Ogata scoffed, slinking off his rolling chair and trailed behind the man.
Gears ticked in Tsukishima head, clearly working through something unspoken. Nearly as small as a closet, barely enough space for one person to move in. It harbored a sink, toilet and a built in tub-shower combination. Mold clung to the corners of the room, indicative in the state of the apartment as well as those in the area. Belongings and trash strung through the path leading up to the entrance, enshrouded as the rest of the abode. Streaks of yellow trailed up the ceiling from steam and grime and smoking.
Any bit of metal crusted with calcium and scum. In the sink basin, black crawled from the drain. The tub painted with ocher splotches, gray in some spots like his body seeped into the fiberglass. One lone hamper built into the wall housed used and rot stricken towels. A cabinet under the sink spilling various belongings; the only confidence in perhaps storing soap or chemicals.
“We’re going to clean in here - the tub, at least the tub,” Tsukishima spoke up, breaking his muted horror.
“It’s does me well,” Ogata sneered.
I’m not getting in there as it is, projected above Tsukishima’s head.
He squatted down, pushing aside a plastic set of drawers that blocked the cabinet doors. A few bottles that masqueraded as cleaning supplies found below. Tentatively, he swished the bottles to hear inside, a splash of bleach in one, untouched dish soap in another, and the crusty skimmings of others he did not trust, taken out to throw in the garbage out if pity. All of this to sanitize enough for a wash. Tsukishima’s jaw tightened.
Before Ogata moved into this address, he lived in another apartment, a nicer one. He afforded it with his own money - worked at the same office building as Tsurumi, Tsukishima and later Kikuta. A real business, despite the woven in yakuza ties. The mob adapted as years grew, played nice with politicians and people in power. For their good graces you required standing, not finances or intimidation alone, the seedy under growth of Japanese society by design fused with the legitimate.
Once Ogata faltered, could not work normally, only there to preform specialized jobs for the yakuza, he demoted here. A shit hole in southern Sapporo that would take his festering abuse. Rent coming out of Tsurumi’s pocket book meant, he finally owned Ogata wholly.
As Tsukishima stood, eyes searching for anything resembling a laundry closet, he noticed Ogata beginning to stalk off.
“No,” Tsukishima barked, pointing to him. “You’re helping.”
“Take your great big long bath after me then, I’m fine with it now.” Ogata looked over the rim of his glasses at the shorter man with contempt.
Instead of clocking him right in the kisser, Tsukishima shoved the bottles he collected into the man’s chest. By reflex he grabbed them, preventing a clattering mess on the ground. Actions spoke louder than words. That boy required a show of strength to get him to listen on occasion.
“I’m gonna find the closest thing resembling some clean towels for us, and you’re gonna use your fucken toothbrush to scrub if you have to,” Tsukishima barked like he was a damn Sargent in a past life. A sneaking feeling crept in, that boy better hope he had a toothbrush.
Ogata breathed out his nose, but allowed Tsukishima to pass without further bitching.
Tsurumi did not personally inspect the potential homes for a spiraling Ogata, too busy with other things - Tsukishima did. He turned the corner, nearly lost in the layout despite how small the damn room was; too corroded by a mental declining pollutant to recognize how it looked before. Nevertheless, in a cupboard by the kitchenette, sheets and towels stored away inside. They wreaked of mildew and Tsukishima crinkled his nose, speculating on their cleanliness. With no other option, they would have to do.
Returning to his comrade, it seemed Ogata listened, a ratty sponge in hand working at the bath tub. Only fitting he should tackle the more decaying of the two, so forth Tsukishima wordlessly took to cleaning the sink basin to the best of his ability. The frightening black appeared to be stained, but calcium and grime cleared away with the force exerted. Washcloth now coated in a brown substance Tsukishima would compartmentalize and never think of again, tossing across the room in the hamper of equally helpless fabrics.
“Use the last of the bleach,” Tsukishima interrupted, pointing to the bottle.
Again, stained beyond repair, but clean as it could get after such abuse.
Ogata plodded on scrubbing the tub, as if he heard nothing, only to suddenly stop. Broken from the trance of wherever his mind took him. “Right,” he replied slowly.
Downright dissociative.
“We’ll leave the chemical to sit. I’m gonna draw a bath for us after I wash your hair,” Tsukishima started, grunting as he squatted down to the tub.
“Us?” Ogata scoffed, backed up. Sneered down at him. “You don’t need to bathe with me, I’m not a child.”
Tsukishima clogged the drain, poured in the cleaner. Clicked his tongue, jaw tightening. “Of course you aren’t. But I still need to bathe you.”
“I’ll do it myself,” he reaffirmed with a bark.
“You know, Ogata, you really can’t,” Tsukishima snapped, tossing the now empty bleach to the ground in an outburst. “I wouldn’t be sent to your shitty apartment, after work, make you dinner, wash you and get you the fuck up early tomorrow while I go right back to work unless Tsurumi thought you could do it yourself.”
“Oh, go to hell, you high-horse mother fucker,” Ogata growled through grit teeth, lip trembling. His fists picked at the hem of his shirt, flexing over it again and again - his body visibly shook.
The collapsing visage Ogata’s mannerisms portrayed sank Tsukishima’s heart, composure falling right along with it. Made him realize just how hard he was fucking breathing, how irate his temper peaked. Instead of a dispassionate or exasperated sigh he may normally elapse, he simply down cast his eyes and shuffled his attention back to the tub.
Tsurumi fostered an environment that kept his boys at one another’s throats. Tsukishima pretended himself to be above it, but knew too well he fell victim to the same follies. That his self hatred bled out. A puncture wound of immolation pecked into them by their crane, like message to trust no one but him. It worked, fuck did it work, he filled you with just enough to keep you on your feet again, but no more. Stopped before you could fucking feel whole. Tsukishima’s facilitated self-hate bled out into an ebullition that burned a man whom already was so broken he could not be trusted to keep the bolts to his rifles inside his home. The four of them were a pitiful group - united by fear
“I’m sorry. That was out of line,” he admitted solemnly and flicked on the faucet.
A single shot of rust water, but afterwards the tap ran clean. Unplugged the stopper to allow the bleach scum to drain. Stuck his fingers in the clear pooling liquid to test the temperature.
“You- you wouldn’t have apologized for that sort of thing before,” Ogata mumbled, barely above the screech of old pipes. “Before I became a… yeah a…”
Couldn’t even say the word. Hikkikomori.
You’re right. Probably wouldn’t have,” Tsukishima replied plainly and rose to his feet again after the right temperature began to flow.
They looked at one another in silence, Ogata glowering behind his glasses.
“You think I’m unwell, too. Like I’m a fucking failure in my nest of my own filth,” he snarled with his practiced lines of self deprivation, breathed heavily. The hand that fidgeted with his shirt brought up to his hair. Unlike his normal flattening, he ran his fingers through individual locks wildly.
“I do think you’re unwell.”
Ogata opened his mouth to speak but only a warbled noise came out.
“But it’s not like I look down on you, shithead. We’re all unwell. Tsurumi wouldn’t have us if we weren’t. The two of us always knew that. I have to- I need to be stronger about it. Now stop fighting me, take off your glasses and stick your head in the sink, I’m tired of spilling out my guts,” he huffed, finalizing the conversation. The man would have no other word on the matter.
A spark of something in Ogata’s guilt-ridden mind shifted into his face, buried emotion struck him for a brief moment, ripped him back into reality. Whatever it was kicked to the wind promptly after, but Tsukishima saw it. Internalized it, knew a part of whom Ogata was before still lay underneath his covers of cowardice jeers snd snickering self-loathing.
“Alright,” Ogata replied, still a tad twitchy.
Dutifully, he removed his glasses and set them to the busted toilet seat. Glancing at Tsukishima for guidance, he dipped his head under the faucet, face first into the basin. Water erupted from the spout, cascading over the thick matted top of his undercut, the built up oil rolling it off. Tsukishima pinned his brows and produced his comb, a nice one, with metal tines. Knowing better than to rip at it, he gently picked at the top, allowing the water to flow in. Ogata remained quiet.
Soap came next. A shampoo provided by Tsurumi far too decadent than deserved of Ogata, but he held a useful role and therefore the bastard son would receive such luxuries. Tsukishima lathered in what he could, sticking his fingers through the gaps in between matting, eventually suds formed. The dry and crunchy texture beneath the first layer of oil made his skin crawl. Patches where Ogata flexed his idiosyncrasy in running his palm over his hair lead to a knotted buildup in that pattern.
Mumbled something to the effect of taking his electric razor to it. Not worth the effort in saving.
Suds broke up clumps of hair and absorbed the muck trapped inside with pink elegance. Flexed his digits, swirling them over the scalp to restore what he could of the decaying skin. Ogata kept flinching underneath him at the tugs, but kept quiet nonetheless. He lathered it in the shaven sides, grown too long for his normal styling, more necessary to wash it than usual.
Tsukishima found his job sufficient. Grew tired at the internal ache that came with inflicting the pain, no matter how minor. He rinsed out the soap throughly, fluffing the strands, significantly cleaner than when he began. However, one wash could only accomplish so much. After a trim and shave following their bath he might even look put together.
“You ready?” He ran his fingers across the back of Ogata’s head, ghosting the nape.
The man pulled his head out, soaked from forehead to chin, almost humorous.
“Yeah.”
Tsukishima stripped and folded clinically, article by article, revealing his flesh slowly. In Ogata’s opinion, he looked far more naked with clothes than without. Nearly every inch of Tsukishima’s skin bore his Irezumi, a menagerie of colors and symbology to blot out the tanned skin beneath. Fully claimed and wholly owned by the Yakuza, but more importantly, Tsurumi. Usami sported a flashy crane across his back, but Ogata preferred the more understated one upon Tsukishima’s breast. Only his feet, hands, and the parting of his chest spared from the claim of tattoos.
Unceremoniously, he slid into the back of the tub, black, reds, and greens reflecting in the water. He waved a hand in a questioning gesture.
“What? Stop staring and get in,” he complained.
“Just feels… too fucken intimate,” he grumbled and began to pull his clothing over his head.
Perhaps acceptable if they were young, if Tsukishima were his older brother. This act far too juvenile for men at their age; the idea far too tender and innocent.
“I’ve been inside you, Ogata,” Tsukishima stated, plain face.
He squirmed, stomach broiling with eros, but stripped nonetheless. The tattoos and what they stood for possessed little consequence to Ogata, only accepting them for their right of passage. Despite the amount of time he spent within the family, the piece was unfinished. Only the bare minimum etched into him. One foot at a time, he sank into the water, hovering over Tsukishim’s lap and finally settling in it.
Wind knocked out of the man as the full weight of Ogata pressed into him.
“Oof-” Tsukishima grunted and promptly slipped his legs out from underneath him, instead wrapping them on either side.
No reply from Ogata, just the nervous picking of his hair.
“Sorry,” Tsukishima apologized by reflex.
Lack of a response damning to his mental state, he stared listlessly ahead of him. Ridged and beyond tense. Caught between self-punishment and his growing aversion to intimacy. Tsurumi instructed him to break down that wall specifically, an Ogata whom grew immune to the manipulations of the physicality bloomed to be an Ogata no longer worth the effort of un-breaking.
At that, Tsukishima pondered if the man wished to touch Ogata at all anymore; too wrought with filth and misgivings. Much kinder words used in the briefing, ones that spoke to Tsukishima’s pride, notes that sung the love Tsurumi held for Ogata despite his flaws. The cudgel Tsurumi enjoyed inflicting most - an idea there were roles only Tsukishima could fulfill in their quintuple relationship. Only he could bear the weight of. Some inflated fucking importance.
“I never minded it,” Tsukishima began, flicking his fingers under the water to locate the rag.
“Minded what?” Ogata grumbled.
“Your body,” he continued, lifting the soap bar he brought and tying the towel around it. “Usami is cruel-”
A dry laugh.
“-but I realized I liked it. A lot.” He spoke lowly, husky, fed into the man’s ego. At least it wasn’t a lie.
Not typically the type to blush, but a dusting of pink appeared behind the sweat and sink water. “What’s there to see but a testament to my sloth?”
Fucker wasn’t going to make things easy, was he?
“Do I really have to walk you through that I still think you’re hot?” Tsukishima whinged and began to wash his back.
In Ogata’s days spent recoiled, further slinking into shut-in, naturally his physical activity plummeted. Relativity sedentary before, only enough upper body strength to absorb the recoil from his rifle, removing exercise and adding cheap meals and comforting trash threw him into this state of weight gain. The baseline required to maintain useful for Tsurumi as a sniper could be fulfilled even with declining health.
Fuller through the thighs and stomach and face - his entire body. A quiet part of Tsukishima did find the new features attractive, even more than he did before. That part he would keep to himself.
“Why do you… I don’t…” Ogata sputtered, eventually trailing off.
Tsukishima snaked his arms around the man’s mid section, bringing the rag with him as an excuse. He washed the man while uncomfortably feeling him up, bolster his self confidence through touch. Tsukishima’s early dinner curdled in his stomach. Ogata responded well, releasing some of his muscle tenseness, falling into the scrubbing and stimulation of his skin.
Bile pooled on Ogata’s tongue at the intimacy, craved it, sunk into it, but did not feel himself to deserve it. Shoulders shuttered at the display of brotherhood, the display of washing each other like this. Bathing while young was not something he did with his own brother, they only crossed paths in adulthood, but a sinking feeling told him it might be something like this; only in the reversed order with him in Tsuki-tan’s position. The younger one sitting in the elder’s lap to be preened and adored. He ground his teeth at the thought of his Yuusaku honing in on the idea, undeserving of such. An act of service out of mutual love, was that what this was? Ogata couldn’t imagine so.
Did Tsuki-tan - no. It’s Tsukishima, banish that thought, did he love as brothers?
The towel grazed his privates.
“You wanna finish up front there?” Tsukishima asked, breaking Ogata from his stupor.
Locked in here alone by himself inside this crypt, only his own mind to accompany him. And the haunting of his fucking brother. All congested in this place for lengths of time that began to whittle at his psyche.
“Yeah.”
He accepted the balled rag and scrubbed quickly between his thighs, further down his legs and the under himself. Displaying far less individual care than Tsukishima did. Apparently not pleased with that effort, Tsukishima grunted and took it back, returning to washing Ogata himself.
“You start growin’ out your hair?” Ogata asked in reference to the slicked back style embellishing the man’s head.
Grew by accident a time ago, his mind in other places than to take his trimmers to it for a buzz. He found it freeing in a way, that alone a dangerous bout of deviant thought. Used product on it to keep it short at glance for his workdays, surreptitious wrong think kept to himself.
“Like Tsurumi,” Ogata continued darkly guffawing.
Tsukishima could have choked the way his fingers curled around the towel in anger.
“What have you been getting up to, since we last saw each other at Koito’s birthday?” He asked rhetorically, knew better, but still attempted conversation. Steered it away from the digs Ogata used to get under others skin.
“Fuck do you think?” Ogata barked, knowing the banter to be far less about himself than Tsukishima.
“Yeah, yeah,” he puffed. “I’ve been showing him the ropes of our business. I don’t know where Tsurumi is planning on stationing him, but I can’t imagine it’s at the office building.”
Tsukishima leaned forward, chest to back, bodies flushed together. As brothers, in arms maybe, Ogata thought. Tsukishima scraped at his inner and outer thighs.
“Rich boy’s too good for an office,” Ogata retorted, full of himself.
“He’s not all bad, but he doesn’t really listen either. His focus is primarily on Tsurumi most of the time, especially when he’s not there,” Tskishima continued, ignoring the parts of Ogata’s abuse he desired to not hear. “Lift your legs to your chest.”
Ogata did as instructed, allowed him better access.
“This work is gonna eat him alive, I can see it on him.” Ogata’s eyes weary. He began to space out.
Tsukishima’s watched from a shard of broken mirror on the ground. His heart pounded, pushed the conversation too far. Delirium set in. Tsukishima’s personal exposure to Ogata in the throes of his hikikomori disease was low, purposefully so. Usami spoke of it often, that look he bore, but Tsukishima hardly listened to the man. Seeing it himself brought near physical pain. Small talk dead in the water, he’d just finish bathing them for now.
“Here,” Tsukishima whispered, training his hands back from the man’s leg up to his shoulder.
Ogata limp in his grasp, allowed himself to be pincushioned. A position he folded into often. More common for field snipers than urban, but Ogata was nothing if not old-fashioned in his techniques, the man used his own body for a tripod. Branches or stone walls all made fine mounts in some situations, but Ogata found himself to trust no corporeal objects above his own flesh and gun. Throwing the barrel over his left shoulder fulfilled his needs, better than the sway of a tree or the flexing of planks in varying temperatures.
With the abuse and recoil, no matter how strong the muscle grew, it weakened his body. To Tsukishima the display harkened to a child curling up on themselves. His shoulders reaching for his ears and limbs clattering all over themselves. Vulnerable, no better way to describe it. He worked his hands into the muscle hidden beneath padded fat, they grew loose with his lack of activity, but his aim never changed. A star sniper despite no longer being able to stomach a visit to a shooting range.
“I have a question for you. It’s something I’ve started to wonder recently,” Ogata started, blankly staring at the tiles ahead of him. Tsukishima glanced to the mirror once more.
“What’s that?” He asked, feigning disinterested while scrubbing at his biceps.
“Do you think… Tsurumi stopped helping me with the Hanazawa family for a reason?” Ogata queried, the look in his eyes vacant and unrecognizable.
“Fuck is that supposed to mean?” Tsukishima responded with a question himself, diligently working.
“Is this punishment? For what I did to Yuusaku and my father, you think?”
Tsukishima stopped scrubbing, eyes slowly rolling to look at the back of the neck in front of him.
“Or is it,” Ogata continued, eyes narrowing, “that he’d rather keep me here like a duck with a broken wing so I can’t fly away."
Silence. More petrified than before, dead as the night, cold in the ground as Ogata’s family - equally as unwelcoming as their corpses. Only two breathing bodies to fill the air of the bathroom.
“I believe,” Tsukishima started, raising his hands again to scrub, “he doesn’t leave us alive to think.”
“Probably,” Ogata darkly laughed and pulled his knees to his chest. The mannerisms of a child.
Tsukishima let his arms fall into the water, limply cradling his forehead to Ogata’s shoulder, the good one.
Even in his unraveling, Ogata writhed under the eyes of affection, covertly shrugging him off.
“Hey, don’t leave,” he chastised the man. “I have to shave you still.”
“Oh piss off,” he hissed, gritting his teeth. “I’ll do it myself.”
“Use mine, it’s in my things. Leave it out, I’ll shave in the morning,”
Tsukishima liked to bathe for longer than most, seemed to be drawn to simpler joys, Ogata reckoned. The kinds normally taken for granted. He rose out the tub, water cascading off his skin. Felt self conscious at his nudity as the air hit him. No cleaner now than before, skin still sticky with the kind of disease immune to soap and brotherly care.
Barely bothering with towel drying, knowing the smell would only infect him again, he wiped himself down and left it where he stood. Tsukishima glared, Ogata pretended to not see it. Tumbling out to find himself the closeted to unsoiled garments he owned, Tsukishima shouted to him out the doorway.
“Hey wait, Tsurumi gave me some clothes for you. It’s in my duffle,” he boomed, snatching Ogata’s attention.
“Thanks.”
He wet his lips absentmindedly and rooted through everything, bringing Tsukishima personal effects asunder. A pair of nightwear and something that passed as decent for his tomorrow-job held within. Easy enough to differentiate what belonged to whom considering the size comparisons between them. As the material crested his bastard flesh, he could almost shutter in disgust. Too clean for him. A requirement for Tsurumi he would shoulder. The scent from Tsukishima’s belongings left on the fabric, moved with him - unable to escape each wiff.
Trailing back into his bathroom, tripping over his own feet, he attempted not to stare at Tsukishima’s dutiful focus in washing himself. Voyeuristic qualities in witnessing your brethren so unguarded. Flipping the razor out of Tsukishima’s toiletries, he inspected the quality. Much better than his - too dull to slice his own skin. Required supervision.
He plugged away at the task, gel applied around his jaw and throat. Prudent as to not slice himself on the old-fashioned kamisori, Tsukishima’s preferred tool, he dragged the blade right along his skin. Flicked his eyes to the remainder of the mirror to watch Tsukishima, listening to the sounds of water rippling. Quite proud of himself for keeping the smattering of beard he wished, he rinsed the gel away, scrubbing with his bare hands.
“My sheets are dirty, so I don’t have any… on my bed,” Ogata cleared his throat and declared, vocal cords atrophied even with today’s stimulation. “You want me to find something?”
Tsukishima winced, but otherwise did not verbally offend. “Yes.”
Picked out something that didn’t reek when overturned and spread it out on the futon. Even gave enough of a shit to tuck the corners to speckle in some kindness.
Desiring a bite of reverie, he uncovered the plastic bag Tsurumi left. The dango they shared still stained his mouth. He’d save the rest for emergency, perhaps pocketing it for tomorrow and the anxieties brought about in leaving his home. Among the bribery-snacks, a bento chalked with food more nutrient ridden than he deserved. Used his fingers to grab a pickled lotus root and chomp at it greedily. Positively decadent.
A different sort of buzz than given by Tsurumi, but equally as intimate. Like an invitation to a dinner table than a sudden assault of escapist euphoria. Altogether a departure from reality, but one with other emotions tired to it - a more familial form of momentary amendment. Tsukishima unnoticed to watchful feline eyes fixed upon him.
Traditionally he might sink back in to the ticking world inside his computer at a moments notice of any emotion, preferring to tamp it all down in fear, but he wished to live in the moment for now. Yuusaku’s presence annoyed him enough to shy away the world, but often did not visit with others present. Chewed a pea pod and scooped some rice into his mouth. Better than television or message boards or the permeating stench that rose as incense dissipated. Equally as fleeting, but far more fulfilling. Everything in his life remained ephemeral and transitional, but he grabbed what he could with bare hands and made it apart of his whole. Fingers picked another vegetable to chew and swallow and devour.
Gargling sudden and loud - tainted water sucked down the drain, he blinked. Suddenly Tsukishima was out of the bath, a towel around his waist. He fiddled with his things, brows more furrowed than usual with the mess Ogata left, and found his sleep clothes. His gaze naturally floated up to Ogata whom stared back plucking food from his bento.
“Is that what you call ‘shaved?’” He asked rehotorically.
Squirming under the pressure, but too prideful to take it lying down, Ogata tilted his head upwards.
Tsukishima elapsed a sigh. “Get in here.” He turned tail and waited. Wouldn’t ask again.
Petulant, Ogata followed. His form rigid, wanted Tsukishima to chase him down.
One glare did him in, sulked at his insubordinates.
“C’mere, give me your face,” he commanded, gently, but demanding all the same.
Bathing together may be more physical, brotherly. But shaving another, in this fashion, harkened to unspoken and hushed intimacy. Tsukishima wet his fingers in the sink, without a towel it’d be tricky, but he dampened Ogata’s face once more. Lathered the patchy and unkempt bits. Pulled him down due to the height difference, their breaths pluming in one another’s faces in a more intense fashion possible than front to back as the bath allowed.
“Keep your beard,” Tsukishima elaborated, speaking slowly as he rubbed his fingers against Ogata’s plush cheeks and jaw, “but Tsurumi’s gonna want you more clean shaven than that.”
Right. Ogata thought.
His misgivings would also reflect on Tsukishima - this intentional sickly bind he put the two of them in. Ogata remained silent.
Gelled it properly this time, ran his digits firmly into the stubby hairs to prepare them for the sharp edge. Then it happened, fingers that brought violence to most crested kindness to his face, gripping it gently. Blade clung deliciously close to his skin, closer than Ogata felt comfortable utilizing himself. Tsukishima wielded it with frightening confidence, tracing the slope of his jaw into the wells of neck at a trained and blinding speed. Inky eyes focused on him and him alone kicked his gut in a screaming lechery.
Beneath the pale gel, smooth skin, meticulously shaped to allow a the trimmings of his beard. Down his neck, so close to major arteries, trailed the blade with laborious passion. Simmering tenacity on display, churning something below the belt in Ogata. Danger oft mixed with desire in his broken brain. Sat in his gut all wrong, fraternal in design, to clean and groom one another in this way. Suffocated him in a fashion he could not grasp fully, caught in a tailspin of ardor.
Done in a flash, Tsukishima tapped the kamisori to the basin edge in thought. Inspected his work, serviceable. Although now clothed, Ogata felt rather looked upon - visually picked at. He suppressed a self conscious shiver.
“Your hair…” Tsukishima clicked his tongue and reached for the man’s head, ghosting his fingers over the strands.
Against the code.
“What?” Ogata responded too quickly, fighting the urge to lean in to the almost touching.
“Got too long,” he sighed out. “Whatever, doesn’t matter. Shave it later, I didn’t bring an electric trimmer.”
Missed the stimulation immediately.
“I have one,” Ogata replied, listless eyes staring through him. “I can do it.”
Tsukishima flexed his fingers and settled on rubbing the tense space between his brows. “Alright. Just don’t botch it, I’m going to sleep.”
Ogata felt the need to bid him goodnight, but the words died on his tongue. He rummaged through the graves across the ground for the location of his trimmer. Less sharp, more room for error. Less dangerous; something he could be trusted alone with.
Tsukishima sank into the dubiously-washed top sheet, barely acknowledging its sudden existence, eyes fluttering closed. Any potential blankets and the state they may be in repulse him, deciding to sleep without it and fight the setting cold. Mental and physical exhaustion caught up to him, allowing sleep to take easier than expected despite the stench and generally oppressive atmosphere.
Sometime into his rest, but not long, the presence of another body joined him. Rising from his doze, he cracked open his eyes, dizzy in the dark. Ogata’s body beside him, the imprint heavy, pulling him in. It seemed Ogata did not realize Tsukishima still lay awake, he curled into the man silently, his chin resting atop Tsukishima’s shoulder.
“Hey,” he spoke up, startling the other man.
“Did I wake you?” Ogata asked flatly.
“’S fine,” Tsukishima slurred sleepily. “M’ I forgot… about your apartment.”
Ogata stiffened. “Hm?”
“I’m gonna come by again, in a few days, Tsurumi wants us to start… breaking down the horde again,” Tsukishima explained ineloquently.
Ogata tsked.
“If you don’t cooperate with me, he’ll send you Usami,” he warned, humor on his tounge.
“Whatever,” Ogata mumbled. “I don’t wanna talk about that. Wanted to thank you for… today,” Ogata’s tone distant, his mind far off again. “Do you need… anything.”
Sexual favors and manipulation commonplace within their group, some aware as it happened, some not. Tsukishima privy to the knowledge, realized Tsurumi’s words for what they were from the beginning. Hatred and attraction boiled his gut at the affliction. He preferred to only engage in sex when on an equal playing field, bereft a balance tipped to one person’s benefit more than the other. The concept of equal footing nothing but a fantasy, he knew this, searched for such opportunities nonetheless. Not to say he refused it, typically only becoming intimate on Tsurumi’s request; or if settling things through sex would be in the man’s best interest.
Today proved how steep the scales were, a line where one plummeted far lower than the other. He did not deserve a reward - not one given to him by Ogata. He would do anything for Tsurumi, just needed to hear the command and he’d slaughter even their inner circle; but he was human, even he possessed barriers. He did not take unnecessary gifts.
“I’m good,” Tsukishima whispered. Exasperated.
Ogata lifted himself, shifted his face in front of Tsukishima’s. Neither of them could see anything in the dark. He leaned down, not asking anything more, and pressed his lips to Tsukishima. The man did not reciprocate.
“I want this,” Ogata reaffirmed. Not a favor, a desire.
“Just kissing,” Tsukishima stated like a demand.
“‘Just kissing,’” he repeated.
Pressed their lips together again.
Ogata quickly deepened it, ran his teeth on the underside of Tsukishima’s lip. A mini version of their boss all on his own, using sex as a proxy war for his greater inner workings. Far more clumsy about it, however, so obvious what his intentions were. Juvenile in such a way Tsukishima’s heart ached with an emotion settled between love and pity. Too transparent to be seen as malicious.
He accepted it, let Ogata in, hungry with teeth and tongue. The poor man’s elbows began to give away, settling on top of him innocently, but knocked the wind out him. Tsukishima sighed from the pressure more than the kiss, but it appeared Ogata was ignorant to such as it only encouraged him further. Glossy lips from saliva, Ogata could taste the reminder of toothpaste in Tsukishima’s mouth, the only of a such chemical to touch his teeth in weeks.
Sternly, Tsukishima pushed Ogata away by the shoulder. Catch him while he’s ahead. Ogata understood the message, save face from blue balls. Tsukishima kissed him again, a wet peck this time, romantic expression unfit for what they had together, but one given nonetheless. Both men craved intimacy - they all did. Tsurumi bestowed brief moments for them all to clamor over, the rest of their hunger only sated in each other. A cheap imitation of what they truly wished for, but an attempt nonetheless.
Ogata pressed his forehead to Tsukishima’s, let them bask in each other. Ogata rolled off, gathered his ratty blanket and curled in on it. Joining under it together excited Ogata to a degree he could peel skin off his face, but pride won out, demeaning himself only enough to curl into the man’s side.
“Good night,” a voice murmured, Ogata’s own, he came to realize.
Silent in his response, Tsukishima lifted his arm to allow his companion to writhe closer into his reach. Simple accommodated them, it worked; larger, more emotionally charged gabbing unsuited for their personalities. Closed his eyes to sleep. Soon, Ogata joined him in the muted snoring.
Ogata chased something that never existed, delusion and illness woven into the wrinkles of his brain. Tsukishima fed into it, although unwittingly - all at the hands of Tsurumi.
The inspiration for this fic, seen below.
