Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

They said the honor of your cause would outweigh the blood you'd hold in your palms. That once this entire war was over, once the Russians had surrendered and Japan came out triumphant—remarkable soldiers who have survived will be declared heroes.

They will live out their life in comfort. No more gunshots. No more swinging bayonets. No more dirty uniforms shoving trenches…

Wouldn't that be nice?

You'd certainly believe those words of camaraderie and self-sacrifice for a greater purpose. They weren't lies, they were real sentences told by very real men who themselves believed in it as much as they'd made you. 'It was inspiring,' you'd say. Perhaps it was even 'patriotic,' smart ones would reiterate.

Oh how much you put your entire heart into those words the first few times you ran past the snowy terrain of that hill named '203 Meter'. Sharp wind stung your skins like frostbites, but you didn't care, the freezing metals of the rifle had already done everything to numb you to the cold. You mustn't stop running, you couldn't stop moving. Because death was before you, masquerading in Slavic flesh, breathing like any man.

You couldn't run back, right or left, couldn't grow wings and fly away from this battle. No. Like a good soldier, you charge forward and give it your all.

'Glorified invaders who have no souls,' you used to spat out at them.

Did it made you feel better? Well, yes. That's why you kept repeating it. To your comrades. To yourself. To the enemies themselves though one word fell out the other.

You remember their bayonet slicing through the flap of your ear, talking off a good bloody chunk. You remember how quickly you picked up your fallen Type 30 Revolver and shot him right between his eyes. His knees gave out and his entire figure landed on you with a thud–acting as some sort of human shield while Japanese and Russians—shoes and boots alike—stepped all over you two, smearing dirt, snow and blood everywhere on the corpse. Some idiot even stepped on your face by accident and fell onto the ground.

At this point, you weren't even fighting for the hill. You were fighting for all the blood spilled, all of whom belonged to those you knew in the barracks.

Thinking of those summer recess sessions—chatting with each other about mindless things—never made you felt colder. Those moments were so distant that you couldn't even begin to grasp at its warmth.

The only thing closest to the comforting embrace of the sun was… that. Him. The man right below the flowing flag of the Japanese Empire.

He was there for you. Still there, caressing your back when you were throwing up a violent fit in some isolated area below the hill. Not your manliest moment, but you guess that was a common reaction for an amateur murderer—or what they preferred to call—'soldier in action.'

In a way, that flagbearer of the 27th Regiment was the only light you could physically hold in this dark war. You didn't know how he could be so strong and brave in a time like this…

Actually, no… you did know how. You've said it before. It was that patriotism. The glorification of serving yourself on a platter for the people, the country. And like before, you believed it, so very much.

So,

So much.

"I'm not strong enough for this, sir…"

You tried to stop your tears from showing, completely embarrassed to show that weakness to the Second Lieutenant.

Those tears weren't just dread from spilling blood of 'bad men,' but they were the effect of seeing the motionless bodies of your comrades. Face puffed up and contoured in horrifying form. It hurts you to describe them in such ways—but that's what they were. And you hated it so much; hence why you vomited out what little lunch you have had earlier.

But Yūsaku didn't judge. Instead, he pulled you in closer. His arms tighten around you as he speaks, sternly yet compassionately. "You're a strong guy," he'd say your name. "I'm sorry that I am unable to use a gun or sabre in battle. But I'll give you and the others my all upholding the title bestowed upon me."

Dutiful.

So very inspiring.

He continued, "please allow me to be your aspiration to keep moving forward."

That would've been fine. Great, even. Could've leave as that.

Yūsaku's words flew out quietly, and scarily sincere. "Not just as a war comrade, but as a very dear friend."

You wondered why you didn't pushed him away. Save yourself from realizing that he still viewed you two as equals against all odds, still bet on you two being still as close as two could be. Certainly was a surprise to you. It makes you freeze up…

…and melt right back in just as quickly.

Your cheek against the worn fabric of his coat. "After all that's happened—you still believe that?"

It was a quiet reference to a few controversies that had surfaced before the 7th Division was drafted.

There were many factors involved, but in the end, it all circled back to you and Yūsaku.

You'd never really had the time to talk it through with him. In war, there was never a right place or moment for such a conversation. You'd thought he would avoid you until the end, at best—but no. It was as if he'd set it all aside for now and returned to you tenfold.

"I really do." He replied without hesitation.

Was it uncomfortable? Sure, maybe at first. Maybe that lingering feeling was still there.

Though, like a fool, you believed it.

You sniffed—your snot back in, not his scent, weirdo—although it does smell faintly of smoke and, wowah was that cologne? Maybe it was all in your head but he definitely smell nice—actually, nevermind…

Informally, "I'm sorry…" you slipped out his first name. "...Yūsaku. I wasn't aware—"

"It's okay. I didn't know, either." He didn't press the matter, only exhaled a faint sigh—like an odd relief to be spoken to without rank between you. He leaned back slightly, still firmly holding your shoulders as he studied your face. "And it was my fault as a superior officer. I overstepped."

"So you don't hate me?"

"Of course not. Our fathers' business with eachother doesn't define ours." He stated. "I just didn't want to worsen your situation if we kept interacting."

You let out a muffled laugh. "Guess I should be thanking you for that, huh?"

He laughed back. "No, I'm sure you'd do the same if I was in your shoes."

"...Well, still. I appreciate it, Yūsaku."

"C'mon," he said, your name catching softly in his throat. "I told you, it's nothing."

• ⊱𑁍⊰ •

It snowed that night. Lightly. Morbidly, it sort of reminds you of gunpowder. Everything reminded you of what had happened in each fight, to be honest.

You let out a long sigh, the fog rising up from your breath, it didn't help you feel less heavy. "I almost lost my arm to an explosion yesterday…" your hand instinctively caressed your bandaged ear. Still raw. "I did lose a tiny bit of my ear, though… But it's nothing."

The day before left your hands physically shaken. Something you tried to hide from the rest of your brothers. Not out of fear, it was just something you didn't feel quite comfortable letting them witness.

Seeing more faces possibly fated to die made you nauseous. You had brain bits splashed on you, almost tripped on a soldier's corpse and the cold, bloated facial features of the dead. At the time, you pushed through. But when you had time to walk somewhere far far away, where not even the shadows could see you…

What little meal you'd managed that day—warm enough white rice, pickled vegetables—ended up on the ground instead, hurled back out as each sob choked through it. You thought you could take it, but forcing it down hadn't worked.

It was supposed to be something you dealt with alone. Everyone wasn't having it easier, you know they weren't no matter how calm they seemed, they're probably just like you. You can't disturb them with this... mess. So you as you were coughing up a storm, you hadn't noticed that a second lieutenant had silently followed you out of worry.

To your surprise, instead of scolding you, he reached his arm out to caress your back. And gently motioned you back.

Soldiers weren't allowed to be out this late, and certainly not this far from camp. One would be at risk of being sniped down by some Russian marksmen.

Now here you were, in the dim little tent he use to sleep in. It was nicer than yours—it was private, not having to share it with ten other men.

Your nails scratching the skin of your palm. "I've…" your voice whispered out, "already lost a lot of brothers-in-arms this week."

Yūsaku hummed. "So have I." His eyes loomed over his cap, staring off into the ceiling of the canvas. "But their death will not be in vain. We'll win this war for them, too."

You hummed it back at him. "Mm."

You always thought some of them had too much talent for the military. Could've been a great teacher. Or a personal cook. Maybe even a well-known artist.

But you guess their circumstances simply didn't allow them to.

They join for the basics. A bed. A roof. A meal. A bath. You get it. That doesn't mean the reality of those decisions didn't weigh on you.

The hardest part was remembering that some of them were expected home, waiting an ocean away from here.

…

Perhaps it was the temporary tranquility of the night, or the fact that you two were closed off behind a tent. Or there was even a possibility that you just seek some comfort right now. Because you leaned your head against his shoulder. Slowly, hesitantly. Something you never would've done back then, even if you'd had the nerve.

Yūsaku didn't complain. He even leaned back, just enough, in return.

And you were allowed to breathe again.

It was a quiet moment, where both parties didn't feel the need to say anything. It's been quite some time since you've had a conversation with each other, being in a different platoon and all now. Yet it felt as if you've never stopped locking arms.

For someone who held Lord Hanazawa in such high regard, you'd expected Yūsaku to despise you—to see nothing but the son of a disgraced umbrella maker or a maid of some snobby high-class folks.

The thought barely settled before another rose up, uninvited.

"I miss my family..." You admitted, barely above a breath.

"...Me too. I'm sure my father is working very hard to help us win this battle." Yūsaku intertwined his fingers together. "Say… Didn't you have a baby brother? Or was it a sister?" He asked.

"We don't know the exact gender yet. Still sleeping in mom's belly."

"How far is your mother?"

"I think uh…" You counted with your fingers. "August… or was it July? I'm not sure, probably about like three, four months."

He turned his head towards you, giving you a light grin. "Aren't you excited? You have a younger brother or sister who could coddle now."

It made you chuckle. "Is that what you hoped for with Ogata?"

"Haha, not quite…" He replied, "I've always wanted an older brother. I think it'd be cool. My father's friend—Lord Koito—has two sons, and I was…" A timid blush crept over his features, joined by a nervous bead of sweat. "...Admittedly a little envious of the youngest Koito. His older brother seemed like such an admirable guy."

You laughed. "Psh, is that when it started?"

Yūsaku tilted his cap down, his face couldn't get any redder. "Don't laugh… It's a little embarrassing to explain," he scolded.

You stretched an arm over his shoulder. "You're an endearing guy, y'know that? I'd be pretty happy to introduce you to my baby sibling~"

"You'd take me to your hometown?" He blinked. "I wouldn't want to be the cause of any arguments."

"Who cares what my dad will say? He can take it up with me if he has a problem."

"You shouldn't really be talking like that about your father."

"...Hm, well, alright." You muttered, keeping your hands and head to yourself. That got pretty awkward. Great, you said the wrong thing again. "...Um."

"Thank you, though," he murmured, that sincere smile lighting his face, the familiar shine in his eyes so full of life. You could never forget it. "It's a good idea; visiting your hometown together. Maybe in spring? The flowers bloom best that time of year."

It lasted only a second, but it was enough to make you forget the cold—the kind that crawled in with both the season and the war. For a moment, the mud, the smoke, the constant ache in your bones… all of it faded. Just his face, quiet and steady, and that pull you weren't sure you were supposed to feel anymore. You'd trained yourself to keep thoughts tidy, to keep your 'wants' in check…

But it's something in that glance…

"Yeah," you couldn't help but crack a smiled back, "definitely spring."

• ⊱𑁍⊰ •

[ Last October — 20:28 — 203 Hill, Manchuria]

You've pushed through. Did everything as expect from a foot soldier.

By the end, you were tired and injured.

Your only thought now was how much you wanted something to lessen the cold. The cold numbing your gloved fingers, the cold stinging your eyes, the cold eating away at your soul.

Wandering around the battlefield, passing through the ruins of an intense fight, focusing on searching for your light in this darkness.

The closes thing to the sun to you.

Now laid a dead man under the moonless night of that fucking forsaken hill.

In the blood and scattered bodies, surrounded by slumped, murmuring soldiers, was a body slumped on the remnants of a bloodied flag. Some held their caps to their chests. Others knelt as they called for him, as if he'd magically come back to life.

"Yūsaku…"

"...Yūsaku."

"...Yūsaku…"

They're weeping out his name, and you couldn't even shed at least a single tear or uttered a singular word. Your feet just stumbled towards his corpse and stood there as they mourned the death of the standard-bearer. Their symbol of the regiment.

A soldier looked up at you, he spoke through teary eyes. "...You're a close friend of Yūsaku, right?" Despite being just two ranks below you, he gripped tightly onto your sleeves. "... I'm so sor–sorry… h–he was such a good guy."

You let him cried on your arm.

Yūsaku was lying in the bloodied snow. The red sun flag beneath him looked dim now—less like a banner, more like a shroud. You could feel it, even if he wasn't there anymore, you could feel how desperately he wanted you to say something.

Anything.

But no words came out.

The soldier finally let go, dropping his head away as he tried to compose himself.

You wonder if Yūsaku wanted you to cry, maybe grab his body and shake him awake, tell him you were scared out of your goddamn mind but you still wanted to be where he was by the flag, beside him with your aspiration carried out by his words—

…Just, beside him.

Your knees finally gave out, and you dropped into the snow, the sound of war humming faintly in the distance like a cruel lullaby.

You reached out with a still hand, brushing the frost from Yūsaku's cheek. It was already cold.

You stared straight into his lifeless eyes. It was like a mirror of yours. Stiff. And cold. Yūsaku's face was devoid of any color except for his own

blood—dripping from his left eye. A pupil replaced with a bullet wound. Like it was mocking you.

The wind whispered over the hilltop like it was mourning too.

The memory of his voice haunted you, taunting you. It wasn't the one that gave orders or shouted across the drill fields. Not the one that called you 'Private' or teased you about your poor posture. Nor was it the excited one whenever you two would meet up for short meals. But the soft one. That quiet lilt he only used when the door was closed, when no one else was listening.

"Yūsaku…" You whispered.

You could still hear him saying your first name like it still meant something.

He was smiling the last time you saw him, a strong grip on the pole of the flag. Now you're seeing the aftermath of that smile.

Behind you, some men bowed their heads. Others have already stepped away, unable to watch the grief settle any longer.

Small steps echoed behind you, shoes crunching the frost-covered earth. A man knelt right beside you. His uniform was stained like yours and everyone else's, and the rifle he held stood upright on the ground. He lowered a hand gently on your shoulder.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said.

To him, you looked disturbingly composed—like you were just looking at Yūsaku as a stranger you'd found on the side of the road. You'd probably look at said stranger with more emotions than you did Yūsaku.

The man glanced down at the Second Lieutenant, his mouth tightening. Then back to you.

"…C'mon," he said. "We should bring his body back and bury it."

Your eyes moved, slow as stone grinding against stone, to meet his. He had three slashes on his face, two long lines down his cheek and over his nose.

He held your gaze for a moment, searching for something. Maybe grief. Maybe anger. But you stood up in silence. No tremble in your legs now, not even a hitch in your breath.

The man nodded faintly, satisfied enough, and slung his rifle over his shoulder. "Help me pick him up—" But he cut himself off.

You had already turned your heel and walked away.

Your back to the scene. To the body.

He watched you go, your figure disappearing in the haze of grieving men, dead bodies and smoke without so much as a backward glance. His brows drew together in a quiet confusion.

His voice followed you in a hush, more to himself than anyone else. "...Weird. Weren't they close?"

Behind him, another soldier stepped in to help lift Yūsaku's body. A silent exchange. No one questioned your absence. No one stopped you. In a way, they understand.

The cold wind howled softly as the hill swallowed your footsteps.

• ⊱𑁍⊰ •

The medic tent reeked, that's all you can describe it. You sat on your sad made-up bed, your undershirt soaked in sweat and torn open along your side, a small gash where your kidney would be had been hastily stitched. The needle pulled tight with even the slightest tig, and you winced—it hurts like balls. As well as when the fresh scar sliced up at the edge of your lips by the enemy had to be disinfected—ouchie. It wasn't big, it was fairly tiny, but it still hurts.

Around you, the other soldiers were being treated too. Some groaned, some joked weakly with their buddies, others just stared in silence.

Eventually, your turn ended. The medic has wrapped your wounds up.

"Make sure to rest," he said without looking you in the eye.

That night.

He still remembers that night. The night he finally decided what he must do to prove where a man's love and care lies.

It was around the beginning of the battle. The Siege of Port Arthur.

Ogata pushed his bolt back into position as he shot another Russian in the head. A moment later, another shot echoed following Ogata pushing the bolt yet another time with that same blank expression. Observant and still—that's what makes him an excellent marksman. One of many.

Ogata turned around to eye the First Lieutenant, still in uniform and cap, still wearing the beige fur coat.

Tsurumi started, his voice and face stern. "You had a talk with Superior Private—" —Oh, was this going to be about you?

"I did." Ogata answered, "I sense that he seemed to be budging a little bit, but not enough for me to be straight forward. Is there something wrong, sir?"

To them, even if you were a part of Tsurumi's inner circle, there were still some information needed to be withheld from you. For the better of Tsurumi's plans.

They needed you for Yūsaku, and they needed Yūsaku for the Commander.

"No. It's about the plan regarding your younger brother." Tsurumi said, "Yūsaku is more courageous than I thought… and the men value him."

"Then I shouldn't kill him? Understood."

…

"Lieutenant Tsurumi said not to kill him?" Usami repeated again, standing from below, behind Ogata.

Usami grinded his teeth together, brows furrowed. "And this is after he said 'If Yūsaku disappears, Hyakunosuke will be favored by his father which will allow us to control his excellency Hanazawa.'" He pulled the bloodied cotton from his nostril and rubbed at his bruised nose, still sore from face-planting in the dirt. With a groan, he flicked the wad aside. "What a bore~"

"Everyone treats Yūsaku like a saint," said Ogata. "Perhaps the First Lieutenant decided that he can exploit that."

"Ngh." He scoffed, "I bet one of them has more than just admiration for him."

Ogata stayed silent.

Usami blinked, covering his mouth. "Oops, sorry, Hyakunosuke. It just slipped." He continued, "but you know what I meant before, right?" his envious eyes hovering towards the sniper. "Yūsaku's just riding on his dad's coattails! Don't you think everyone is glorifying him a bit too much?"

"You think so too, huh?" Ogata muttered, climbing down. "First Lieutenant Tsurumi's feelings would change if Yūsaku took off his sheep's clothing. Everyone's the same once you dig a little deeper."

The both of them began to walk past the piles of bodies and ruckus with Ogata leading the way.

"You don't feel guilty about killing those Russian soldiers, do you?" Ogata asked.

Following not so far behind him was Usami, dragging a tied up prisoner. "I sure don't." He responded instantly.

"Because it's their fault for getting killed."

"Yep, I get ya."

"Everyone is capable of committing crimes. You don't feel things such as guilt just because you killed them, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"And it makes no difference whether both parents loved you or not."

Usami smiled causally, his eyes relaxed. "That's exaaactly right!"

"I knew it. There's nothing off about me."

…

"It is simply not right for people who kill another human being without remorse to exist!"

…

He watched as his brother left, the sound of his boots crunching the snow.

Ogata scratches his head. "Damn… maybe I am weird. Is it 'cause I'm the unloved child of a mistress?..."

He paused, looking up at the dark, starless sky. A breath fogged the cold air in front of his face. "...What if father actually does love me, too? Then Yūsaku and I would be the same. Somewhere deep inside he might be able to kill without remorse. I'm sure of that." He looked into the distance where the Second Lieutenant had left. "He's just deceiving himself."

His words were barely audible now, more like thoughts slipping loose from his mouth. "So, in order to make sure of my father's love…"

His eyes tracked the dim shape of a figure rising from the shadows of rubbles. His voice dropped further.

"I just need to get rid of Yūsaku, right?"

"You're so right." Usami answered, his voice calm as he stepped out of the trenches' window.

Ogata said nothing for a moment. Thinking. "But if I remove Yūsaku, do you think he'd be upset?"

"Well, Yūsaku's still his son." Usami rubbed his chin. "So,... probably pretty upset."

"Sure. But that's not who I meant."

"Hm?...Ah, Are you talking about Superior Private—?" he spoke your name. Then, he waved it off. "That guy'd only be sad for a while, since Yūsaku is sorta important to him. But what matters more is how your father feels, Hyakunosuke!"

That's true.

Although, he wouldn't be surprised if it was a little biased. Usami doesn't like you.

Back in the barracks, you were getting Tsurumi's attention because you were getting Yūsaku's attention. And Usami—being the little desperate and loyal soldier that he was—held a one-sided grudge towards you.

Ogata wouldn't call his 'jealousy'—not the way Usami meant it. He just thinks that Yūsaku shouldn't have looked your way to begin with. Nothing too crazy, it's only reasonable.

What bothered him—annoyed him, really—was how Yūsaku had a habit of slipping your name into every damn conversation. Not that it could even be counted as a conversation; Ogata only ever asked about Commander Hanazawa. But still. It was like an itch on his ears.

Yūsaku should just leave you alone. You were completely fine without that faker anyways.

Had Yūsaku not forced himself into your life, you wouldn't have even caught Tsurumi's eyes.

When Usami realized Ogata wasn't exactly thrilled about the whole thing either—in the communal bathtub, with their dicks hanging out and everything—Usami proposed they work together to sabotage your relationship with Yūsaku.

That way, you'd no longer be useful to Tsurumi and they'd also set you free from the shackles of the glory-hog Yūsaku. 'Basically a win-win-win,' Usami nodded.

At the time, the rumor regarding your suspiciously close relationship with the Second Lieutenant of your platoon was light. Like an inside joke few soldiers would say on a whim.

Not only that.

Tsukishima once told them that Tsurumi had struck up a conversation with some old, half-lost fellow he and the First Lieutenant helped get home—and, would you believe it? The man turned out to be Yūsaku's neighbor. What were the odds of that?

Kobayashi was the old man's name. He spoke of how the young officer next door was—and he emphasized it like it was obscene or something—'friends' with a mere Superior Private.

'I saw them go into his home.' He shook his head. 'I do hope Lord Hanazawa corrects his boy when he gets home. I can't imagine he'd allow his son to be so careless about his image.'

'Our commander does care about the Hanazawa's reputation, wouldn't you say, Hyakunosuke?' Usami murmured, his voice dripping with mischief. 'Makes you wonder what would happen if he caught wind that his golden son was tangled up in a scandal about his… 'preferences.''

Ogata saw that covetousness in Usami's eyes.

Though what ended up staring back at him was his own.

You were removed from Tsurumi's platoon the following week.

According to those who kept an eye on you: you were isolated. You kept your head low and your voice lower. You were even more withdrawn than the known odd thumb—Ogata.

Yūsaku had even stopped interacting with you.

Whatever Lord Hanazawa had done, it worked.

You were alone now.

He'd done it. You'd loved Yūsaku, but Ogata had proved what you refused to see and what Tsurumi had gotten wrong—Yūsaku hadn't loved you back. If he had, he wouldn't have left you like this.

Hah. And to think all be had to do was let Usami run his mouth.

But Tsurumi didn't back off so easily. The sudden transfer of a single private, attributed to some vague "administrative reassignment," struck him as suspicious. And when something felt off, he dug. Information was his specialty, after all.

There had to be a reason Hanazawa Kōjirō had singled you out. Apparently, it wasn't just over a minor scandal he'd overheard—no. Thanks to Usami and Ogata's little misconduct, it opened up a push for the older man to find something out. Something more personal to the commander. Which opens up a clearer path for him.

Usami and Ogata didn't know what it was. Tsukishima and Kikuta wouldn't say.

Whatever Tsurumi found, it led him to pull a few strings—enough to have Ogata reassigned to your platoon, under the same convenient excuse.

You came to a realization… Ogata was right.

You and he were no different. He understood you—and accepted you—in ways no one else did.

So, pushing past any past grievances, you clung to him even more.

After a few months of hearing you ramble about things you like, how ass everyone in the platoon was, making you sit through him correcting your shooting posture—but there was one memory Ogata remembered vividly.

It was during a routine gun training session. You had finished your turn under the Sergeant's supervision and were heading back to your place. The next group walked by, and Ogata was among them, gun ready.

As you passed, you whispered just enough for him to hear, you said 'knock 'em dead, Hyakunosuke.'

Ogata and the others got into position. The Sergeant gave the command to fire.

First shot, closest target: dead center.

Second, a little further: dead center.

The third, the fourth and lastly, the fifth. The furthest one of them all. The one that separated an average foot soldier from a true marksman. And Ogata had proved to the sergeant that he was truly one of a kind many times.

It was within 300 meters. He can definitely make that shot once again.

'Knock 'em dead, Hyakunosuke.'

Your quiet words of encouragement echoed in his head and he aligned his sight on the target. His finger readied on the trigger—′Hyakunosuke′?—his grip tightened way too soon.

BANG!

The bullet flew, and hit the target. Just slightly off the middle.

Slightly off the middle…

…Slightly off the middle?

And just like that, Ogata's perfect shooting log streak ended at that moment.

• ⊱𑁍⊰ •

His brows furrowed, eyes almost glaring daggers at you when it was time for the next group came up. After the training, he approached you.

You immediately express support, "don't worry, I'm sure that shot earlier was just a fluke—"

"That, earlier. Never do that again." He stated, frowning. "Just stick with 'Ogata' from now on."

"What?" You froze for a moment. "I just thought since you called me by mine…"

"Then I'll stop addressing you as such." Ogata said. "It's even then."

You raised a brow and blinked. "O…Kay? Alright."

• ⊱𑁍⊰ •

He didn't notice it back then, but he'd completely fumbled that interaction.

Still, it was obvious—you were comfortable around him. Even if he had insisted on the formality, at the end of the day, you'd call him by his first name with the same casual tone you used for Yūsaku.

And Tsurumi still saw something in you. Because of that, he once again relied on Ogata to get closer.

Ogata thought he had the last laugh.

Now, both you and Tsurumi were watching him.

And for the first time, it felt almost… perfect.

But the false shepherd didn't quit. He wasn't done with you yet.

When the division was drafted into battle, Ogata's hold on you slipped through his fingers. And he found yourself—almost instinctively—melting back into Yūsaku's embrace.

You were doing so great.

'What was up with you?' He wondered.

What made that family so special?

What made that Hanazawa so special that you lost all your sense to chase after him?

He left you. He clearly doesn't care. And Ogata even proved it.

So why was it that your heart's never where it should've been?

You…

And father…

Are the two birds he will kill with one shot.

His gaze lingered in the distance. When he spoke, his tone was low—steady, almost certain. "Right. Only a little fuss, then it'd be over."

• ⊱𑁍⊰ •

In a sense, it was admirable to sacrifice your life in a war. If your death will be seen as honourable, you were pretty content with that.

The old scars were healed.

The new ones… you weren’t sure when or how you got them. They just appeared.

The fighting kicked off around September. You only realized it was December when someone mentioned the cold had gotten worse. Time had slipped somewhere—blurred, washed out—until suddenly First Lieutenant Tsurumi of your former platoon was raising the flag in some kind of triumph you couldn't quite feel.

More than half the men you'd marched out with were gone. The ones left whole were buried. The others… whatever scraps you could gather ended up in the dirt or tiny bones to bring back to the family.

You wondered how much compensation would be enough for this.

Not 'deaths,' though—command didn't like that word apparently. They preferred to call it just 'casualties.'

The battle over 203 Hill might've been over. But the war was still ongoing. There's no guarantee that you'll make it through the next year in the next battle, you highly doubt it, even.

A person called your name out, you glanced behind you to see who it was. "Corporal Tamai." You saluted.

You've met him when you first joined, he was a rank above you. He didn't really leave an impression on you, but you'd say he was a pretty good soldier as well. Now, he looked at you with those eyes of sympathy. An ounce of pity, between man and man.

"We're going to bury our Second Lieutenant Hanazawa soon. As the man closest to him, we thought you'd do the honor." He approached you, holding out a shovel.

You looked at the shovel.

Tamai pushed. "You two were still close friends, right? I'm sure he would want that at least." He asked.

"I think you're mistaken. We weren't that close, really." You replied.

He blinked, "you weren't? But I remember… nevermind, we've already voted so you're doing it." Just like that, the shovel was tossed into your arms.

"Uh… sure."

• ⊱𑁍⊰ •

When the time came for the burial, you ended up handing it over to the nearest private without much thought.

"Huh?" He blinked, "me?"

You placed the shovel next to where he was sitting. "Yeah, my other arm is injured right now. I don't want to tear a tissue." You casually lied through your teeth.

He scratched the skin underneath his scar with a raised brow. "I mean… couldn't you give it to someone of your division at least? I'm from the Tōkyō 1st—"

"Please, we're all equally soldiers." You sighed. "Are you going to do it or not?"

"I mean, I could, but—"

"Thanks, Private." You turned your heel.

The private's eyes didn't leave you as you walked away.

• ⊱𑁍⊰ •

You sat hunched over your tin, the dull clang of metal utensils and muttered conversations around camp faded into background noise. Your rice has gone cold. Not that it mattered.

You ate alone. It's nothing depressing, just that you needed some alone time right now.

"Are you Superior Private—" a familiar voice called your name from somewhere nearby. "—from the 7th Division?"

'Great, this guy again.' You thought. You didn't respond. Just keep your eyes on the food, mouth chewing, scooping more rice into your mouth.

The man approached anyway, stopping beside you. "You're from the same platoon as Second Lieutenant Watanabe, right?"

You didn't even look up. "Yeah. What's up?"

"I wanted to ask you something."

"Sorry." You cut him off flatly, not even pausing in your eating. "I'm not taking questions."

"But you don't even know what it is yet—"

You glanced up at him at last, and immediately recognized the scar carved over the corner of his face. The same man from before. You stared at his sleeve emblem. Hm. A Private First Class.

Your voice came out blank. "Can't you see I'm having lunch, private? If you don't shut up, I'll just get up and go elsewhere myself."

He didn't say anything.

You kept eating in silence. Bite after bite. You didn't look at him again, treating his presence like he was insignificant. Finally, when you'd scraped up the last sticky grains, you set the kit down, your elbow resting on your knee, still chewing.

He was still standing there. "Are you done eating?" he asked.

You didn't respond. You got up—TWAK—his shoe knocked the mess tin out of your hand, making it fly away like a toy ball. It hit the ground with a clatter, scattering flecks of rice and dirt.

Before you could even register what had just happened, his fist balled in your collar up and the other clamped onto your jaw, forcing your head up to meet his wild, furious eyes.

"WERE YOU AND HANAZAWA YŪSAKU CLOSE?! YES OR NO?!"

Your hands shot up, grabbing at his collar and wrist. "THE FUCK—WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM?! LET GO OF ME!"

"HOW LONG ARE YOU GOING TO SULK YOUR PANTS?!" He shouted, spittle landing on your cheek. "DON'T YOU EVEN THINK ABOUT HOW HE'D FEEL WITNESSING CRAP LIKE THAT FROM HIS BEST FRIEND?!"

You shoved at him, pushing back against his unnatural strength. "YOU'RE FUCKING CRAZY!!"

"I KNOW WHAT I AM BUT WHAT ARE YOU?!"

You grabbed his face and pushed his back, moving your feet so he'd let go but he just followed you on—still clenching on your collar and face.

"HAS HE EVER TRIED FRIED SHRIMP BEFORE?! DOES HE LIKE IT?!" He screamed.

"WHY THE HELL DOES THAT MATTER?!"

"SO YOU DON'T CARE WHAT HE WANTS EITHER? SHIT!! YOU'RE A LOUSY FRIEND, YOU KNOW THAT?!"

"THAT'S NOT MY FUCKING FAULT!"

"THEN WHOSE IS IT?!" He shook you once. "HUH?! WHOSE?!"

"THE FUCK SHOULD I KNOW—WHO THE HELL EVEN ARE YOU?!"

"I'M NOBODY," he yelled. "I DIDN'T MEAN ANYTHING TO HIM—BUT YOU PROBABLY DID!!"

Shut up.

Though before you could even spat back—

"HEY! BREAK IT UP!"

A rough voice barked from behind. A sergeant stormed in, flanked by two others. "What the hell is this?! Hands off, soldiers!"

The man with the scar finally let go. You let your arms drop as well. Both of you looked away like children caught fighting behind the barracks.

"You picking fights during meal hour? We've got wounded trying to rest, and this is what I walk into?!" The sergeant barked again, jabbing a finger at both of you. "I don't care if one of you is considered a war hero—Get into another fight and I'll write you both up!! Understand?!"

"Yes, Sergeant." You said.

"Yes, Sergeant." He said.

After being chewed out by your grumbling superior, that was when the lesser private—apparently a 'war hero' now, seriously when was that a thing?—stooped down, lifted your mess tin off the ground, give it a complete wipe, and set it in your hands.

Then he walked off.

You stood there in silence. "Tch," you scowled. "Dick."

• ⊱𑁍⊰ •

You weren't there for the burial.

You didn't have the heart to.

The soil still looked fresh, despite the frost hardening its surface. Offerings lay scattered across the hilltop—dried up branches, bits of cloth and tags fluttered faintly with each breeze, but none dared to sing.

One spot stood out amidst the lines of wooden markers.

A flag, speared firmly into the dirt, slumped from its pole. Once, it flew in the wind in bright colors, now—like a shot bird, its wings slumped down with stains of its host.

You stood in front of it, your shoulders squared but unmoving.

First Lieutenant Tsurumi stood beside you, his gloved hands clasped neatly behind his back. He hadn't said anything since the two of you arrived. Not right away. He knew to give you that moment.

You weren't sure how he convinced you to visit Yūsaku's grave, but he did. Maybe he just had his way with words. Maybe you just respected him, even.

Believed in his cause.

The silence between you both lingered, stretched thin by the low moan of wind rolling passed the hill.

You stared at the base of the flagpole.

His final banner.

Tsurumi finally spoke, his voice soft but certain. "Tomorrow morning, we will hold a ceremony for those who have fallen at 203 Meter Hill."

You didn't respond at first. Your gaze flicked to the disturbed earth beneath the flag, where you knew—you knew—Hanazawa Yūsaku's body was resting.

Tsurumi tilted his head forward slightly, finally speaking. "Second Lieutenant Hanazawa Yūsaku was a great man. He truly lived up to his title as a flagbearer." He said. "Unlike his father, he didn't see ranks nor sides. At least… not for you,"

The way he said your name made your spine crawl. But you were silent.

Tsurumi looked at the grave, then at you. "Do you wish to say something? I will give you some space."

Your mouth parted, but the words caught behind your teeth. After a long breath, you finally answered.

"I don't have anything to say to him," you stated quietly.

Tsurumi didn't respond right away. Then he asked, his tone calm and deliberate, "Are you certain? This may well be the last time you'll ever stand face to face with him alone."

Your jaw tightened. Your gaze dropped, just slightly, to the patch of soil where the flag's wooden shaft pierced through. The wind pulled at the cloth gently.

The two of you stood there in silence again.

Then, quietly, he said your name. "During the ceremony," Tsurumi began, "I want you to stand as one of the men up front. Not behind or at the very bottom."

Your shoulders tensed slightly. "That wouldn't be right, sir."

"Why is that?"

You exhaled slowly, your breath white against the wind. "That spot's for the ones who honored him right. And the ones who actually showed up for him." You glanced down at your own shoes, coated in dry mud and ash. "Besides, I'm not even a flagbearer."

A beat passed before the rest slipped out, quieter than you'd like. “I don’t deserve to stand at the front.”

Tsurumi's gaze lingered—not on the grave, but on you. He watched how you breathed, slow and steady, but just a little too shallow. How your jaw had remained clenched when you answered. How your eyes hadn't blinked in a while.

And then, he stepped closer.

You almost flinched when his arm wrapped around you. It wasn't forceful. There was no grip or command in it. Just a quiet presence, solid and warm against the cold. Tsurumi's gloved hand rested gently on your upper back. His voice came next, low and sure by your ear.

"Do not lie, private. From beginning to end, you were a dear friend to Hanazawa Yūsaku."

You didn't return the gesture. But you didn't pull away either.

• ⊱𑁍⊰ •

Some might have said you shouldn't be the one to hold the flag, and you agree—but Tsurumi Tokushirō deemed that you were. He saw something you didn't dare admit. For someone who can read people like open books to recognize the quiet intimacy of your bond—it meant something. It meant that, in the end, you and Yūsaku were still ready to be each other's shoulder to cry on.

That meant a lot to you.

Since Yūsaku had died holding the flag, it felt only right that a soldier should pick it up and hold it even higher.

That morning, you did so. While a chosen First Lieutenant—Tsurumi of Yūsaku's platoon—gave his speech, you and other flagbearers held the flag up to the sky.

The image of the rising sun flew with the wind.

Tsurumi, holding his cap close to his chest, announced. "And today, we mourn the loss of our fallen comrades. May their souls rest in peace and be reincarnated in a future era. An era where Japan flourished in power and tranquility." He inhaled, taking his time. "And we all hope… that that era will come very soon. However, though we have won this battle, we have yet to win the war. Until then, we will continue to fight. To lift our guns. To swing our bayonets. Though how bloody it may be, we must remember this: This is for the empire, for the royal family,..."

Your grip on the flag tightened. Your eyes drifted over the ranks.

"...for your families. Parents, grandparents, siblings, distant relatives, wives, and children—all of whom are waiting for you to return…"

Some men wept openly, snot and all, though they tried to keep a straight face.

He was right. Your mother and father were still waiting. Your baby sibling on the way, too. You reminded yourself how great of a son and brother you'll be to them if you survive this war… when you survive this war.

"...For your fallen brothers-in-arms, who fought just as fiercely as you did—men we ate with, slept beside, and trusted with our lives. Their souls will rest easy knowing we've won, and their families can finally breathe."

Your brothers…

Fujita Toru,

Imai Kazuhiko,

Nishimura Choso,

Nomura Takeshi,

Ōta Haruki,

Yokoyama Gorō,

Kiyoshi Sugiyama,

Miyazaki Shintarō,

Harada Isamu,

Suzuki Yoshino

…so many names you'd come to know, before and after the war.

And of course—how could you forget his name? You didn't have to speak it. You already carried it with you,... always.

A few quiet sniffles reached your ears from behind.

Tsurumi stood there, tall yet respectful. "That is how we honor them. So that not one of their deaths will ever be called 'in vain.'"

The young Private First Class kept his head low. His eyes scanned the area full of men struggling to bite back a sob, all for him to land his line of sight back to that one Superior Private of the 27th Regiment, Hokkaidō 7th Division.

A strange character that man was, while others were bending backs to not break down publicly, you were as stoic the night he first met you.

Some people grieve death differently, and perhaps you ran out of tears to cry.

Even he had to admit to himself that kicking your mess kit and low-key wrestling you was a little bit too far… He approached you out of curiosity, just didn't expect himself to be pissed off by your choice of words. That part was on you, actually, he shouldn't even be feeling guilty about it.

He took in your most iconic features. It was definitely those scars on your face. A piece of meat missing from your ear, and the reasonably small scar line on one side of your lip…

…And then, that.

He paused, blinking at the singular trail of tears rolled down your cheek. Then another, then another, tracing its quiet path over the lines of your face.

You were crying.

Like, actually.

That was fine. Expected, even. No need to worry—it'd only be a matter of time before you snapped out of it.

In the meantime, Ogata could be the shoulder you allowed yourself to cry on.

Your vulnerability wasn't solely reserved for the golden children of the world. Even someone as ‘defective’ as the son of a wildcat could earn it.

The First Lieutenant placed his cap back on his head, and ended his speech with one last sentence.

"We will now dedicate a moment to remember those who fell at 203 Hill…"

• ⊱✿⊰ •

Bonus Scene:

"Hey, slow down! I haven't finished mine yet," Yūsaku said, puffing on the steaming noodles.

You leaned back, smirking. "That's because you keep taking your time cooling it down. You know it's supposed to be hot, right?"

"Easy for you to say. You’re already halfway done," he protested, jabbing at a stray strand with his chopsticks. "You eat like you haven’t had a proper meal in weeks. You are eating properly, right?"

You lifted up your own bowl. "Cold weather makes a man hungry. Besides, this is one the only thing that actually warms me up nowadays."

He puts the noodles in his mouth and immediately retracted. "That's still too hot."

You laughed. "You'll get used to it, like me."

"You didn't used to like it?"

"Oh, no. The first time I tried it, it spilled on me." You sighed, "almost brunt my crotch..."

"Pshh–" He let out a soft laugh. "Really? I don't remember you being so clumsy."

You waved. "Yeah, well it was a two, three time thing—anyways, take your time. Let me cover the bowls. I've got changes."

The moment you even touched your pocket, he straightened and raised one hand.

"I don't mind."

"Nah, it's okay—"

"Put your hands back. I'll pay for us."

Theeeeeeere we go again. He always does that. Fighting for the bill in the nicest yet most insistent way ever.

Although, it was true that his monthly salary tripled yours and you quite literally couldn't afford to spend money dilly-dally—but the fact that you barely had any chance against him to pay, makes you a bit embarrassed.

You cracked a low smile. "Hey, now. I invited you out, Yūsaku. I can definitely—"

"—But I have more than enough to cover for the both of us," he said. “Don't take this away from me."

You raised a brow. "Take what away? Your money?"

"It's nothing, really~" Yūsaku sing songingly replied, "It just feels good to help someone who matters to me."

Your fingers stilled.

Uh… oh boy…

Sometimes, you think Yūsaku's just too friendly for his own good.

You retreated your hands, then clung onto the cup of tea, probably to ground you. "...Is that so? Haha. That's very… uh, punctual? But I like to help friends out, too. I can chip in, you know."

"Do you not like it when I pay the bills?"

You nervously chuckled it off again. "Makes me feel like a leech. Or some pitiful dog you'd see in the streets."

"Oh, well that's not how I think of it at all," he said. "It's not just charity or duty. I enjoy this. Being able to share a meal together every once in a while."

You looked down at your tea, swirling the liquid inside the ceramic cup as if it might cool the sudden rise of heat in your face. "You're going to spoil me to death. Do you realize grown men aren't supposed to be this pampered? I'm feeling like the prince himself here."

You hoped the tiny laughter that followed would make it come off as more of a joke rather than a statement.

"Maybe a little." Yūsaku's eyes crinkled in a way that made him look younger, more like the idealistic boy who was raised eating white rice on a regular basis. "But it's fine~"

You stared at him. Not sure what to say. Not sure if you could say anything that wouldn't come out as awkward or depressingly embarrassing. You sat back, picking up your teacup to mask your face.

He's going to get into trouble one day saying things like that.

But, maybe that's just you.

'You'd be surprised.'

Mhm…

You inhaled. "So, there's somethi—"

"Are you two gentlemen enjoying the meal? Would you like anything else, sir?" The generous waiter came.

Dang it.

Yūsaku reached for it with habit. "No, thank you. We'd like to pay now."

You didn't stop him as he counted the yen.

Maybe another time.

• ⊱✿⊰ •

Bonus Illustration:

(It's more of like a copy and paste and a little bit of tweaking but y'know. And of course, this is just how I think "you" look because "you" give me the vibe of a character who's face is pretty unrevealed. But you guys can definitely make your own because it's you at the end of the day!)