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They eat anglerfish nabe in a coastal town one day.
Ogata is more than familiar with the dish he’s avoided since childhood. He could make it in his sleep, probably. He knows its scent and texture and taste better than any other food, better than the military rations he choked down for years. He’s going to take the free food, not one to complain about such a thing—eating something he’d rather not beats starving every time.
It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy it. He does. It’s his favorite, after all. The problem is that it reminds him of his mother, slaving over the stove, making it every day, every damn day for dinner. The problem is that it reminds him of his father, how she hoped it would entice him to come back. The problem is that it reminds him of shooting ducks in the field and carrying them to her, waiting for her to notice him.
He tries not to think about it as Asirpa and Kiroranke prepare the meal for traveling group, as each person gets a bowl. Everyone is having such a good time, enjoying the hearty vegetables and thick broth, enjoying each other’s company. He’s not expected to participate – his prickly attitude and introverted behavior is more than understood. While he usually takes great pleasure in the misfortune of others, such as the classic blunders of Sugimoto and Shiraishi, it’s not like he’s particularly conversational.
Whatever they’re doing, he’s not involved, and he doesn’t care. Ogata’s attention is on the hotpot, how it’s familiar and warm and delicious, but not quite how his mother made it. He eats it quickly, not quite enthusiastic but somewhat eager, trying to put his finger on why it’s different. The ingredients are all the same, and yet, something, something is off—
Ogata looks off in the middle distance, eyes unfocused as he’s pulled away. He thinks, maybe if he squints, he can see his mother’s shape, the way he used to see her in the kitchen. Her dark hair, unkept as it cascades down from its updo, the pretty kimono that starts to drift down her shoulder. The rising steam from the hotpot, clouding her face. He licks his lips as he blinks slowly, savoring the taste of the nabe, the faint pleasant etching of a memory. She looked happy, maybe, when she was actually eating with him. It might have been the only time he could recall her smiling.
Drink the broth too, Hyakunosuke, we don’t want it to go to waste, right?
Ogata instinctively brings the bowl to his lips and sips, like a house cat drinking milk. Indulgent, lapping at it almost as if it was the sweetest thing he’d ever had. She used to do the same, with her movements getting sloppy. The broth sliding down her chin, making a mess of the front of her kimono. Belatedly, she’d clean it up.
As he finishes, a hand strays to his rifle, stroking along the stock of it, like he needs it to ground him. He’s thinking too much about her.
But how can he not?
Anglerfish nabe was the last thing she ever ate.
When Asirpa brings him back to the world by prodding him with the spoonful of fish brains, Ogata averts his eyes as he takes in the mouthful. Her eyes are too bright and pure to look at right now.
The conversation strikes up again, but Ogata feels too far away to listen. He hears his name, distantly, among other things, but all he can muster in response is a shrug. Not that its out of place for him. When he hears his name a second time, he can’t even do that.
Hyakunosuke, I’m sure your father will come back next time. He’ll come back for us.
-
-
Ogata wanders away in the middle of his watch.
Ogata isn’t thinking about deserting, Ogata isn’t thinking about anything, really. He shivers in the night, the air cool despite his cloak. He holds the edges of it tighter, pulling it in on himself. His rifle – his grandfather’s rifle, he reminds himself – is heavy on his back, weighing on his shoulder. Surely the man will forgive him if he sets it down a while. He’ll remember where it is and be sure to clean it extra well in the morning. Slim chance of shooting ducks at this hour at any rate.
Being out in the woods makes him feel lonelier than being in the house. But he can’t be in the house with her right now – she isn’t there to care for him. She hasn’t been there to care for him in some time. Her eyes seem to pass over him, look through him like he isn’t present, just a ghost lingering around.
I just want her to look at me.
He tries hard to be the man in the house, tries hard to be what his father cannot. His mother needs that. But it’s hard when he’s so tired, and the ache in his chest is gnawing deeper, and he can’t hold them both.
And the woods – they’re familiar, usually, but he’s used to them in the day. He feels lost, these trees foreign and the moonlight not enough to reveal anything he might use normally to guide himself. His grandfather told him to stay put if he got lost, it would make him easier to find. He sits, heavy, uncoordinated, at the base of a large tree, gathering himself amidst the roots.
Will she come look for me, here? Will she know how to find me?
Ogata tugs the cloak up, his makeshift blanket. He curls his fingers around the hem, stroking it between his fingers. Soft, soft. With his right hand, he strokes over his hair. The stray cats that linger around the house seem to enjoy it when he does that. Palm flat, he strokes over and over. He doesn’t notice how unsteady his hands are, the way they tremble in their tasks. It simply sooths him to touch something and be touched, a facsimile of companionship.
Does she notice I’m not beside her?
“Are you hurt?”
The voice – a man’s voice – asks him, appearing behind him in the dark. He hadn’t heard him coming, focused on the sound of his own shallow breathing. He flinches minutely at the sound. He curls further in on himself. The voice is – soft, kind, gentle even. It was asinine hope, but he—he couldn’t help but hope maybe it was his father coming back at last. But this voice – sweet, youthful – is a stranger.
Ogata turns his head so he can glance at the man without making eye contact. He shakes his head a little to his question.
The man sighs in relief. “What are you doing out here?”
Ogata turns away again, hand dropping from his hair to twist in the fabric of his cloak, symmetrical to his other. The stranger seems familiar for some reason, but the memory is foggy, feeling like a lifetime away. A name floats to him with some effort – Sugimoto, he thinks. He doesn’t remember why he knows that name.
“Don’t know,” he answers.
Sugimoto sits on the ground a few feet away, keeping a safe distance away from him. Ogata can hear him set something down beside him – the familiar clatter of a rifle. Maybe he’s a hunter too.
“It’s just about time for my watch, if you need to sleep… or something.”
Ogata doesn’t need this man to watch for him as he’s about to do for whatever pack of hunters are nearby. He can take care of himself, like he already has been. He just needs the sun to come back up, then he can pluck a bird from the sky and make it back home. “Not tired.”
“Is it something else? Do you need help?” Sugimoto asks.
Yes.
Ogata starts to smooth down his hair again, pointedly not looking at Sugimoto. Not looking at his kind eyes, the concerned furrow of his brow. What can this stranger really do, anyway? What can he do that his grandparents haven’t tried? That he hasn’t?
What comes out is, “No.”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
The tone of it is gently pressing—could be mistaken for maternal, even. What’s wrong--? There’s so much wrong. His father abandoned them, and his mother is dying—slowly, pitifully, grief eating away at her. She would get better if only he would come back. If only, if only, if only—
Ogata swallows thickly, scrunching his face up. He breathes out forcefully, steels his expression purposefully blank. There isn’t a use in getting upset—boys shouldn’t cry. He had to be strong to protect his mother, had to be strong to take care of her. He looks from side to side, as if trying to find the best words to explain to this stranger that yes, something was wrong, but no, he didn’t need help. He could take care of it.
“Father…” The lump in his throat is too difficult to push down and his voice breaks. The sound of his own vulnerability distresses him, the pathetic crack that precedes crying.
Keep it together. Keep it together!
Ogata smooths his hair back again, roughly. He doesn’t really notice the way he begins to rock back and forth, clenching his jaw, eyes screwed shut.
“…something with your parents?”
There’s a kind of hesitation in the question, but Ogata can’t think about why that might be. He struggles to get his mind around how he feels. The specific words to describe his feelings escape him, slip out of his grasp.
“Feel… bad. Small.”
Small is close enough. Small. His body feels too big and rough and his emotions feel too large to handle—he is so used to shoving it down, shoving it away.
Mom needs me to be strong. Mom needs me to take care of her.
“Like a kid?”
The man sounds so… gentle. Genuine. As if he’s confused by his words, even. Of course, he feels like a kid, of course he feels overwhelmed—he’s… he’s just a child after all. Ogata feels a weight lift from his shoulders, relaxing him from it’s burden. The tone the man uses makes him feel… validated. I am just a child.
Ogata glances at him. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause as the man sort of exhales before raising a brow at him as he asks softly, almost unsure, “Do you... want a hug?”
Ogata’s lip trembles before he can reign in his expression. It’s been so long since someone held him, and it’s never been the right time to think of asking. He isn’t supposed to want, to burden, to bother. He’s supposed to be mature—the man of the house. But he’s just a boy, and all children want to be held sometimes. All children want to be cared for gently.
Despite himself, he nods, almost imperceptibly so. He still doesn’t move, afraid of coming apart if he does. Sugimoto shifts, leans forward and wraps his arms around his shoulders. Ogata stiffens initially—this man is a stranger after all, and underneath the jacket and the kimono he can tell he’s strong. The embrace isn’t tight, but easily could be, could be enough to hurt. But it’s… gentle. Ogata relaxes as he thinks this is what the embrace of a father might feel like.
The feeling of loneliness, the human desperation for touch, comes bubbling out of him faster than he can help it. Ogata awkwardly crawls into his lap, clinging to him with his hands grabbing fistfuls of his kimono. With his head tucked under Sugimoto’s chin, he lets his face crumple.
“Is this alright?” Sugimoto asks.
Ogata mumbles an affirmative against the front of his kimono. He has no other hug to compare it to. It’s the first and only time he’d been held by a man before. It’s warm, and sturdy, and steadying, and more feelings he doesn’t have the words for.
Sugimoto’s breathing is deep and even, relaxing. Without thinking about it, Ogata slowly starts to match his pace. Steady inhale, steady exhale, breathing in sync. At some point, Sugimoto reaches up and slowly pets his hair, the same way he was doing it to himself – all palm, smooth, smooth, smooth. Ogata relaxes further, the tension seeping out, his body going limp. He imagines this would be what it would feel like if his mother cradled him. Sugimoto’s broad palm is bigger than hers, a little rougher with callouses, but still gentle nonetheless and warm. So warm it was almost damp. But Ogata didn’t mind. It felt… nice.
“It’s okay if you fall asleep,” Sugimoto says softly.
Ogata doesn’t answer, simply rubbing his face against Sugimoto’s chest in a way reminiscent of a house cat. A small noise, something akin to a purr, vibrates at the back of his throat. The more logical reasoning melts away in lieu of basking in the companionship. Warm body holding him, assuring him of safety, assuring him it was okay to relax, okay to rest. He didn’t need to carry himself anymore.
Ogata found himself asleep quicker than anticipated.
-
-
Ogata stirs in the morning, slow to waking. His neck hurts from the odd angle it’s been held at, shoulders aching from their raised position. The rest of his body feels oddly cushioned, warm and sturdy under all the points of connection—solid heat under his head, under his chest, his legs tangled up and against whatever it is. Too warm and pliant to be tree roots. He opens and closes his hands a few time, finding he’s holding something… soft—not the hard stock of his rifle, or the familiar suppleness of the leather strap. He raises his head, half-lidded eyes taking in the green kimono, white undershirt where it parts, the iconic scars cross-crossing Sugimoto’s face.
Sugimoto.
It hits him slowly, earning a quiet, “ugh.”
Snuggling with Sugimoto, how pathetic. Ogata rolls away, not caring for how his knees or elbows dig into Sugimoto on his way out. How the fuck had that even happened? His memory Is fuzzy—he remembers camping out for his walk, remembers thinking about his mother, taking a walk to clear his head, and then it’s… blank. He doubted he’d gotten lost; he wasn’t as inept as Shiraishi. And he’d certainly not need Sugimoto’s rescue.
“Good morning to you, too,” Sugimoto replies, and the bitterness is palpable.
Maybe it was Sugimoto who had gotten lonely, woken from one of his nightmares. (Not that Ogata really gives a damn, but they were sort of difficult to miss, the way he woke up in a flurry of limbs, crying out and panting.) That had to have been it; Sugimoto had simply come looking for the only person who was awake, unable to get back to sleep, and sat next to him. And then—well, sleep comes for everyone at some point, especially if they’re sitting in the calm and quiet. Hokkaido nights are cold. Bodies seek warmth. Even as much as Ogata sticks to the edge of the cuddle puddle that inevitably occurs in this traveling troupe, he’s seen how people shift and seek out others without ever opening their eyes. Especially around Sugimoto, who’s always running warm—human hot water bottle.
Ogata resists smoothing his hair.
“Not a fucking word,” he hisses, dark eyes narrowed at Sugimoto, who was slowly sitting up with that annoying look on his face that indicates he wants to talk. Better to put whatever happened behind them. It wasn’t going to happen again.
Sugimoto pauses, swallows whatever he was going to say. “Got it.”
Ogata grabs his rifle and slings it over his shoulder, comforted by its familiar weight. He turns his back on Sugimoto, heading back for the camp. He reaches up and smooths his hair back, noticing how its tangled from sleep. When he doesn’t hear Sugimoto following, he turns around to see what the holdup is, stopping at the end of the grove.
Sugimoto is laying on his back, staring up into the canopy of leaves with his brow furrowed, eyes narrowed. His mouth’s set in discontent. They don’t have time for this, whatever slow cognitive issue Sugimoto is having.
“You coming?”