Work Text:
There is a line between love and hatred. That line is best akin to running water. In some hearts, it is an insurmountable distance, impossible to trespass from one shore to the other. It can rush fierce, deep, and wide.
Sugimoto always thought he was someone with two feet on the ground. Even if that meant standing on the hardened ground in the lowest ring of hell for all the lives he has overtaken. He never thought he’d cross that line between love and hatred.
Two passionate feelings that in any rational person’s heart would be more greatly divided. Ever since he woke up in the custody of Leitenant Tsurumi he has felt significantly less rational.
No, he hasn’t been rational in a long time. Maybe not since Port Authur. Maybe from the moment his father died before his eyes and he set fire to his childhood home. Maybe from the moment he let go of Umeko as his future, or from the moment he accepted Asirpa as his salvation.
Somewhere along the way, Sugimoto became a man void of rationality, being guided by his instincts and a refusal to die. Hatred and love never fit into his chest together. He loved Toraji and Umeko. He convinced himself he hated the Russians as he tore them down to nothing, but after he stained his hands the hatred never seemed to be real to begin with.
Sugimoto loves Asirpa. She is his partner, the one he is fighting tirelessly to get back by his side. It’s different. It’s not the love that shares a river with hatred. It’s family and loyalty. It’s everything he used to love about himself before his immortality condemned him. Yes, he loves Asirpa in a way so far away from the realm of hatred.
When Sugimoto thinks of Asirpa, as he often does during the long hours spent on the dog sleds, it warms his frozen limbs. It gives him clear direction and purpose. It’s as if by holding her once more he will reclaim the missing pieces of himself.
When Sugimoto thinks of Ogata, even when he tries not to, it brings about a different heat. It starts in his stomach. Always his stomach. Some deep, bubbling feeling that boils his stomach acid. It tears up his chest and runs down his arms like a hot waterfall. It’s a feeling that pools in his palms, forcing him to squeeze the reigns of the dog sled. An itch to strangle the sniper with his bare hands. He hates Ogata. There is no doubt about that feeling.
Thinking of Ogata is like marching into that river, standing in the rapids that rip at his clothes and feet. He can’t seem to decide which shore, love or hate, to run to even as the threat of being swept under by the current that builds in his body.
Sugimoto hates Ogata. Hates him for helping Kiroranke take Asirpa from him. Hates him for killing Wilk. He hates Ogata for the undeniable truth that he has betrayed Sugimoto in every way.
So Sugimoto stands in the river between his feelings, eyes focused on the shore of hatred.
The agonizing part is when the feeling bubbles higher than Sugimoto’s chest. When it rises to his mouth and his lips grow chapped thinking of the sniper’s sharp profile. The way it trickles back down his throat, filling his lungs painfully the same way hearing his name in Ogata’s voice used to.
It burns his nose. The rushing, icy air of Karafuto only reminds him of the way Ogata’s styling grease once filled his nostrils. No doubt he still keeps the small tin of pomade on his belt next to his ammunition pouch. When Sugimoto closes his eyes against the wind he can see dextrous fingers raking through sleek hair.
The most painful place the feeling touches is his head. It’s no mystery. How could that bullet hole, that chunk of him now missing not call out in remembrance of its’ creator?
Sugimioto’s mind screams out for Ogata.
Nothing makes Sugimoto more drawn to the shore of love than that bloody hole in his skull. A hole carved by Ogata’s artistry.
It’s that very wound that makes Sugimoto wonder where in this torturous river Ogata may stand.
There is no doubt that Ogata pulled the trigger. No one else could have made two consecutive shots like that. Coupled with Inkarmat’s testimony about Kiroranke, Sugimoto has never been more sure of anything before. He left Sugimoto to die.
Ogata shot him. Sugimoto loses no sleep questioning that. He doesn’t even question that it is a betrayal of the highest order. That’s what makes the rapids so vicious.
They spent so many nights as the last two awake. Fleeing Tsurumi. Heading to Abishiri. There were nights when Ogata’s heavy voice sent Sugimoto to sleep. There were times they fought for each others’ lives. There were moments when Ogata touched Sugimoto’s skin and he began to let trust swirl between them. Sugimoto has been wronged, shot, and left for dead by a man he should have never allowed himself to care for to begin with.
The others are satisfied believing that Sugimoto lived because of who he is. Maybe that’s true. Certainly, his recovery is due to his own physiological advantages, whatever that includes. The seventh and Tanigaki have no problem accepting the simple explanation that Ogata did his best to kill Sugimoto that day and Sugimoto’s refusal to die was all that defied Ogata’s bullet.
Sugimoto is not so sure anymore.
A betrayal. No question. An assignation attempt? A failed execution? Sugimoto’s doubts keep him awake at night wishing for a deep voice to soothe him. For every dedicated thought of Asirpa’s safety, there is a nagging, distracting thought for Ogata.
He thinks back on the moments when he stared death in the face and dared to say ‘no’. He can recall the roaring sound of blood laced with immeasurable adrenaline in his ears. The way his will filled his chest and exploded out his mouth in defiance.
Being shot at Abishiri was different. He had promised to return to Asirpa, of course, his devotion to her repelled all efforts of death to take him. Ogata’s betrayal was so swift and beautiful. No time to fight back. No enemy to exert his stubborn will against.
And yet he woke in the world of the living anyway. Sugimoto is not so prideful or misguided by ego to accept what the others do so easily.
Sugimoto’s feet sink into the river between love and hate. Weighed down by the terrifying possibility that Ogata let him live.
He longs for the shore of hatred. He wishes for the relief of a single-minded emotion to put on Ogata. The spoken promises of how he plans to kill the sniper with his hands are nothing but a balm to soothe his conflicted heart.
If that bullet wound was right between the eyes. If only it had been through the center of his brain. If it had, Sugimoto wouldn’t question anything. He would know exactly what Ogata meant to do that night at Abishiri.
When the dog sled goes over a bump in the snow, icy wind slips under the porcelain plate covering his healing wound. The freezing temperature burns the fragile membranes. An enflamed reminder.
As an act of devotion and a survival strategy, Sugimoto will not underestimate Ogata’s skill. If Ogata had wanted to, Sugimoto is certain he could have shot him right down the middle.
The only contention is if Ogata simply failed and Sugimoto is a hopeless romantic standing alone in the dangerous, increasingly frigid waters, or if, by some small chance, Ogata is downriver wondering if Sugimoto lives and if he understands the confession of a bullet placed two inches to the left.
Even as they draw closer together, Sugimoto remains uncertain of how he will react to seeing Ogata again.
If the sniper is smart he will flee when he discovers Sugimoto close on his heels. All of Sugimoto hopes to see Ogata again. The part of him grounded to hate craves to snap those precious, murderous fingers.
The part of him tethered to love longs for clarity. He wants to see the relief, or the shock etched in Ogata’s dark eyes when he sees Sugimoto alive. That will tell him everything he needs to satisfy his conflicted soul.
When Second Lieutenant Koito speaks of Ogata, when he looks down on who Sugimoto almost regarded as a friend, it confirms that Sugimoto’s opinion of the young officer is firmly cemented in the land of hate.
Every use of the term meko oyasi and mention of a geisha mother is another smack of the hammer driving Koito’s place into the ground of Sugimoto’s heart. Still, Sugimoto remains silent when they speak. It does nothing to reveal to Koito and the others how their disdain for Ogata stings Sugimoto. He shares that hate too. They mustn’t come to see what else he feels for Ogata in addition.
When they arrive at Akou, sprinting across the ice flows, Sugimoto can finally push Ogata out of his mind. He is fully focused on Asirpa. Finding Shiraishi is a reunion of brothers that Sugimoto never doubted would come to pass.
He is so close, almost as if he can smell Asirpa again. The familiar earthy scent of her hair has come to smell a lot like serenity. He can’t follow her by that alone but Ryu can. He and Shiarishi follow the loyal dog like a lifeline guiding them not only to Asirpa but to hope and reunion.
When Sugimoto sees their silhouettes in the snow it all comes crashing back. Perhaps he was so focused on Asirpa he allowed himself to forget the sniper, maybe he foolishly believed that in this sea of frozen water, the rushing around his heart would cease.
He sees Ogata standing over Asirpa and the feelings collide. Hate speaks first, it screams and the love in him tucks itself away as it has done so many times.
“Ogata!”
The arrow makes a sick sound. A wet thunk rips through the snow-filled air before Ogata hits the ice. As quickly as hate bursted forward it now shrinks back in shock. Sugimoto moves on nothing but instinct.
Ogata is heavier than Sugimoto often wondered. He rolls and looks up at Sugimoto with only one eye. Inside it is nothing. All the nights spent wondering what he would see in those eyes, only to have those dreams torn out.
Sugimoto rips something from Ogata too. The arrow makes an even worse sound coming out than it did going in. He doesn’t need to look at Asirpa to know her feelings of devastation and shock. He feels them too. The horrible rift between joy at seeing each other and the pain of Ogata dying at their hands.
When Sugimoto thought of holding Ogata’s face it was nothing like this. When Sugimoto allowed himself the terrible pleasure of imagining his lips on Ogata’s skin it was always warm and healing. There was no blood or fear, the taste of poison is a stark bitter contrast to the copper of blood.
He sucks and spits until the taste of poison becomes so weak Sugimoto is unable to discern it from the taste of Ogata’s demolished eye and blood. Sugimoto cradles Ogata’s face for a second longer. A covered hand cupping the quickly cooling skin with more tenderness than the sniper deserves.
The blood fills Ogata’s empty socket and a deep sense of desperation fills Sugimoto’s heart. Love and hate are horrifically unsatisfied. Ogata must live for Asirpa’s soul. He must.
There is no moment to ask Ogata if he knew Sugimoto had lived. If that was his wish. No chance to ask Ogata where he stands between love and hate for Sugimoto. There is no expression in Ogata’s remaining eye to decipher. Sugimoto wraps the wound and watches with torrid emotion as blood stains the cloth above Ogata’s eye socket.
Hatred may have spoken first but love has the last say. Love is in the way Sugimoto prepares Ogata for travel. It’s in the tender movements he hopes Shiraishi and Asirpa will not ask about.
Ogata’s hat is half buried in snow when Sugimoto finds it. He brushes it clean. He pushes back Ogata’s hair with his mittens before securing the warm hat back on his head.
Sugimoto trades his mittens for Ogata’s gloves. Ogata needs the extra warmth or he may go into shock. He could also lose his fingers. His precious fingers. Sugimoto holds the deadliest of them in his own as he exchanges the right glove.
He could live without his fingers. He could live without one of his fingers. Sugimoto carefully tucks the murderous appendage into his mitten. Sugimoto rubs warmth into Ogata’s hands one at a time.
Ogata’s hands are slightly smaller than Sugimoto’s. He never realized until slotting his fingers into Ogata’s gloves. It’s a snug fit, almost not big enough. A distant thought rips through Sugimoto as he pulls on the second glove.
Ogata’s fingers would have felt smaller between his own.
Sugimoto wraps the white sniper's cloak around Ogata tightly before hoisting him onto his back.
It’s a long time before Sugimoto can think of Ogata in isolation from the chaos surrounding them. He must first be a brother to Asirpa and Shiraishi as they lose Kiroranke. It's another flag on the shore of hate he can finally lay to rest. He must ensure they all get back alive, watching the blood-stained snow pass underfoot as he follows its trail from Tsukishima.
Love and hate rear their ugly heads again when the doctor comes to the koutan. Koito lives up to his position in Sugimoto’s heart by attempting to refuse Ogata treatment. The anger burns brighter, fanned on by Sugimoto’s love for Aspira and Ogata.
Any feeling of love turns to panic when they announce Ogata’s death. Hatred fizzles at the thought. He can’t die like this. Not like this. Not when Sugimoto has no answers. For Asirpa’s soul and Sugimoto’s sanity, he will pull Ogata back from the edge of death with his own hands.
There is a line between love and hatred. That line is best akin to running water. In some hearts, it is an insurmountable distance, impossible to trespass from one shore to the other. It can rush fierce, deep, and wide.
Sugimoto stands on his own two feet in the middle of those rushing waters. They surge and overflow, flooding and muddying the banks of his heart as he watches Ogata flee on that damn horse. The bullets fly but will never land their mark. They both know that is Ogata’s art, not Sugimoto’s.
Ogata’s smiling face turns back to Sugimoto and he lowers his rifle. For a moment, however brief, clarity alleviates the pain in Sugimoto’s skull. Realization fills him and trickles from his love-given wound.
Of all the betrayal and death, more than all else, what Sugimoto hates Ogata for the most, is making Sugimoto love him.
‘Come back when you feel all better,’ Sugimoto yells from the middle of the river in his heart. ‘So I can kill you!’