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In the dream, Sugimoto had his hands on the corpse of a man whose name he did not know. The man's body was tattooed, and Sugimoto had gotten really good at making sure he was flaying the skin off correctly, so the maps would line up with each other once stitched.
His hands were bloody, their default state, and he was wholly focused on his work.
It came to him naturally. The sight of the ink on skin put his mind in a certain place, he only followed it.
And yet the body felt familiar.
The shape of it, the way it felt under his palms.
And he'd realize. And he'd look up into the face of the corpse, something he rarely ever did.
And it was Shiraishi.
He'd open his eyes, and regret would weigh heavily on his heart. It was heavy , dread in his throat and bile in his lungs, and before the grief could properly set in, he'd reach out to feel Shiraishi, to make sure that the man was warm and still breathing. His heart would then settle.
It was the same tonight.
He had to reach out, put his hand on Shiraishi's arm, just to be sure. To ground himself, maybe.
Shiraishi was alive, and all is well.
Sugimoto knew it wouldn't be the last dream he would have of killing Shiraishi.
He had always dreamed.
Dreams of the war, previously. Of explosions and shoving bayonets into skulls. Violent acts that he did the most during his waking moments, he would reenact in sleep. Recently, of course, he had been busy taking tattoo maps off of the Abashiri prisoners.
The dreams were commonplace. He never really felt anything once he was awake, when he was actually skinning someone. He might have felt obligation, at most, or a very potent sense of necessity; just a man doing what he needed to do. A job. Something that must be done.
It made sense that the job could bleed over into his sleep.
Now, though.
The context might have changed, a little bit.
Sugimoto cared for his companions more than most things in the world. Asirpa and Shiraishi were very important to him; these two people that he had chosen to go on a very dangerous mission with, one involving the military and the government and the future of the Ainu. (His redemption, if it was meant to be).
It was at the forefront of his mind when he would slice down the midline of a tattooed prisoner, it was a constant reminder as he skinned dead men.
Now , though.
He and Shiraishi touched each other, sometimes. They touched each other a lot, really, after the very first time they've established interest in one another like that ; a semi-drunk Shiraishi leaning into his space, head tilted curiously, going, "If you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to have to do something about it eventually, you know?"
He did something about it, in the end. Sugimoto did too, words spluttering out of him like a dying fountain, then ceasing altogether when he found himself too flustered to speak. He didn't take his eyes off Shiraishi though, and continued to look at Shiraishi like that, whatever that was.
Shiraishi was...Shiraishi. There was something so stupidly charming about him, something that made Sugimoto want to be around him all of the time. He was a strangely secretive man, despite his overall volume and tomfoolery; Sugimoto really enjoyed making him honest. Sugimoto enjoyed being made honest by Shiraishi; he'd call Shiraishi safe, if they weren't constantly in a state of danger due to the nature of what they were trying to do.
But Shiraishi felt safe. Both Asirpa and Shiraishi were a safe haven to Sugimoto, and he would prefer to be with them for as long as he was able to.
Sugimoto wasn't safe.
He had never been safe for as long as he had lived. He was lethal and dangerous; violence incarnate; his immortality brought on by murder and pain and the overwhelming need for survival.
He killed, and he would kill for the people he wanted to protect. They were safe with him when he was awake.
Not when he was asleep, it seemed. Not when he would return to his default state, a murder machine, when he dreamed of things that he knew how to do, and how to do well.
It wasn't jarring when he saw Shiraishi's naked body sexually for the first time. He was horny beyond fucking belief, desperate and wanting, and Shiraishi could move in ways that he never knew possible. Touching Shiraishi felt like a gift. He was aware of the tattoos, how serpentine they looked with every flex of Shiraishi's body, but it never occurred to him how familiar they exactly were.
Awake, he could separate the ink as two different things: the map left by Nopperabou and Shiraishi's body.
Asleep, they were all the same.
Asleep, the two things were merged, and skinning Shiraishi didn't seem like a horrifying concept. It felt like an obligation.
He was awake now. The thought was horrifying again.
He had to know. Had to be sure. Tonight, it was just the two of them in the sleeping quarters. If Sugimoto had forgotten himself, if his sleeping mind had confused itself with the waking world…
Shuffling up, Sugimoto reached to pull Shiraishi towards him, making the sleeping man lie flat on the ground.
He probably needed to be gentler with how he was handling Shiraishi, opening his hanten to get at his chest, but his head was buzzing, the fear was becoming overwhelming.
If he had acted in his sleep, if there was even a possibility , then—
Shiraishi's skin was intact, illuminated by the low light of the moon shining through the roof of the hut. Sugimoto put his palm flat on Shiraishi's chest, taking in the warmth, the rise and fall of Shiraishi's ribcage. No wetness there. No break in skin.
The buzzing in Sugimoto's skull subsided.
His dreams remained only that, then. Just dreams. If they would stay that way, he wasn't sure, but if he thought about it too much, he might just—
Shiraishi made a small noise and shifted, a little furrow to his brow. He slowly opened his eyes, blinking the sleep away to properly look at Sugimoto, and his smile was small, weary, fond.
"Sugimoto? Were you feeling frisky or something...?"
His words were a little mumbled; adorable, for Shiraishi to be this muddled with sleep, a ridiculous concept for a man who behaved the way he did; and Sugimoto couldn't stop his own smile, his affection for Shiraishi making itself known.
But the dread was still there. Heavy and present, lead in his heart.
"No. I was just..."
How would Shiraishi even react? He didn't know. The thought of losing Shiraishi somehow was fucking terrifying, but the fear of actually hurting Shiraishi was worse. He couldn't decide. The buzzing was returning. He should just—
"I needed to know if you were okay," he forced it out him anyway, just so it was out there, out of his skull, "I was worried you might be hurt. I had a dream."
Shiraishi seemed a little confused, but he reached for Sugimoto anyway, putting his arms around Sugimoto's neck, "You poor darling. You had a nightmare?"
Sugimoto scoffed, but couldn't help moving to lie down on his side anyway, making himself more comfortable. Shiraishi turned to the side with him, and it was so easy like this, just to touch Shiraishi and be touched. It felt safe.
Shiraishi's chest was still bare, and Sugimoto could see his tattoos.
He knew exactly where to cut when it came to Shiraishi's chest. He knew how far down he would have to go.
He would never , but the knowledge was present and loud in his mind, especially now.
"I had a dream that I killed you," Sugimoto said, as clearly as he could, "I dreamed that I skinned you. Just like I skinned all of the other prisoners I've met so far."
Shiraishi looked at him, sobering up.
But his touch remained. Shiraishi was still holding him.
"I woke up, and I wasn't sure if I hadn't actually done it. I..."
One of Shiraishi's hands moved to Sugimoto's face, his thumb brushing over Sugimoto's cheek, fingers framing his jaw.
Sugimoto reached up for it, exhaling harshly, pressing Shiraishi's hand against him as if it was the only thing keeping him together at the moment.
"I would never want to hurt you."
Shiraishi smiled, "I know, Sugimoto. You have a gentle soul, despite everything."
What a concept.
"I've never been gentle in my life, Shiraishi."
"That's a lie," Shiraishi countered easily, kindness in his tone, "You're soft with her."
Shiraishi caressed his cheek again, making him sigh, "You're soft right now."
It wasn't that Sugimoto thought he was wrong. But if Shiraishi could see what he dreamed about...
"It's not the first time I've had the dream, and I know it won't be the last. I know it."
The frustration must be visible on his face, even in the low light. Shiraishi's legs edged towards him, and Shiraishi tangled their limbs together.
It was slightly annoying that Shiraishi knew just how to calm him down. But he cared for Shiraishi, and Shiraishi cared for him in turn. He knew that, too.
"...You know, I wasn't actually asleep just now."
Sugimoto looked at him, curious.
"I was sleeping, but you touched my arm. Grabbed onto me, just a bit. I've been awake since."
Sugimoto thought of the moment, but didn't recall any indication of Shiraishi being conscious. He recalled pushing Shiraishi flat on the ground, to check on his body. Remembered the sleepy mumbling, "So when I tried to check under your hanten..."
"Fully awake. Was just waiting to see what you were doing," a small shrug, a wistful tone, "I'm just good at pretending."
He was right. Sugimoto couldn't have known.
"I never told you," Shiraishi continued quietly, "But I used to dream of you killing me."
That was...not something Sugimoto was aware of, no. He didn't think he would have even imagined it. Then why was Shiraishi still—
"I thought if you knew that I lied to you about giving Hijikata information, you'd kill me. I was convinced of it for so long."
That explained many things, really. Why he tried to jump off the aircraft when Asirpa revealed that they knew of the skins that Shiraishi had been giving Hijikata. He had an inkling that it was due to fear, but. He didn't think Shiraishi had dreamed of that either. Just the way Sugimoto did.
But he could only be honest.
"What if I do end up killing you?"
"You're capable of it. But you won't."
He sounded so sure. Where did the faith come from? Sugimoto wanted some of it.
"Just like me. I could run. I could just leave. But I won't."
Shiraishi reached up to bring him closer, hands warm on Sugimoto's face, leaning in to kiss him, "It's about choices, isn't it, Sugimoto?"
The kiss felt like a lifeline.
Sugimoto kissed back with a moan, his entire being leaning into the touch.
No one could die by just being near him.
Whatever he did in his sleep was not real. It was what he chose to do.
It was unspoken, but the way they were kissing each other was becoming increasingly frantic.
It was easy, familiar enough to undress; they've done this and more many, many times at this point; it was all Sugimoto could think about when they were together this way. Shiraishi had pulled Sugimoto over him, pushing his hips up into Sugimoto; they rutted against each other with nothing but skin and spit and pre-cum.
The dread remained, but— Shiraishi's body against his was significant and divine, and Sugimoto couldn't help himself. He wanted Shiraishi so much. It was as if he needed Shiraishi to merge his body into Sugimoto's, to know, to be sure , that he was alright.
Sugimoto just wanted to touch him, make sure that he was alive and warm and feeling pleasure; he loved Shiraishi, he was sure of it.
If he—
If he had the urge to bite Shiraishi right on the inked circle of the left side of his chest, to materialize this passion inside him, then—
Not obligation, just extreme desire , he wanted, wanted so badly to show Shiraishi how much Sugimoto felt for him.
This was different. This felt like losing control.
"I'm scared that I'd forget myself and hurt you," he gasped out, mouth sliding on Shiraishi's skin, the white-hot pleasure of friction becoming overwhelming, "I want to sink my teeth in you. I want to see what I’ve done to you."
He looked up, saw no fear in Shiraishi's face.
"You won't hurt me, not if I want it," Shiraishi's eyes were wild, Sugimoto couldn't get enough of him this way, "Do it. I fucking want you to."
Sugimoto bit him, hard, heard Shiraishi hiss but felt his grip on Sugimoto tighten. He didn't let go.
He pulled up to see the indentations in Shiraishi's skin, the moonlight not bright enough to let him properly appraise it, but that was okay.
This was Shiraishi's body. He wasn't dreaming, he was in the here and now.
"Shiraishi, if I ever even," his thoughts were a mess, the buzzing was there, but Shiraishi's touch was grounding, "If I hurt you in a way that you don't want. In a way that makes you fear for your life. Please, don't let me—"
"You won't ," Shiraishi shook his head, hand sliding into hair, "And if you do, I'll run."
His fingers tightened into Sugimoto's hair, and Sugimoto's moan was guttural, loud.
Shiraishi groaned in earnest, "I'll run, and you will never find me."
Sugimoto thrust his hips down, hard, the slide of their cocks heavy and slick, his words hissed through grit teeth, "Promise me ."
Shiraishi grabbed his face, sealing the deal with a kiss.