Work Text:
Near a small village in the mountains, a hunter walks in the woods.
The morning sun splashes pink on the snow. Pockets of blue warm to violet, shadows pooling at the trunks of spruce trees. In the distance, a stream still gently murmurs, not yet silenced by ice. Apart from the rhythmic crunching of snow beneath boot, it is the only sound out here, loud against the muted waking of the world.
Unlike the sun and the hidden wildlife, Ogata has been awake for several hours already. His tracks, sloping down the hill at his back and disappearing into the trees, are a mere suggestion of just how long it may have been. Waking has never been a difficulty for Ogata; his early start to the day is nothing out of the ordinary. Nor is his long walk, nor is his draw to the woods. There is a measure of ease and familiarity born of the forest, as if he has spent a lifetime walking it.
Vasily likes to say that Ogata is better suited to the sound of mountain streams and the smell of pine needles rather than the complexities of people, and perhaps he has a point. There is no deception in the natural order, no facade in the separation of predator and prey. There is no hate in the stalking of a deer nor disappointment in the threat of a bear. There exists more open space through which thoughts can roam and less chance for them to catch on the sharp edges of the wants of others. Cities have their benefits, but it is forests which have appeal.
Out here, as he so rarely does anywhere else, Ogata understands who he is.
Soon after sunrise, Ogata comes upon a stream. He finds a fallen tree a fair distance away, brushes off the snow, and settles into position, ready and watching. Indifferent to both the visitor and the cold, the stream flows lazily beyond him. Within its confines, Ogata spots the flash of scales here and there. They are easy enough to catch, but even after all this time a meal with fish can be a dangerous one. Ogata prefers the pleasure of hunting and the safety of birds and Vasily never seems to mind.
He waits, perhaps for too long. His ears numb beneath his hood, his nose drips in the chill, and his joints lock together in the way that he knows can only be loosened with slow creaking stretches- the kind which he is unwilling to do now, while anticipating the arrival of prey. Despite his boots and thick socks, his feet grow as cold as his gloved hands, still waiting at the ready. There are more proactive means of hunting, of course, but waiting is a source of calm all its own. The longer Ogata sits, the quieter his mind becomes. Thoughts of the dead and the abandoned disperse harmlessly across snowdrifts and the memory of his first meeting with Vasily melts in instead.
It is a pleasant memory, despite how violent it is; because of how violent it is. It was one of Ogata’s few, at the time. There have been many more since.
Sunlight spills through snow-laden boughs and a cold breeze ripples through the air. Ogata wonders if the clear weather will hold for Vasily’s return. He is a patient man, suited to solitude and accustomed to Vasily’s long absences, but there is a certain comfort in Vasily’s presence, strange even after all this time. Now in the fourth month of waiting, Vasily is due any day. Each time Vasily leaves, Ogata finds himself looking forward more and more to Vasily’s eventual return in the same way as snow-buried plants anticipate the spring sun.
The feeling is an odd one. Ogata doubts he will ever become accustomed to it.
A familiar call sounds through the winter calm. Ogata tracks the noise with his eye, searching for the source without moving. He finds it in a pair of grouse in a low branch of a distant spruce. Though far, they are within his reach. He shifts, aims, fires. The shot cracks through the silence. Both birds drop.
Finally, Ogata stretches. Long and slow and satisfying, the stiffness of the cold sheets off of him like ice falling from a wind-shaken tree. The waking of muscle brings Ogata’s body stinging back to itself. Ogata rubs his numb legs, slings his rifle over his shoulder, and crosses the stream as his limbs buzz to life. His breaths hang in the air, visible like the exhalation of ghosts.
The stinging stops by the time Ogata reaches the birds, limp on the snowy roots. He crouches down and inspects them, both brown with spotted white bellies and a black blotch on their throats, red lining their eyes. He’s shot this breed before. They’re striking, in a way; Vasily would paint them beautifully. Ogata raises the first by the legs, trails his fingers to the point of its breast, and rips the feathered skin down free of the flesh. He twists his grip around the fragile neck and tears the rest of the bird fully away from the breast and wings, roots around in the remains, and transfers the liver into the breast cavity before tossing the rest aside. It is a less economical method of field dressing than he typically employs, but he has taken to leaving the remains for the wildlife, on occasion. He repeats the process for the second bird as the first rests red on the snow.
Where Vasily’s hands are suited to both killing and creation, Ogata’s hands are meant only for bloody tasks such as this. He cleans his gloves in the snow, picks up the grouse by their wings, and heads home.
-
Footprints in the snow announce Vasily’s return. Their small shared cabin stands framed in the late afternoon gold as Ogata approaches, an uncomfortable pressure in his chest. He pauses at the door, dead birds in hand.
Inside waits Vasily, home again from his time in the city for as long as he might take to create more paintings to sell. Each time Vasily leaves, he invites Ogata to accompany him, and each time Ogata denies him. Ogata has no interest in the world beyond the barrel of his rifle. He possesses no desire to engage with people beyond their utility. People have no use but to buy the animals he shoots and the art Vasily paints.
Ogata kicks the snow from his boots and steps onto the cabin’s patio, knowing that the knocking announces his presence. He sits down and removes his boots, fingers slow with cold and the smallest tinge of hesitation. Reunion is odd; Ogata does not miss Vasily when he is gone, nor is Ogata grateful when Vasily returns. But whenever Vasily leaves a quiet curiosity within Ogata wonders like footsteps sinking into mud if Ogata will bother staying and if Vasily will bother returning, and there grows the slightest relief when, without fail, they both do. Neither abandons the other, and Ogata is surprised by both Vasily and himself. Though not a constant, Vasily’s presence is a certainty, unexpected for its value as well as its promise. The solid thought of a fulfilling future, once incomprehensible, now lies simply in the shape of a man.
The door to their cabin opens from inside and that man smiles down at him. “Welcome home,” Vasily signs.
The sight of him pushes away the lingering traces of discomfort and invites familiarity in its place, pleasant for its ease. “Welcome home,” Ogata says in return.
As Ogata prepares the food for cooking, Vasily tells Ogata of his trip. It was successful; he sold all the paintings he brought, and was even invited to a socialite’s party until he insulted her when she attempted flirtation. Even then, the woman still paid handsomely for two of Vasily’s landscapes. Ogata laughs at that- everyone but Ogata himself seems to prefer Vasily when Vasily doesn’t talk. The irony of Ogata having been the one to have caused Vasily’s reduced speech is not lost upon him.
Vasily’s gestures are hurried and excited, to the point that even Ogata’s quick eye misses details here and there and Ogata has to ask Vasily to repeat himself. Vasily fills in those rare gaps with spoken words, particularly when Ogata’s attention is on his knife, but Ogata can tell the effort of producing intelligible sounds is tiring him even more than usual. During his outings, Vasily exhausts his voice; he uses it only on occasion when he is home. Regardless of the skill and popularity and appreciation of his paintings, there is, at best, a severe limit to the understanding of other people. Whether in his art or his signed words, it is only with Ogata that Vasily is able to be understood through his hands, just as it is only with Vasily that Ogata is able to be understood at all.
During Vasily’s absences, Ogata puts minimal effort into his food. Now, though, he fully utilizes the skill he has built over the years to produce a meal suited to both his and Vasily’s palates. In addition to the birds, he has food traded in town for the bounties of his hunts. He seasons the grouse breasts with salt and herbs and sears them and the offal over open flame, and as the meat rests he roasts chopped yam and potatoes in the drippings. Vasily calls the resulting plates beautiful.
They eat together at their small table. Vasily is delighted with the meal and tells Ogata as much, complimenting him in Vasily’s typical way- one that seems excessive but which Ogata knows is wholly genuine. It is as rewarding as it is unnerving to be recognized, to have his efforts be both seen and acknowledged. Even after all this time, Ogata is unaccustomed to it. He will always regard such a thing with some measure of suspicion, he thinks, no matter how much Vasily proves his doubts to be unfounded. But through both Vasily’s efforts and his own those doubts have quieted over the years, so today Ogata allows himself the satisfaction of Vasily’s appreciation and the casual warmth of Vasily’s company.
Afterwards, Vasily insists on cleaning and asks Ogata to tell him of the hunts he missed during his absence. Ogata humors him and describes the buck he tracked over the course of several days and the nearly violent argument the tanner and the butcher in town had over who would be permitted to purchase its rack. He’d sold it instead to the merchant from whom he buys his ammunition and gun oil. It is Vasily’s turn to laugh then, pausing his cleaning to tease Ogata for always causing problems in town.
Ogata does not deny him. Vasily’s amusement would be enough to bring a smile to Ogata’s lips, but Ogata realizes then that he has already been smiling for some time now.
They sit together on the patio that evening, Ogata’s back resting against Vasily’s chest, Vasily’s arms resting across Ogata’s waist. Hanging above, the moon spills silver across the snow, which sparkles like fallen starlight. The clear night is a cold one, but Ogata does not feel the chill. Instead, he allows himself to relax and enjoy the dim rise of the mountain peaks and the trees, soft from their burdened branches. It is a sight which Ogata sees almost daily, whether in person or in Vasily’s canvases, and one which Ogata has not yet grown tired of living in.
Here in Vasily's arms, as he so rarely does anywhere else, Ogata understands who he is.
Ogata turns from the landscape to Vasily. It has been many years since their meeting and since their time together began. There have been countless opportunities for departure, and yet together they remain. Ogata understands why, though it has taken most of those many years to reach such a conclusion. He understands why he never leaves and why Vasily always returns. He understands why he cooks meals for Vasily and why Vasily paints portraits of him. He understands why he smiles at Vasily’s laugh and why Vasily smiles at his presence. He understands why he feels just as suited to Vasily’s company as he does to the quiet isolation of the forest.
Near a small village in the mountains, a hunter kisses the man he loves.