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JAMBO-MOCHI - ASAHIKAWA (1905) - JEALOUSY 

Tsukishima looked up at the sound of the shoji sliding open. The newly commissioned Second Lieutenant Koito stood red-faced and rigid in the doorway, lips trembling. 

"Tsurumi-chuii-don-!" Koito let out a strangled shout, and that was the last thing Tsukishima comprehended before the Second Lieutenant unleashed a verbal flood of Satsuma-ben. "Sir,I’dliketohumblyintroduceyoutoalocalKagoshimasweetIapologizeformyarrogantpresumption,butIhaveheardthattheFirstLieutenantisfondofdango,andthisdangoinparticularhasitsrootsinmartialhistory—Where’s the First Lieutenant?" 

The Second Lieutenant peered eagerly about the room, as if Tsurumi was hidden in some corner and he just had to search for him.  

"The First Lieutenant left for Tokyo this morning." 

"Tokyo?" Koito demanded accusingly, as if it was Tsukishima's fault.

“Central’s become even more tight-lipped about reparations since the Lieutenant General’s suicide; the First Lieutenant went to petition for our men himself. He and Superior Private Ogata should be back—” 

“Ogata? He took Ogata to Central!?” Koito cut him off, indignantly. “If he needed an escort, why didn’t he ask me?” 

“I—” Tsukishima said, trying to reshape the First Lieutenant’s departing comment—(“I’m leaving you here to keep an eye on Yodogawa. Koito? He’ll have his time to prove his worth, later”)—into something flattering. “I believe he wanted you to protect his interests in Asahikawa.” 

This seemed to mollify Koito. Or, rather, it seemed to defeat the Second Lieutenant so that sputtering anger became sullen anger. The other man stalked across the room, and shoved a small, solid wooden pallet in Tsukishima’s direction until he took it. Because of the distraction caused by the Second Lieutenant’s outburst, Tsukishima hadn’t noticed, but the smell of something delicious and grilled filled the air— dango . The walls trapped him in with the scent—and a chagrined, pacing junior officer—making the aroma seem denser, concentrated, inside the small room. 

“Sir, what do you want me to do with this?” Tsukishima asked, balancing the snack in his hands. 

“I could’ve accompanied him,” Koito muttered to himself. “Ogata. Ogata! What’s so good about Ogata!” 

When he looked closer, Tsukishim realized he didn't recognize the type of dango ; two skewers speared each flattened disk of dough, and the entire snack shimmered with a light-amber coating. Curls of steam wafted upwards from the plate, and Tsukishima couldn’t resist breathing in. His nostrils filled with the smell of shoyu and brown sugar. 

“Sir,” Tsukishima said, louder. “What do you want me to do with this?” 

At this, Koito stopped in his tracks and heaved a loud, dramatic sigh, as if Tsukishima was causing him a great deal of trouble by reminding him of his existence. 

“ Jambo-mochi . I heard that the First Lieutenant has a sweet-tooth. Just like Shimadzu Tsunetaka, because which great leader doesn’t have an appreciation for the finer things in life?” Koito said, tone drifting into admiration before he gestured carelessly with his hand. “So, I decided to recreate Kagoshima's local dango , thinking I could share something of my home. They shouldn't even be allowed to call what they stock in the Provisions Depot shoyu , but I persevered, determined to present a dango worthy of Satsuma to the First Lieutenant, and I would have. If. He. Were. Here .”   

“You made this?” Tsukishima said, eyeing the pallet of dango closer. 

"Yes, yes. What does it matter?" Koito said sulkily, resuming his stalking back and forth. "It matters nothing, that’s what. So, Sergeant. Do what you want with it. Toss it into the street. Feed it to the dogs. Hah, you can eat it for all I care." 

For a brief moment, Tsukishima considered obeying his superior and tossing the dish out the window—just to snap the junior officer out of his mood. Instead, he gingerly set the pallet down on the table. As he did so, the light caught on the syrup, and Tsukishima could see his reflection—golden and quivering—looking back at him from within the gloss. Once again, the scent of grilled dango and shoyu filled his senses.

“—I’m an embarrassment to my ancestors," Koito said, continuing his speech, which at some point had diverted into self-pity, to a wall. 

With Koito’s muttering as ambience, Tsukishima picked up the double skewers and took a bite. The glaze was thick, sweet, and salty. The dough was slightly charred, but the hint of ash complemented the shoyu. He took another bite, and an appreciative sound slipped out. 

"Delicious," Tsukishima murmured, to himself.    

“I bet Ogata seduced him." Koito's voice—shrill—re-entered his awareness. “That’s the only reason First Lieutenant Tsurumi would choose him . The child of a wildcat, using what his mother taught him, desperate to get the First Lieutenant to even look at him. Well, he thinks he’s desperate? I’ll show him desperate—”  

"You did a good job, sir. These are pretty tasty," Tsukishima said, chewing. 

"Tsukishima." His name came out as a horrified hiss. "What are you doing?" 

As if prompted by nervous impulse, Tsukishima chose that moment to swallow, and his superior's eyes flicked to his throat as the man watched him with an alarming expression. 

"You said—" 

"I didn't mean it," Koito said, aghast. 

Dumbly, Tsukishima put the empty skewers back on the plate, and Koito screeched. 

And so ended his first proper interaction with Second Lieutenant Koito. 

— 

CHIMAKI - ASAHIKAWA (1906) - HOMESICKNESS 

The Second Lieutenant's attitude toward him ranged from dismissive to petty—apart from ordering Tsukishima around and demanding he recall every detail of the First Lieutenant's campaign, Koito had little to say to him. But at least Tsukishima wasn't an outlier. From what he'd heard, the Second Lieutenant kept to himself, forgoing the other junior officers' drinking parties, absent in the raucous crowd of khaki and dark navy that toddled in and out of bars and brothels. Time passed, and Tsukishima got used to curt dismissals and being ignored. So, when, one day—the season deep in Asahikawa's transient spring—the Second Lieutenant stopped him on his way out of the door, Tsukishima was wary. 

“One moment, Sergeant.” 

His superior held something out, and after a pause, Tsukishima took it. It stuck to his palm, half-coated in crumbly powder. Tsukishima looked down at what appeared to be some half-eaten chimaki then back at his superior officer.  

“Today is Boy’s Day, you know,” Koito said, answering nothing. 

“Is that so, sir,” Tsukishima said. “And what is this?” 

“As you know, I am from Satsuma, specifically Kagoshima, and we eat akumaki on Boy’s Day. I was surprised to see a vendor selling some on Shidan Street, so I bought some.” Koito screwed up his face. “But, it only looked similar. The flavor was completely wrong. No amount of kinako or sugar could fix it.” 

“You shouldn’t buy things from the hawkers,” Tsukishima said. “And what do you want me to do with this?” 

“I didn’t want the rest, but it seemed a waste to throw it away,” Koito said, something sharp and childish slipping into his tone. "Then I remembered: Sergeant Tsukishima doesn't have a problem with gobbling down snacks made for other people.”

"Sir, I—" Tsukishima began, pushing down on his exasperation.

"So get to it! It'll only taste worse the longer you wait." 

Whatever this was—a streak of pettiness or sheer, genuine laziness—it was best to pacify his superior. So, as the junior officer watched, Tsukishima ate out of his hand as best he could. The rice stuck to his palm, and he scraped it up with his teeth, feeling demeaned. But that was fine; Tsukishima could handle a junior officer throwing his weight around, could handle eating out of his own hand like a dog if it kept the Second Lieutenant satisfied and feeling in-control. 

Hajime would have lashed out; Sergeant Tsukishima’s greatest strength was his patience. 

The sticky rice, steamed until congealed, immediately reminded him of sasa-dango, and for a second, he was a boy again and Chiyo was calling out to him with nervous eyes, flushed cheeks, and an unrepentant grin. But, no. Tsukishima tongued the sticky rice stuck on his back teeth. The taste of kinako, nutty and intensely sweet—no doubt Koito added a good amount of sugar in his experimentation—was at the forefront, but under the coating was another flavor, sweet and grassy, steamed into the rice.   

His mind drifted back to the old memory, worn by age and time, of Chiyo sneaking him a dense package wrapped in bamboo leaves, showing him how to untwist wrappings and peel them back from the sticky rice, releasing the pungent, herbal smell of mugwort.

They’d eaten with their hands that time as well, Tsukishima suddenly recalled, sucking the sticky, colored rice from their fingers and smearing anko on their faces. By the end of it, Chiyo, with rice stuck all over her chin and mouth, hair rearing tempestuously in the sea breeze, had looked like a wild, uncared for vagrant—like him. 

It remained one of the few memories where he was truly happy.   

“It’s good,” Tsukishima said, and then, without thinking, muttered to himself, “different from sankaku chimaki.” 

Koito raised an eyebrow.

"...just a simple dessert from Niigata, sir," Tsukishima explained, unused to being the focus of the Second Lieutenant's sharp gaze.

A spark of curiosity entered Koito’s eyes. “I see.” 

“They're both wrapped in bamboo leaf, so I guess I expected something similar. But this is good.” Tsukishima shrugged. “Just different.”

“That’s what happens when you’re far away from home, I suppose,” Koito said, turning back to look out the window. “Even things that should be familiar are offendingly different.” 

He cut a lonely figure against the windowpane. 

“It gets easier, sir,” Tsukishima said. “Almost everyone moved up here to join the Seventh or farm the land. They're all far from home.” 

Koito looked at him with surprise that hardened into something spiteful and cold, signalling to Tsukishima knew he’d said too much. 

“I don’t need your coddling. I'm not a whelp,” the Second Lieutenant spat. 

"Yes, sir." 

"And what do you know?" Koito continued. "When you and everyone else around me are looking forward to seeing the landlocked Naval brat try to play Army and fail?" 

When the Second Lieutenant finished, his face was flushed, and Koito glared fiercely at Tsukishima, as if challenging him to say something. Tsukishima averted his simmering gaze with a deep bow. 

"I'll come back later to collect the supply requests. I apologize for speaking out of turn." 

A quick glance showed that Koito's scowl had deepened, but the junior officer didn't say anything when Tsukishima bowed a second time. 

"I apologize if I said something unnecessary." 

"Wait, Tsukishima," Koito said, just as Tsukishima's hand touched the doorknob. 

[Return point goes here]

The Second Lieutenant passed him a small cone of chimaki— wrapped tightly in chigaya . [1]

“I bought two,” Koito said, handing him a parcel. “You can have the other. This...this one isn't a leftover.” 

"Thank you, sir," Tsukishima said. 

Koito's eyes searched his face, and in that moment, Tsukishima wondered how Rear Admiral Koito's son, who supposedly had the prestige of his father’s name behind him, was adjusting to Asahikawa, if he had anyone who wasn't Tsurumi to confide in.  

And then Koito's expression became refined and closed off, and the man pulled himself up, straight-backed, painfully rigid. 

“You’re dismissed, Sergeant."  

— 

YŌSHOKU - OTARU (1906) - CURIOSITY 

"Sir," Tsukishima said, when the clock read half past twelve, "The First Lieutenant might be preoccupied—" 

"Not yet." 

"Yes, sir." 

"Sir, the regiment-wide marching drill starts at 1500," Tsukishima said, when the clock read two, and the dishes on the table were frigid. "I recommend you eat what you want, now, and I can call the servergirl to package the rest." 

"Fine," said Koito, picking up his fork and knife. "And you might as well help, too." 

After hesitating, Tsukishima pulled out the empty chair and settled into it. 

The midday meal was over for most, and the patrons remaining in the restaurant were scant. The attendant, a squat girl, industriously swabbed the floor between emptied tables. Tsukishima speared the cold beefsteak with a fork and put it in his mouth as he watched the Second Lieutenant drag and smear a dab of Western sauce around on his plate.  

[Return point goes here]

"Do you eat yōshoku[2] often, Sergeant?" Koito asked. 

"Not really. I like the canteen; it's cheaper and closer," Tsukishima said, not mentioning the wide gap between a Second Lieutenant's wages and those of a Sergeant. "Also, I prefer Japanese food." 

The conversation came to a hard stop. The First Lieutenant’s absence was a gaping hole, and the dearth of his easy small talk and charisma ached like an abscess. 

“And you, sir?” Tsukishima asked after a pause, aware that he made a piss poor substitute. “Do you eat a lot of yōshoku ?”

“My adolescence was in Hakodate,” Koito said as an answer, and after seeing the blank look on Tsukishima’s face added, “One of the treaty ports, where all the Westerners flocked to. There were entire streets of foreign settlements. I had yōshoku regularly and could’ve had it daily if I wished.” 

Tsukishima knew Hakodate was a treaty port, but he'd always been concerned with the city as an entry point for foreign weaponry, less so as a vector for Western culture infiltrating the upper class’s diet. 

“Of course, Hakodate’s yōshoku and this—" Koito continued, gesturing with his fork. "— yōshoku are completely different." 

“Different, how?” Tsukishima said, knowing he likely wouldn't understand the answer. 

“The yōshoku in Hakodate—” Koito, seemingly fed up with prodding at his roast beef, set his fork down. “ Vermicelli was seen as more fashionable. But, I always preferred the napolitan . In Tokyo, too, there was one hotel close to the Naval preparatory school that served it. I would sneak in there during class, and the old woman always hid me and gave me free coffee.” 

In every aspect of life, it seemed Koito was loved. 

“That was kind of her.” 

“It wasn’t. What was she going to do, be an accomplice in getting a frequent customer, Lord Koito’s son disciplined for playing hooky?” Koito said, matter-of-factly. 

Tsukishima kept silent; he didn't know how to respond to the surprising bit of self-awareness emerging from the Second Lieutenant. 

“We should leave soon, sir, if we want to get back in time,” Tsukishima said, looking at the clock. 

“What, that eager to escape my company?” Koito said as he sawed off a cube of his roast beef then ate it, chewing furiously. 

“No—” Tsukishima began. 

“It was a joke,” Koito said, cutting him off. “I’ll make it in time with a rickshaw.” 

There was a pause. 

“The First Lieutenant is usually punctual when it comes to appointments,” Koito said, voice carefully even as he glanced at the restaurant’s front door. “So, it must have been something truly important that kept him from joining me for lunch. Even though I was looking forward to seeing him after weeks.” 

Tsukishima made a vague noise of agreement and looked down at his plate. He tried to focus on sawing off another corner of his beefsteak—the strange knife wobbling in his grasp as metal chafed and shrieked against porcelain. 

The clock’s hands ticked onward. Tsukishima watched them out of the corner of his eye then tamped down on his surprise when he noticed the Second Lieutenant staring at him consideringly. 

"What's your drink, Sergeant? I'm parched," Koito said, already halfway flagging down the waitress.  

"I beg your pardon?" Tsukishima said. 

"Your senses aren't dulled enough that you'd refuse a superior when they offer to treat you, are they?" 

"I don't drink, sir." 

"Ever? Now you really have me thinking you're made of stone." Koito raised an eyebrow. "Then what is it you're always nursing at events?"

" Genmaicha ," said Tsukishima, trying not to let frustration seep into his tone. "That’s it. Sir."  

Koito's brows arched higher. Tsukishima prepared himself for another insult. 

"A pot of genmaicha , then," Koito said, turning to the server. "And two cups." 

Tsukishima let the steam from his tea cup tickle his chin as he watched the Second Lieutenant make a carefully controlled and disgusted expression before setting the cup gracefully down on the table. A noble background, it seemed, only cultivated a more elaborate type of uncouthness. 

"What a flavor," Koito said. "To think grass and wet wood could commingle." 

"I didn't expect you to like it, sir," Tsukishima said plainly, sipping his own cup. "You didn’t have to order anything for me." 

"A good leader takes care of his men. Inquires after their family," Koito retorted with what was clearly a recitation. "Buys them drinks. Only when you are as close as brothers, can you fight as comrades." Koito's eyes gained a bright gleam in his as he spoke, and he leaned forward, looking more alive than he’d been the entire lunch. "That's what Father always said. And you are my first subordinate." 

"Yes, sir, but you should’ve ordered a drink for yourself," Tsukishima said, before Koito could further strongarm him into bonding. 

"Perhaps," Koito said, absently. "But, I wanted to try it. Your favorite drink, that is." 

"I see," Tsukishima said, undecided on if he should be offended or touched as the Second Lieutenant attempted another sip and scowled.

After the third unsuccessful sip—"Blergh," said Koito—Tsukishima gestured for the Second Lieutenant’s cup and, after checking that the waitress wasn’t looking, scooped up several spoonfuls of sugar in the tiny Western spoon and dropped it in.  

"You know," Koito commented with a smile after another sip. "After some adjustment, this flavor does have a rustic charm. I could get used to it." 

Like everything that came out of Koito’s mouth, the comment teetered on the border of an insult. Still, as the Second Lieutenant started to chatter animatedly, reaching over to help himself to another heaping spoonful of sugar—Tsukishima’s teeth winced in sympathy—something in Tsukishima settled, rebalanced itself. Tsukishima stopped, examining that feeling. As he did so, Koito moved on to gossiping about the engineer branch. 

Regularity, Tsukishima finally told himself, a relief that came from things reverting to how they should be. He was simply used to this Second Lieutenant—loud, expressive, and smirking at Tsukishima as he blithely bad-mouthed the other branches of the military. 

When Koito unfavorably compared Captain Uehara’s—a vocal critic of First Lieutenant Tsurumi—ears to a pair of abalone tacked onto the sides of his head, Tsukishima took a long sip from his cup to hide his snort.  

—  

KONPEITO - EN ROUTE TO OTARU (1907) - CONDESCENDING APPRECIATION  

“Second Lieutenant, we're almost there. Only twelve kilometres more, and we hit Otaru.” 

" Only twelve," Koito groused. "It would've been zero if the cart hadn't broken down." 

"Walking that far shouldn't be a problem for someone as athletic as you, sir," Tsukishima said flatly. 

“What are the contractors doing with the Government’s money? ‘Hokkaido and its development.’ What development? The roads are full of holes!" 

"In Manchuria," Tsukishima said slowly, "we would march twenty-three kilometres in a day without stopping." 

They made it another two kilometres before the Second Lieutenant collapsed on a nearby log. 

"I can't take it anymore. What do you have to eat, Sergeant?"

Tsukishima frowned. "All I have are rations, sir. Umeboshi , hardtack—" 

"Hardtack?" Koito said, perking up. "Hand it over." 

"There are plenty of restaurants in Otaru—" 

“If our troops could stomach their discomfort to survive and fight on a foreign land with nothing but field rations for months on end,” Koito said, with an air of eager self-sacrifice. “I don’t see why I should be any different.” 

Tsukishima never thought he'd meet someone who would fight to eat hardtack. 

“You don't have to prove yourself, sir," Tsukishima said. "And you shouldn’t pay attention to whatever Super Private Ogata's been saying.” 

“And I didn’t!” Koito said, heatedly, “Why would I listen to a bastard whose only talents are staying far from combat and making his unit hate him? Looking down on other people, as if being born earlier gives him the right to judge my dedication as lacking. Yes; I couldn’t care less about what that ingrate has to say! Now hand me the hardtack!” 

“If I may point out,” said Tsukishima, as he watched the Second Lieutenant pry open the tin eagerly, “we’re ten kilometres away from Otaru, not in Liaodong. And in the war, we ate hardtack not as a snack but to stay alive. Also, sir—we drank water in between.” 

Koito made to respond but interrupted himself by erupting into a coughing fit. Tsukishima sighed and held out his canteen, which his superior snatched from him. As Koito drank in desperate large gulps, Tsukishima reached down and undid the straps of his backpack. He wormed his hand into the crevice between his folded socks and spare gaiters feeling around until he withdrew his hand, holding a square tin decorated with a paper label that had been pink at one point.   

“Hold out your hands, sir,” Tsukishima said, popping open the lid. 

He shook the tin, and two konpeitō rattled out into the Second Lieutenant's palms. 

Tsukishima was developing a private theory that Koito's mere presence had the ability to inject unnecessary drama into everything; he felt justified in this belief when the two konpeitō bounced jauntily off the Second Lieutenant's cupped palms and onto the dirt. 

After a short spurt of loud complaining, Koito, pacified, sat on the log, sucking diligently on two fresh candies and regarding Tsukishima curiously. 

“You don’t strike me as the type to carry konpeitō with you. What, do you run into young children that often?” 

“More than you’d think,” Tsukishima muttered. 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” Tsukishima pressed the tin lid closed. “I picked it up at the Depot on a whim. But, it’s nice to have a change of pace. Something bright.” 

Koito made a noise of complete disinterest.

“And we sometimes got konpeitō with our rations during the war.” 

Koito’s eyes snapped to him and his face lit up. His sucking continued, with renewed fervor.  

"So this is the taste of the Army," Koito said, eyes growing distant—with patriotism, Tsukishima guessed.

"One of the nicer parts, yeah." 

"The taste of toil," Koito continued, cheeks bulging as he rolled the candy around his mouth. "Of brotherhood. Of Army men." 

"Sure." 

"Of their blood and sweat. Of their every bodily fluid." 

"I wouldn't go that far," said Tsukishima. 

"I feel like I'm there, alongside the First Lieutenant, in the harsh, foreign land, enduring everything with my brothers in arms," Koito said reverently, imagination likely stretching across the Tsushima strait and landing on some cloudy, grandiose version of Liaodong from a woodblock print. "Do you think they'll respect me, Tsukishima, as you do? My future men?" 

"Well," said Tsukishima, whose personal belief was that fishing for compliments distinguished you pretty clearly as a shit leader.  

"You're right," Koito said, smiling to himself with an untested confidence, like a young boy who was the best in his village at menko . "I simply have to lead with all I have. One day, when I have rid myself of everything holding me back, I'll be worthy." 

Something in his tone bothered Tsukishima. He tried to ignore it, watching Koito suck on the shrinking konpeitō . 

"You don't need to do anything to be 'worthy,' sir," Tsukishima said, unable to contain his words when the odd, hungry look on Koito's face persisted. "Yes, you have….a lot to work on, but the Army—it isn't the only way to measure how good of a man you are. And when people start to rely on the Military as their only gauge—"  

What am I saying, Tsukishima thought to himself as Koito looked at him in stunned silence. And why was he saying it to Second Lieutenant Koito, jingoistic and immature, of all people? 

"...It becomes easy to throw aside things that used to matter."

The spring in Asahikawa where he'd said too much flashed through his memory, and Tsukishima waited for his superior's defensive bluster. 

"Of course I won't discard anything I truly care about," Koito said, as if baffled that Tsukishima would even think of such a thing. "I don't see why I have to lose anything on the path to becoming a great man." 

"...You’re correct, sir," said Tsukishima, inclining his head, not trusting himself to say any more. 

He waited for his superior to lose interest and return to complaining—about what, he didn't know, maybe the sky being too blue. 

Instead—as the Second Lieutenant continued to stare, and Tsukishima slowly readied an apology—Koito’s expression morphed into something vulnerable and full of want. He inched forward on the log, towards Tsukishima, who stayed stock still, locked in indecision. 

“Do you mean that?” Koito asked. "The first part? That I'm already worthy?" 

The question held a quavering undertone. As the Second Lieutenant pinned him in place with his stare, Tsukishima thought he understood what it was like to be on the business end of Koito's sword. 

"...I don't know, sir," Tsukishima said, slowly. "I just think—you shouldn’t care about what Superior Private Ogata says. That’s all." 

Koito's eyes lost their intensity, and he scoffed, leaning away. “Obviously! I didn’t need you to tell me that.” 

Tsukishima noticed that the other man didn’t move back to his spot on the log. Instead, he remained close to Tsukishima, their thighs almost pressed flush against each other. Koito’s leg jiggled as he fidgeted, fingers clenching and unclenching around his overcoat. When Tsukishima snuck a glance at his face, he saw that his superior’s face looked brighter. 

“Try the hardtack now, sir," Tsukishima said, holding out the tin. 

"I can chew the biscuit easier!" Koito said, surprised. "How did you know that would work, Tsukishima?"

"Sucking on konpeitō creates saliva; I don’t remember which of the men figured it out," Tsukishima said, as he idly tried to smooth a curling corner of the konpeitō tin’s label with his thumb. "It helped when we didn’t have water or our rations were too dry. But it was also just nice—to have. The sugar cleared the bad taste from your mouth."

Koito looked at Tsukishima with an expression of satisfaction and companionable condescension. Tsukishima looked over his shoulder then realized the Second Lieutenant’s bizarre expression was directed at him. 

"I misjudged you, Sergeant." Koito said, grandly. "You should talk about the war more." 

"Should I," Tsukishima said, flatly.

“Of course.” Koito beamed. "After all, we have ten kilometres of walking to Otaru to do.” 

— 

SOBA - SHARI (1907) - GROWTH  

"Tsukishima—!" 

When Tsukishima turned, he saw a seething Second Lieutenant Koito stomping up the wharf heading towards him. As Koito drew closer, Tsurumi, at his side, gave him a significant look.

"Good evening, sir! Apologies. I don't have long to talk and will not take up your tjme," Koito squeaked out, stopping to salute Tsurumi before snapping his head toward Tsukishima and hissing, "Sergeant Tsukishima. With me, now .”

Tsukishima immediately looked to the First Lieutenant, who was watching the exchange with a faintly amused and layered expression.  

“Go on, then, Sergeant,” Tsurumi gently chided, as a corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "Don't keep your superior waiting." 

Then, Tsurumi turned back to the Lieutenant General and rejoined a conversation with the rhythm and volume of artillery bombardment, leaving Tsukishima to an increasingly impatient Second Lieutenant.

At some point, the Second Lieutenant's attitude towards him had shifted from contemptuous disregard to neediness. It seemed in Koito's mind, the garrison was a viper's nest, the First Lieutenant a noble leader whose only fault was a misguided tolerance for certain subordinates, Koito Tsurumi's only worthy supporter, and Tsukishima his subordinate and only ally. 

"Tsukishima—!" 

Nowadays, Koito's way of calling out his name rang out in his ears daily—once, horrifyingly, in his sleep.  

"I wish you'd have a sense of urgency," Koito said as he led them away from the docks and down crowded alleyways. "Now, more than ever, I need my aide by my side."  

"What for, sir?" Tsukishima said, straining to keep up with the Second Lieutenant's pace. 

"No need to apologize," Koito said. "Though, it's good to see that you've reflected. Leaving me alone at a time like this! How do you suppose I do this without you?"

“Do you have a fear of restaurants, sir?” Tsukishima asked, when he saw the sign hanging over their destination. 

“You're hungry? What? Yes, fine. Order whatever if you want,” said Koito, as if he didn’t realize he’d just led them into an eatery, gnawing at his lip so ferociously it turned white. 

“Are you sure you want to talk here, Second Lieutenant?” Tsukishima asked, glancing around at the patrons, who jostled elbows and chattered like magpies. “The Lieutenant General and the First Lieutenant mentioned lunch at the Iruka Hotel.” 

“And let the First Lieutenant see that I’ve been so bothered by some—some— peasant ?” Koito spat, then placed himself on a stool, aggressively leaving an empty seat next to him. “Sit, Sergeant.” 

So that was what this was about, Tsukishima thought as he took the empty seat and waved for a menu. Koito had said it was okay, and if he was going to serve as an ear for Second Lieutenant’s jealous ranting for the next half an hour, he would do so on a full stomach. 

“I know you and Superior Private Usami don’t get along. The First Lieutenant’s only concentrating the Regiment to deal with the Locust Infestation"—a pseudonym for Abashiri and it's denizens—"You only have to endure it for a while, sir,” Tsukishima said, and then to the hovering waiter, “One tororo soba , please.”  

“He was practically licking the First Lieutenant, Tsukishima. I could see it in his eyes,” Koito said. “And where’s my order?”  

“Please trust the First Lieutenant to handle Usami by himself,” Tsukishima said. “You...want to eat here?” 

A few stools across from them, a man spat on the floor. Somewhere behind them, a baby started to wail.  

“Yes?” Koito said, nonplussed. “Anyways, don’t you think the First Lieutenant should station Usami in some coal mine? Preferably a defunct one.” 

“They have torikatsu soba. Would you like that, sir?” 

“Yes, yes. Fine. Or maybe he might perform so poorly that the First Lieutenant will discharge him—dishonorably.” 

“I doubt that will happen, sir. Do you want miso soup or any side dishes?” 

Koito scoffed. “Not if it’s anything like the Army Academy’s. Their miso soup is far too salty. Not to mention, they don’t have any sweet potatoes.” 

“Right, Kagoshima’s famous for its sweet potatoes,” said Tsukishima, privately agreeing that the miso was too salty but personally thought it also lacked savoriness. In hopes of redirecting the conversation, he asked, “Do you miss sweet potatoes, Second Lieutenant?” 

“Of course,” Koito said, snatching the bait. “Nothing can compare. When Asahikawa’s freezing and the snow falls thick, I think ‘there’d be nothing better than a brazier with a coal-roasted Satsuma sweet potato.’” 

“That does sound good,” Tsukishima said, genuinely. 

“Usami’s head is shaped like a sweet potato, lumpy and odd, don’t you think, Tsukishima?” 

“Yes, that’s my order,” Tsukishima said, receiving his bowl as his order came, then placing Koito’s in front of him. 

“Thank you for the food,” they said together.  

“Look at him, desperate enough to tattoo those figures onto his face,” Koito said. “As if that makes him special or proves anything. Give me a needle and, why I’d...I’d—! I would—! Tsukishima, when we get back to headquarters, find me—" 

“No.”       

“That’s why you can’t trust rural recruits,” Koito said, and his handsome face contorted into a sneer. “No matter how fine a soldier a man is or how successful a warrior he proves himself to be, there’s just a desperation you can’t scrub off. Like that Ogata. No matter what they accomplish, they will always default back to their base nature; a person’s background taints them for the rest of their life. Say, Tsukishima, what was your father like?” 

“My father was a fisherman. Or so they told me. I knew him as a drunk,” Tsukishima said, picking a few loose circles of chopped scallion and stirring them into his broth. 

An awkward silence fell, and its arrival was felt even more distinctly after the Second Lieutenant’s continuous prattling. 

“Well, you’re different, after all,” Koito said, finally. “You worked hard, respected your superiors. You made something more of yourself.”  

“Not really more than anyone else, no,” Tsukishima said, letting the grated nagaimo slide around his palate before spooning himself another mouthful of mentsuyu broth. 

Whatever man was here, among them, in the present, Tsukishima had no part in his making. 

The awkward silence resumed. There was only the sound of Tsukishima’s chopsticks clicking against the bowl’s rim and the background noise of the other patrons. Finally, Koito cleared his throat—once then twice. 

“If. I offended you—” Koito said, haltingly.  

“You didn’t,” Tsukishima said, because he was far too old to let a mouthy junior officer get to him—and because a part of him agreed. 

Some things, the things Tsukishima could never outgrow—the way saké slid down his throat too easily after the first cup, the way anger made his vision go red and his mind go blank—always reminded him that the old man's blood pumped through his veins, festering.  

“Good! I mean—” Koito’s brow furrowed with effort, and this was getting interesting. “If you were—perchance—offended. Then, I would—say—take it back. Take back what I'd said. That is to say, it isn’t true—No. Rather, I didn’t mean it. I mean, I did. But it was wrong—of me.” 

Tsukishima, washing the broth in the corners of his mouth and along his tongue, watched his superior from the corner of his eye with surprise and amusement. He slurped up his mouthful of soba, freeing his mouth up to reply. 

But, when Tsukishima twisted his body to face the Second Lieutenant to say something, Koito's face—the way his expression twisted in sincerity, the deep furrow in his brow as he faced Tsukishima head on, the earnest set of his mouth—made the words flee his mind. Tsukishima’s amusement was washed away; In its place crept another feeling—something warm and young, something tender that made Tsukishima feel relaxed, languid—malleable.  

As he sat—frozen—looking at Koito—the man he had known for years and had seen in various states, flattering and unflattering, all of which were flashing through his mind at that moment—Tsukishima felt like the floor was falling away under him. 

More incriminating were the urges: the urge to reach over and smooth down the creases in the Second Lieutenant's forehead with his thumb, to stroke his superior’s head and watch the tension holding the man rigid melt away. 

The moment stretched on for a beat too long. Koito’s expression slowly morphed from painfully earnest to quizzical, and Tsukishima realized he was staring and quickly looked away. 

“No offense taken, sir. And your torikatsu soba is getting cold.” 

— 

YURINE, LOTUS, AND YAMATONI - HOKKAIDŌ AINU VILLAGE NEAR ODOMARI (1908) - TRUE APPRECIATION  

Although the Karafuto Ainu village offered them lodging, there was still the question of food. Koito, still sore from stenka and sporting a deep cut in the side of hand—which he always had a  pointed complaint about whenever Sugimoto was around—was resting in one of the two houses they’d rented. With Sugimoto in town gathering information, the children, the elderly Ainu sled driver, and Tanigaki tagging along with him, supposedly to help, dinner naturally fell to Tsukishima. 

The stores in Odomari had been better stocked than he’d expected, and among the jars of miso and rows of magewappa , Tsukishima had almost felt like he was still in Japan. In that shop, alongside a few necessities, Tsukishima had picked up a sack of dried lily bulbs and lotus root for a few sen, and he dug it out, now. Though foraging in the aggressively frigid territory was out of question, they wouldn’t have to eat entirely out of cans. 

He melted snow in his camp kettle and used it to wash the bulbs, swirling them around in the water until the dirt filtered out from in between the scales, digging his fingers into the crevices to chase out any remaining sediment. When Tsukishima returned from sledge, carrying a few cans, he found Koito huddled there, a few top buttons of jacket hastily fastened and a blanket over his shoulders, staring into the fire. As he drew closer, Koito noticed him, and the Second Lieutenant's face lit up. Tsukishima catalogued then set aside the burst of warmth in his chest. 

"Aren't you cold, sir?" 

"The house was too stuffy. And adding the odor of that—that bear fat." Koito screwed up his face. "I needed fresh air." 

"Don't catch a cold," Tsukishima warned as he set the cans down.  

"I won't, I won't. And I know you'd take care of me, if I did," Koito said, raising his voice. 

Tsukishima, sticking his head out of the Ainu dwelling’s doorway—ignoring how the junior officer’s flippant grin made something light and giddy kick in his chest—gave the Second Lieutenant an unimpressed look. 

“Don’t let that be an excuse to slack on your own health.” 

“I won’t,” Koito repeated, wriggling as Tsukishima draped the blanket he’d retrieved over his superior’s shoulders. "What are you cooking for dinner?" 

" Yurine, renkon, rice, and yamatoni. " Tsukishima picked up and considered the tin. "Huh."

"What?"  

"We ate this a lot in the war with China. It's been a while, but they barely changed the can."

Tsukishima looked and saw the Second Lieutenant watching him with a captivated expression.

"...I don't have any war stories about yamatoni , sir." 

"Hmmm," Koito said, "that's a pity," and then continued looking at Tsukishima. 

"Is there something on my face?" Tsukishima tried. 

"Nope," Koito said, mouth slowly bending into a smile. "Just watching you."

And there it was again—the warmth, spreading through his chest and heating up his ears, even as the cold numbed his nose. Tsukishima thought he should do—something. But what could he do? Staring at him was the most innocuous eccentricity Koito had exhibited so far. It was harmless, Tsukishima told himself as he turned his back to the Second Lieutenant. 

Tsukishima focused on yanking off his mittens and stringing up the mess tins, heavy with water and rice, so that they dangled over the fire. 

Yet, as Koito's gaze settled heavily on his back, Tsukishima felt like he was doing something dangerous, allowing something volatile and irrevocable to find roots. The Second Lieutenant's expression in the soba restaurant flashed through his memory, and Tsukishima set his jaw, wiping his bayonet clean with a cloth.

“Do you think the girl will come with us willingly?” Koito, evidently bored of simply watching Tsukishima work, wondered aloud behind him. 

“That’s what we brought Sugimoto along for,” Tsukishima replied as he squatted next to the mess tins and began breaking off the yurine petals into each waiting container. 

As he worked, the sky quickly grew dark, and the world shrank. With the absence of Tanigaki and Sugimoto, the camp felt smaller, concentrated in the circle of firelight, and Karafuto’s dark forest and tundra impossibly vast. 

“Do you think he’ll try to run away?” Koito said, breaking a cozy silence, apparently mulling over things in Sugimoto’s absence. “Maybe he’ll believe he can get Asirpa back on his own.”  

“If he does, I’ll shoot him,” Tsukishima said bluntly. 

When Tsukishima looked up, he saw Koito beaming at him, the childish pride in his face tempered by softness. 

“With you and I, Tsukishima, this advance party will deliver nothing short of perfect success to the First Lieutenant.” Koito smiled to himself. “We’ll be back home, in Hokkaidō, before you know it, trust me.”  

Tsukishima remained overly conscious of Koito’s attention as he moved around the fire. With the other man’s eyes tracking him, he cut the lotus root into wedges with his bayonet. 

The mess tin rattled as the fire licked at the metal. When Tsukishima took it off the flame and flipped open the lid, fragrant steam rolled out, and the scent of white rice and meat filled the air.  

When Tsukishima handed Koito his portion—“Careful, Second Lieutenant. It’s hot”—the other man’s fingers briefly overlapped with his. The warm skin dragged across the top of Tsukishima’s knuckles and he glanced up at his superior. 

“I’m famished,” Koito said, looking directly at him. 

The yurine was so soft it crumbled when his chopsticks touched it, and Tsukishima was careful when he picked up a scale along with a clump of rice. The starchy texture came with the understated bittersweet taste of young, tender shoots that had persevered despite being dried and reconstituted. 

Next, Tsukishima picked up a flat chunk of beef, and the taste of ginger and intense saltiness fighting with intense sweetness momentarily transported him back to Liaodong. Though he logically knew the cannery and manufacturer had changed in the nine years since the war with China, the taste of yamatoni was the same as it had been when he was twenty-one and a bare-faced Private First Class.    

“Father said that thanks to military contracts, the domestic canning industry is booming. And when the First Lieutenant’s plan goes into motion, it’ll only grow,’” Koito said, smiling. “Japan will grow even stronger, Tsukishima. Isn’t it exciting? The thought that we—First Lieutenant, you, and I—will change the country, bring Japan to its fullest might.” 

"I don't know what my role is in that, and I can’t guess. The First Lieutenant's goals are his own," Tsukishima said. "What I can do is fulfill my orders."

Koito's face broke into an approving grin. 

"Well said, Tsukishima. Well said." Then, "I am unendingly grateful to the First Lieutenant." 

"What do you mean, sir?" 

"For assigning me an accomplished subordinate. For allowing me to meet you," said Koito, his front lit red by the flames, his expression open and soft. 

When they were done eating, Tsukishima washed the mess tins, wiped them dry, and packed them away. 

Maybe it was the thrill of being in a foreign land under foreign stars, or maybe it was the emboldening comfort of a full belly, weighed down by hot, hearty food. Regardless, Tsukishima wasn’t surprised when the Second Lieutenant's hand snared around his wrist and twisted upwards, chilled fingers reaching into the sleeve of his fur-lined coat. 

Sparks danced under his skin where Koito’s cold fingertips grazed his wrist, and the tingling sensation lanced up his arm, coiling in his chest. As the Second Lieutenant looked up at him through his lashes, Tsukishima's heartbeat changed—from an even rhythm that passively reminded himself that he was alive to a weighty thud that demanded he acknowledge it.  

“Sugimoto and Tanigaki won’t be back for a while. We have the room to ourselves,” said Koito, face handsome, eyes dark and full of meaning. "Join me after dinner, Sergeant." And Tsukishima did. 

— 

BURDOCK ROOT TEA - NORTHERN SAKHALIN/NEAR AKOU (1908) - DEEPENED CONNECTION 

Akou was a blur of pain and fitful sleep. After his legs gave out, Tsukishima was bumped and jolted as his surroundings faded in and out of black. 

Always, in the muddled snatches of sound, was Koito's voice, wavering in and out of focus, rising sharply in pitch, scraping Tsukishima's eardrums. 

"Don't treat him like a sack of potatoes! He has a wound on his neck, you dolt!" 

"We're all wounded, asshole," snapped Sugimoto, voice distant and waterlogged.

And then everything was black again. 

"Tsukishima," whispered Koito, quieter than Tsukishima had ever heard him. "Can you sit up?"

Outside was dark, Tsukishima noted, which means at some point night had fallen. Inside was a small hut with walls of wooden log—not Russian but also different, in ways he couldn't pinpoint, from the houses of the Hokkaidō Ainu. A lamp hanging off a post gave off a dim, wavering light. The air smelled strange, new scents mixing confusingly with old, and a thick layer of furs and quilts weighed him down, pinning his body in place. When Tsukishima struggled to sit up, Koito’s hands were suddenly all over him—on his shoulder, supporting his back—careful and restrained, as if Tsukishima was a brittle baby bird. 

The tea cup heated up his hands as Koito passed it to him, never fully letting go. 

"Careful," Koito said, redundantly. 

When Koito finally released the cup, Tsukishima’s fingers tightened around it, but, at the last moment, betrayed him, and the cup slipped from his grasp. Somehow, Koito managed to catch it with one working arm—a dexterous movement, circus hands, Tsukishima thought deliriously—but hot liquid still splashed onto the blankets, wetting the top fur. The spilled tea had a strong, familiar smell, similar to woodland after rainfall. 

"Dammit!" Koito hissed as he struggled with the cup. "Damned cup—I didn’t mean to—! Dammit!"

“It’s okay, Second Lieutenant,” Tsukishima rasped, swallowing old and sour spit to wet his throat.

Still, talking cut, and the missing strip of his neck throbbed. 

“It’s not,” Koito said, hotly. “I was supposed to help—it was my turn to take care of you.”

That warm, bubbling feeling—affection, an honest corner of his mind whispered, an impossibly debilitating affection—returned, spreading throughout Tsukishima. 

“Koito,” Tsukishima said, struggling against the layers of blankets, which were as heavy as sheets of steel, before setting a hand on Koito’s forearm. “Sir. You are helping. Thank you.”  

It was hard to see in the faint light, but Tsukishima thought the Second Lieutenant’s face flushed darker; it was a nice sight, something he’d seen multiple times, and it always made his chest twist with heat. 

"It's burdock,” Koito said, after he’d regained his composure and settled next to Tsukishima’s bed to watch him like a hawk. “It grows well here, and the locals brew the root into tea. They say it's good for your health. Drink." 

The tea tasted like water from deep in the earth, but not in an unpleasant way. Tsukishima took another sip as the Second Lieutenant’s watched him intensely. Suddenly, without warning, a muscle in his neck jumped and the shallow scallop in his flesh flared up in pain. When he could focus on something that wasn’t pain, futilely attempting to regulate his ragged breathing, he found Koito’s hands wrapped around his—warm and calloused palms supporting him, keeping the cup of tea stable. 

“I’m alright, sir,” Tsukishima rasped; the Second Lieutenant’s expression made Tsukishima want to reassure him. 

“Tsukishima. Don't lie,” Koito said. Then, quieter, “You don't have to be brave around me."   

Tsukishima closed his eyes as his breathing finally slowed. “Okay.” 

He felt himself relaxing, spine going slack, body wilting towards Koito as the other man helped Tsukishima bring the cup to his cracked lips then tilt it upwards—his movements gentle, in a way Tsukishima hadn’t known the other man was capable of.  

“Thank you, sir,” Tsukishima said, his voice coming out in a gritty creak.  

"It won't happen again," Koito said, and Tsukishima knew he wasn’t talking about the spilled tea. "I won't allow it." 

Tsukishima suddenly wanted to kiss him—desperately, even more than he wanted water.  

"Second Lieutenant," Tsukishima said, and his head swam, and his limbs felt as heavy as sandbags. At that moment, he wished he had the energy to touch the other man, to be closer to Koito, somehow, even as their noses bumped and their breath mixed. "I...” 

He stumbled over his words when Koito focused on him. “You’re injured. You shouldn’t be the one taking care of me.” 

“That’s absurd,” Koito snapped. “Yes, I have a few wounds. But they’re nothing compared to yours. And there’s no way anyone else— Sugimoto and that clumsy lug Tanigaki—could even begin to care for you properly.” 

Tsukishima’s eyes drifted down to Koito’s arm in a sling then to his chest where the outline of gauze made his shirt bulge. 

“...Even after I yelled after you not to, you still went after Kiroranke,” Tsukishima sighed. 

“What should I have done? Let him walk away? After what he did to you? Don’t be ridiculous,” Koito said, with a steely anger that Tsukishima had never heard from him before. 

“And when you chased after him by yourself, he could’ve killed you,” said Tsukishima, and the finality of his own words hit him—ice cold dread as what could’ve happened finally dawned on him. 

“I wouldn’t have let him,” said Koito, with such conviction that Tsukishima wanted to believe him. 

“Sir,” Tsukishima groaned in frustration.   

“Asirpa is here, Kiroranke was handled, and you are—you are safe,” Koito continued. “And I will find you a doctor. So, I have no regrets.”  

As he spoke, Koito lifted his good hand, and his fingers ghosted over the side of Tsukishima’s neck. In the lantern’s faded light, despite the dark shadows, Tsukishima could see his face twist with guilt. 

“I did it to protect you. And I'd do it again,” Tsukishima said. “I’ll always have your back, sir. But that isn’t enough. You’ll only get hurt again if you get emotional and rush into things.” 

“The truth is, Tsukishima, I don’t fear much, when you’re by my side,” Koito confessed. 

The way the Second Lieutenant looked at him made his chest ache as something warm and demanding pushed for room inside his ribs. When Tsukishima lifted a shaky hand to cup Koito’s face and the other man leaned into it, a heady rush of foolishness and bravery that he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time welled up within him. 

The kiss was long, slow, and soft—a new kind of kiss, between them. In the hut, both of them were weary and bruised, and there was no lust, only a desire for closeness. The action, defanged without heat and forcefulness, was a leisurely, chaste movement—reduced to Koito’s nose pushing into his cheek, Koito’s hair slipping through his fingers, and Koito's lips moving back against his. Koito tasted like rice and stale shōchū , and Tsukishima briefly wondered what the Second Lieutenant had been eating without him around to cook. Pushing the thought away, Tsukishima deepened the kiss, drinking him in until they both tasted like burdock root tea. 

It could have gone on for hours if one of them hadn't pulled away; Tsukishima wouldn't have minded if did. Only when they separated did he realize that, at some point, his eyes had slid closed. 

"I'll get more burdock. Drink as much as you can. You need to get healthier as soon as possible," Koito said. "Rest, Tsukishima. Rest! So we can go back to Hokkaidō." 

And then he exited the dwelling, and all Tsukishima could think about was when he would return. 

The hut seemed colder without the Second Lieutenant, and Tsukishima suddenly felt exposed, as the rush of unaccustomed emotion receded and a hollowness, a longing for that warmth—and this too had laid dormant, after Manchuria, when everything had gone numb and stayed numb, until now—fell in its place. 

As he sat there, feeling raw and newly vulnerable, the feeling of being watched crawled up his nape. Tsukishima turned, too quickly, wincing as his neck punished him and pain whited his vision. Yet, as soon as the agony receded, he searched for the spectator, eyes darting about the hut. But, there wasn't much to search for. The hut was small, and on the other side of the dwelling there was only Ogata, bandaged and buried under a pile of blankets, like him—unconscious, incapacitated. 

Tsukishima watched Ogata’s corner for a moment longer and, when the man didn’t move, closed his eyes and allowed fatigue to take him. 

Then, Ogata escaped. Then, Koito asked Tsukishima to translate a Russian insult, and Tsukishima did. And then, nothing was the same. 

— 

YOKAN - OTARU/HOSPITAL (1909) - UNCERTAINTY

The Second Lieutenant dislikes hospital food. The stay in general has disagreed with him, and every mealtime, Koito struggles to eat anything solid as his weak stomach, which usually appears on the open ocean, resurfaces when he attempts to keep down Ienaga's prescription. Tsukishima cuts the Second Lieutenant's favorite sweet, yokan , into bite-sized chunks before lifting the tray and walking to the fourth room in the East wing. 

"This isn't my favorite sweet," Koito says.

"I didn't look for anpan because I don’t know if you can find it in Otaru," Tsukishima says, then after a beat, "And I didn’t know if you could stomach it, sir." 

Koito's face lights up with understanding, before growing murky with a complex expression. He stabs the toothpick and pops the first cube of yokan into his mouth, and Tsukishima watches his jaw move as he chews. 

“Again?” Koito complains, when Tsukishima lifts the glass urinal. “I've had a good week of nothing but bedrest. I can piss by myself, thank you very much.” 

“Ienaga said not to move. You don’t want to open your wound when you’re this close to rejoining the First Lieutenant,” Tsukishima says. 

Koito’s smile comes a beat too late, his crowing a measure too subdued. “Yes. Yes! That is true. Well then, Tsukishima, collect away. I’m ready to empty my bladder and get back to serving my country.”   

From the other side of the wall, comes a pronounced thump, and when it’s followed by another then another and the muted chatter of Lieutenant General Arisaka’s voice, they both towards it  

“Apparently, Lieutenant General Arisaka’s subordinate developed some new drug,” Koito said. “I thought it was rock sugar, at first. I think he called it ‘crack cocaine.’” 

There comes a sound suspiciously similar to footfalls running up the side of the wall before there’s another heavy thud. 

“Bravo, Nikaidou, my boy!” says Arisaka’s voice, from the other room, loud enough to scare a flock of birds resting in a tree outside. “Try landing a somersault!” 

“If you prefer something sweeter, to help with the medicine’s taste, let me know, sir,” Tsukishima says, turning away from the wall, lifting up the Second Lieutenant’s quilt, and starting to undo his superior’s yukata . 

“ Yokan is fine,” Koito says, that strange tone entering his voice again. “And this hospital stay has left me disinclined towards sugar.” 

—

At night, Tsukishima gives the Second Lieutenant a towel bath; he lifts each limb and runs a damp washcloth over it. He turns and manipulates the Koito’s body as he needs, scrubs at every crevice, and yet the man never complains. The absence of whining is stark, and Tsukishima can't help but risk a glance at the junior officer's face, searching for a cause. 

"Stay at my bedside tonight, Tsukishima," Koito says, suddenly.  

"I can't, sir," Tsukishima said. 

"I've been having nightmares, lately," Koito insists. "I need you close." 

"I'm sorry, sir," Tsukishima says, tugging a loose side of the Second Lieutenant’s yukata closed. 

"Is it because you have to stand guard?" Koito says, his voice strange. "Watching over a room full of invalids. You can spare one shift, Tsukishima." 

"Koito," Tsukishima says, trying to smother the emotion in his voice so that it comes out disaffected and controlled, "don't do this." 

Koito falls silent and gnaws on his lip. From his angle, Tsukishima can see into his yukata , and he watches as Koito’s bandaged chest rises and falls shallowly.

As Tsukishima is working the edges of the quilt under the mattress, tucking the Second Lieutenant in snuggly so that the sheets cut off at his neck, Koito watches him—his gaze clear and steady. To Tsukishima, it feels accusatory. That's fine. It's to be expected. The Second Lieutenant is within his rights to resent him, and Tsukishima doesn't mind if he does. What they had—what they shared—was never going to last long. 

"Tight," Koito mutters. 

Tsukishima reaches down to adjust the blankets, and as he does so, his knuckles graze against the Second Lieutenant's clavicle. The skin under the sheets is hot—as always Koito is like a human brazier. That mellow heat had been a comfort in Karafuto, as snow howled outside of rattling windowpanes and Tsukishima traced mindless patterns on taut skin, marveling at its smoothness, prompting a sleepy Koito to hum and clumsily attempt a sloppy kiss. In the dark hospital room in Otaru, the heat from Koito's skin burns like an incriminating brand.  

"Is that better, sir?" 

"Yes," Koito says. 

Six days is a long time to spend kidnapped, and six years is a long time to spend maintaining a lie. The Second Lieutenant will never fully trust him again, but Tsukishima doesn’t pay it too much mind. They'll meet up with First Lieutenant Tsurumi and Koito will understand their place, that every order and every hurt carried out on Tsurumi's word, under Tsurumi's name, is impersonal, for a goal much grander than the wants of a beloved son of a high-ranking Naval officer and a father murderer from Sado. 

"Even now, you're still so gentle with me," Koito observes. "You don't have to go this far for a charge." 

"I have my orders, sir." 

Koito's expression is tinged with desperation, as if he is fighting to keep the hurt off his face. When Tsukishima thoughtlessly lifts a hand—to comfort, to soothe, to silence, he doesn't know—the junior officer’s features freeze. Tsukishima drops his hand so that it dangles at his side.

It's fine. Koito will understand, someday, as long as he stays alive, and Tsukishima will do his best to make that happen, even if the Second Lieutenant hates him for it. 

It’s fine. 

"I think you should ask someone else for company, sir. I doubt I would bring much comfort." 

"In my nightmares," Koito says, slowly, chewing on the words like dango , "there is an unmoving shadow constantly standing there, right there, in the doorway. And I know, in my heart that if I ever wanted to run, that I would never get past it. No. It’s far too capable; it would never let me get far, at all. It stays there, watching me, as I get more panicked and my heart beats faster and faster until I can no longer breathe. But then, you are there, Tsukishima. Putting a hand on my shoulder. Calling my name. And I feel that all is right because of you." 

Tsukishima doesn't respond. It would be bad, for both of them, if he tried to, right then. So he averts his gaze and pulls open the wooden drawer in the nightstand next to the Second Lieutenant's bed. He shakes out three black pills, hard and strange Chinese medicine that Ienaga preened over and Tsukishima privately compared to gunpowder. One, two, three, they roll into his palm, and Tsukishima feels reassured when his hands refuse to tremble. 

Koito has not stopped looking at him, gaze intent as he accepts the medicine, opening his mouth obediently so that Tsukishima can lay the pills on his tongue. He swallows, one, two, in silence, and accepts a swallow of water, before he starts to speak again.

"You aren’t going to hurt her," Koito says, his eyes large, a hint of triumph in his voice. "That's just part of the First Lieutenant's strategy, to make it seem real. You're only here to keep an eye on Inkarmat. Just like you're here to assist me."

"Finish your medicine, Second Lieutenant," Tsukishima says.  

Koito's smile cracks, and when it does, a distant part of Tsukishima feels like it’s being gutted. He takes care to keep his touch as light as possible as he wipes spilled water from the side of Koito's mouth. 

“The First Lieutenant said he would visit soon,” Tsukishima said, holding out the last pill, ignoring how Koito’s expression grows tight. “I’m sure he’ll have a lot to say to you. To put your mind at peace.” 

“He’s good at that, isn’t he?” Koito says, before a frayed eagerness briefly surfaces—”I’m sure he will. Yes. Yes, I’m sure First Lieutenant Tsurumi will explain”—and he sticks his tongue out for the final pill. 

With the medicine gone, Tsukishima takes the plate of yokan, stabbing a cube with a toothpick.

“Here, sir. For the taste,” Tsukishima says, extending the yokan towards Koito. 

He half expects Koito to continue staring at him like that, wide-eyed and off-puttingly still. Instead, the man considers him, eyes raking over him, up and down. Tsukishima resists the urge to twitch. 

"I still believe in what I said, you know," Koito says. "I'm going to follow the right path. Without giving up on anything I care about on the way." 

Tsukishima stays quiet, arm partially outstretched, yokan slowly starting to slide off his toothpick. Koito looks him in the eye. 

"Feed me," Koito says. 

Tsukishima hesitates. Koito opens his mouth. 

The chunk of yokan is slimy in his fingertips. He keeps his fingers loose, aware that too much pressure would squash the jelly. Like this, Tsukishima offers the Second Lieutenant a chunk of yokan, and—when Koito opens his mouth and waits—places it on the other man's tongue. 

Koito doesn’t break his gaze as he closes his lips around Tsukishima's fingers and the proffered square of yokan. 

FOOTNOTES

1. chigaya (チガヤ): commonly known in English as cogongrass. Used in chimaki to bind the bamboo leaf into place in a spiral pattern.
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2. yōshoku (洋食): dishes inspired by Western food but often significantly modified for the Japanese palate / available ingredients. First emerged during the Meiji Restoration. [ ↺ go back]

WORKS CITED (Partial)