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Dozing off, Baba felt that Saejima could not fall asleep: through the negligible distance that separated their thin futons, Baba listened to his uneven breathing, the rustling of cloth, the creaking of the floorboards of Okudera’s cabin. Saejima rolled from his back to his side and onto his back again, and Baba watched his chest heave under the down blanket, his broad shoulders lift off the futon. If Baba wanted to reach out and put his hand on Saejima's shoulder blades, he wouldn't even have to straighten his arm — they were lying so close to each other. If he wanted to touch Saejima's neck to find the knot of tension at its base, to gently ease the tired muscles, to run his fingers through the slightly grown-out hair, to chase dark thoughts away, to help him sleep, he could easily do so, but Baba had his hands between his knees and hid his nose under the blanket.
When it would get absolutely unbearable, Baba would try to think of all the ways in which Saejima could finish him off. Baba had seen how fierce he looked in battle, seen how deftly he handled game. Saejima could have butchered him like a rabbit if he had wanted to, but the problem was that he apparently didn't.
Baba closed his eyes. Imagining Saejima killing him was getting harder every day, but it was getting easier to picture other scenes: Saejima clasping Baba’s hands behind his back and pressing him against the wall, Saejima pinning Baba's arms above his head on the floor, Saejima pressing himself against Baba’s back, covering his mouth with his hand. Baba shut his eyes tightly.
With a heavy sigh, Saejima rolled over onto his side, facing Baba and making the floorboards creak beneath them.
“Baba-chan, you sleepin'?” he whispered, his warm breath reaching Baba’s closed eyelids. Baba pressed his hands tighter between his knees.
He listened as Saejima, getting no answer, sat down on the futon, searched blindly for his warm socks on the floor, scratched his stubble. Instead of asking him what happened, Baba began to imagine that now, with himself completely defenseless and Okudera nowhere to be seen, Saejima would kill him. He would fold his blanket three times and smother Baba in his sleep. Baba decided he wasn't going to fight back.
When he felt Saejima's hand on his shoulder, he stopped breathing. He wished something irreparably horrible would happen to him, something that would justify him in the future, but he knew it couldn't. Hesitant for a second, Saejima adjusted the blanket that had slipped off Baba’s shoulder, ran his hand up Baba’s neck in a light, subtle movement, and touched the base of his skull, where his hair had begun to grow out, too.
“Soft,” Saejima whispered, and then his hand disappeared as if it had never been there.
If Baba could whimper, he would, but all he could do was bury himself deeper under the blanket, listen to Saejima stand up, drink water, go back to his futon.
Saejima’s breathing evened, but now it was Baba who couldn't fall asleep.