[GK]Heat Mode

[plotdog]

Summary: Sea otter stew, this time coconut flavored. Just two mercenaries on a mission to rescue a hostage from the tropical jungle. But as you might have noticed the "sea otter stew", they're probably busy, and the hostage should start looking out for themselves the sooner the better.

Note: when i was on my vacation, eating wild banana from trees and paddling with my pathetic tiny arms, all i was thinking was: man, i gotta inflict this pain on them hoes...though they might actually enjoy it...i don't even know if they get sea otters in Indonesia... --- Ogata was rolling up the tangled paracord when finishing his mission brief. His eyebrow lifted at the mention of an extra hand. He didn't like it. A job should be fast and simple: get in, get out, get paid. That's how he liked it.

This mission looked standard enough. Some wealthy old man with a dirty little secret, whose associate had walked into a honey trap set in a tropical paradise. Now Ogata had to extract the hostage.

The target was clearly holding something valuable, so much that the client didn't trust sending just one. Although his pay remained the same. So Ogata just shrugged. He carried his gear, strode through the jet bridge like any normal civil passengers, and slid his eye mask on. He was dead to the world long before the plane touched down in Jakarta.

The airport was air-conditioned, but the moment he stepped outside, a heatwave hit him square in the face.

It was then that the reality of the tropical climate truly sank in.

Walking in the sun felt like being on a grill. Staying in the shade was like slow stewing in the heavy air. He was soon soaked through after a short walk, as if all the water in his body had been wrung out from the excessive sweating.

He would've loved to hide in a cab or a motel room, but mercenary work wasn't a job for pussy. The next morning, at the sound of a honk in the yard, he climbed right out of the bed and into the minivan. If he hated this place that much, he could finish the job and leave sooner.

The driver tossed him a bottled water. Ogata peered at the suspiciously unbranded plastic.

"Where's the other guy?" he asked, busy checking messages before they drove into the no-service zone.

The driver didn't answer.

Ogata looked up from his phone. Maybe his pronunciation was off, or the locals didn't speak the language. Silly him.

In the rearview mirror, he met those eyes peering back at him. Ogata swallowed. The van was chilled to near-freezing.

"Privyet," he said almost casually, reaching into his shirt.

The driver grunted, but kept driving. Nothing drastic yet.

So he was still recovering. Ogata let go of his grip. He hoped he wasn't too obvious, but he could see his own face spreading into an ugly, wide grin from the reflection. "Hope it wasn't too painful."

The Russian guy stomped on the gas like a kicking bag, and the van lunged forward. A passing truck laid on a deafening horn when avoided them. The steering wheel jerked.

"The fuck?" Ogata hooked an arm tightly around the front seat to keep from being tossed through the window.

Dying in a car crash on the way to a mission was exactly the kind of story that would outlive him.

He fiddled around the metal clip in the backseat, but the damn car seemed to have too much attitude. Eventually, Ogata dropped the belt altogether. The other guy nearly yelped as he climbed between the seats and dropped into the passenger side.

"You should probably take off the mask, you know." Ogata said, finally content. He leaned back into the cushion, side eying. "Let the air flow. Heals faster."

Mr. Pachinko, or whatever his name was, muttered something under his breath again. But he couldn't possibly know that Ogata's suggestion was purely for his own satisfaction.

Ogata smiled faintly at the pink-and-brown gash now exposed beneath the removed mask. He liked what he saw. His own handiwork.

Sure, it might have been a nasty shot, sending a bullet through the other man's cheek, but the guy was hired to assassinate Ogata's asset. Executive decision. Nothing personal.

In a way, he was being unusually nice. He could have just as easily blown his brains out.

Ogata pretended that he hadn't noticed the man's attractiveness from half a mile away through his scope.

"So," he began, draping an arm over the back of the seat. "Didn't know you ever worked with this agency."

The other mercenary responded with a series of quick, muffled hums. Even with his mask off and his wounds nearly closed, he still wasn't speaking. Maybe he had lost his tongue, too. Ogata thought with a slow nod.

It must be deeply embarrassing, walking around with that. And inconvenient. Their line of work required blending in, and now everyone who saw him would get suspicious. He no longer looked like a high-end sharpshooter, but like a thug, a low-level goon.

That probably explained it. Struggled to get a commission, now he was forced to look outside their usual zakonniki circles. And Ogata had to hold his hand through it all, like babysitting a toddler.

He sighed. He didn't really want to watch both ways every time he got off for a pee, but there was a fair chance he'd get run over by their own minivan.

This wouldn't do. Ogata pulled himself back in the pants, zipped up, and turned to find the other guy peeking creepily from the tinted window, probably thought he wouldn't be noticed.

Ogata leaned against the car door. The black van's surface was scorching against his arm, but he held the pose, because it looked cool. He dug out freeze-dried meal pouches.

"Want an ice cream sandwich?" He waved the foiled bag at Pachinko. The guy's eyes tracked the motion like a cat following a feather toy. "They say it's astronaut food."

No answer came, but Ogata tossed over the mint chocolate one anyway. He never liked that flavor. Besides, it'd be a little unbecoming to murder a guy who'd just given you ice cream.

The man took it, didn't say thanks, and started nibbling at the frozen bar.

They arrived at the ferry bay as the new dawn broke over the sea line. After driving across the island, Ogata grew more restless by the minute. Everyone around them was on vacation except him. Instead, he had to keep taking quick glances, just to make sure that Pachinko wasn't pretending to sleep in the back seat after driving through the night.

Could've taken him out then, just to be safe. Ogata played with the idea. He was sure there'd be something interesting in this guy's rifle case that he'd want to keep for himself.

Then again, this boring job needed some kind of stimuli. Sometimes Ogata liked feeling threatened. It pushed him to do better.

It wasn't until they rolled off another ferry that Pachinko finally stirred.

"Start changing," Ogata said simply. "We're on foot soon."

His intel said the crime lord would be away in two days and so were the most of his minions. Two people were enough to sneak in and finish the job. So Ogata had packed light, just his gun bag and a few essentials. But when he glanced at Pachinko, he had to do a double take. The Russian guy looked good enough for a few day's camping trip with his oversized backpack and cases.

"C'mon, drop that." Ogata tsked. "We've got MREs. We're not boiling lizards."

Pachinko clung to his billy pot protectively.

Some men were just born that stubborn. It was a miracle their raft hadn't sunk under all that weight.

They couldn't use the road as it was under surveillance and likely compromised by local influences. Instead, they took a raft from the deserted river mouth, where no residents or tourists ever went. It was safe, but far from pleasant.

They had to stay in the middle of the channel to avoid running aground. The current pushed hard, forcing them to row constantly just to hold position. Ogata had expected more shade from the rainforest, but it never came. The palm trees on the banks offered little cover, their sparse leaves letting the sun beat down relentlessly. Before long, Ogata's skin turned crimson.

Pachinko, still hidden under his hat, mask, and sunglasses, glanced over. Without a word, he tossed his hat to Ogata.

Ogata accepted it as a peace offering. Maybe they'd settle their scores later, when they weren't busy sweating every ounce of life essence from their pores.

Just before sunset, they hauled the raft ashore and hid it. The river stretched on, but they had to take cover, since a storm was moving in.

They sat beneath a poncho shelter in awkward silence, finishing their meal kit dinners. When the rain finally stopped, Ogata began changing into dry clothes and winced at the scratches on his arms.

The sun had scorched his skin, leaving it red and tender, too painful to touch. He tried cooling his arms in the river, but even the water felt warm.

He heard the crisp snap of a bottle opening. Turning, Ogata found his companion scooping a clear gel from a green bottle, working it into his legs. The other man just continued applying the stuff while keeping the eye contact, almost like a challenge when he was finally making use of that useless shit he carried all the way.

If he was that prepared, maybe he should've just worn long pants to begin with. Ogata's eyes trailed down, taking in the same sunburn that painted Pachinko's skin from the knees down. A sharp line separated pale thighs from scorched calves, and the tangled hair there was now dark and slicked against the bulged muscles. Ogata swallowed, almost unnoticeably.

He cleaned his throat. "Can I have some of that? My arms hurt."

He'd meant for Pachinko to just pass the bottle when he was done, let Ogata tend to his own burns in peace. But instead, the man stood and pressed his gel-coated palm firmly against Ogata's biceps.

"Al—alright." A little surprised, but Ogata held still.

And Pachinko took the job seriously. He wasn't satisfied with just the surface. He meant to rub it in. He even handed Ogata the bottle, so he could cup both hands around one thick arm properly. One hand worked the gel in with firm squeezes, sliding all the way down from the shoulder. As it reached the elbow, the other began the same motion from the top, over and over.

"I think my biceps are fine," Ogata said dryly. "It's the forearms that hurt."

Though his suggestion was ignored entirely, and those hands continued moving wherever they felt like going.

Pachinko asked, still going on about his massage, "sore?"

These deft fingers pressed between the muscles a bit too roughly, and Ogata felt a pleasant shiver. After almost a full day of rowing, the firm touch was exactly what his aching arms needed. The coolness spread quickly over his irritated skin, as if the parched layers were glued back together. Though the texture of the water-based jello was… vaguely reminding him of something else. Ogata choked.

"There goes the whole bottle." He looked at his slick arms, gleaming almost green with the herb essence. "Don't you want to leave some?"

"For what?" Those piercing eyes lifted to meet Ogata's.

Years of cold-blooded training kept Ogata's expression neutral and his stance perfectly still.

His gaze lingered on the face so close to his, flicked over the freshly healed skin on the cheeks and rested on the lips. "Maybe for your lips. So chapped." He licked his own, smoothing over the same kind of flaky skin. "Kind of thirsty."

He dared to return the eye lock. Moment of truth. Pachinko was either going to chicken out, or he was going to make things interesting.

The Russian moved, and he braced himself. But the guy just took one step back, reached for the water filter hanging from a nearby branch, and handed it over.

At least Ogata saw where the water came from this time. He took it and began to sip, unsure where the faint disappointment came from.

That night they curled up under the shelter as the rain picked up again. Maybe having an extra pair of hands to carry stuff did help, now that Ogata was dry and cozy inside a sleeping bag.

Sometime past midnight, he felt the itch on his neck as Pachinko turned in his sleep. His breath was hot and moist on his skin, and the space was too tight to pull away. A bit like the force of nature here.

Must be the rain, too loud and too close. Ogata lay awake through the night.

The next morning, he heated a gallon of instant coffee. It tasted like a quick dose of caffeine, only good for a clear head and a morning poop. The rising sun had already gathered sweat from his T-shirt, now a darker grey damp in the center of his back. He checked the GPS and local time.

"The objective is within five miles and three hours," he announced.

The other man was applying ketchup on his hash brown. The pale, lumpy color didn't look good at all.

Ogata tried not to roll his eyes. "We need to scout for the infiltration entry. There should be two. Find at least one before they head out. We can leave this hell hole tonight if things go well."

Pachinko nodded.

Matter of fact, this guy could be effective when he was motivated. Soon they hid the raft and equipment before moving closer to the villa.

The structure, though it looked like a tropical escapade with manicured horticulture and luminescent swimming pools, was an infamous lair for organized crime in the area. Their boss frequently brought his "guests" here for his personal entertainment.

Ogata had been on many missions, and sometimes he'd had enough of these people's upholstery tastes. But perhaps Pachinko was used exclusively to low-key political assassinations before, and he seemed almost curiously taken by the lavish settlement, turning his head up and around from their hiding spot. Ogata had to push it down just in time before a guard could turn their way.

He gripped the hair to hold it there until the footsteps faded. He hissed under his breath, "You'll get us killed before we even reach the target."

Pachinko hummed noncommittally—perhaps the closest he'd come to admitting a mistake, though men like them rarely did.

Ogata let it go. Pachinko might be hot, but that wasn't worth getting them both killed.

"We'll spread out," he whispered, crawling out of the hiding spot. "I'll find the other entrance."

Ogata located the other entrance from a rooftop which provided a certain angle that avoided the security cameras. It turned out to be a better vantage point now he had a clear view of the entire villa. Long limousines sat in the lot, their chauffeurs lounging in the hallway, sipping refreshments.

A sudden surge of craving hit him. Maybe when this was over, he didn't need to head back right away. He could use a vacation. Not on this island, for sure—somewhere nearby, just a safe distance away.

He could ask Pachinko if he had any urgent business.

But his attention soon snapped back as a few service crew hurried out a side door. A man with long hair strolled out after them and paused, as if sensing something off.

Ogata's heart picked up pace as the man's gaze swept almost directly over their former hiding spot. He lifted his rifle instinctively, even though it was prohibited in the terms and conditions.

But the man soon had done scanning the field. He turned and waited.

Someone else came out. Ogata wasn't sure what he was seeing, so he leaned closer to his scope. In the crosshair, he saw a small bald man stepping outside.

And that was… their target.

His hands were behind his back. Although from this distance, it's hard to tell if they were restrained. The criminal boss held his shoulder, but the gesture was unclear whether was chummy or coercive.

Then a door opened on the limousine. The hostage ducked and climbed inside.

Ogata blinked slowly. He wasn't expecting this.

The agency had instructed him to report only when an absolute necessity arose. Ogata took pride in rarely using that channel, and he always returned victoriously even after everyone assumed he was dead. But now, this was that necessary scenario.

This high ground had strong reception, so once the yard cleared, Ogata stood and dialed a number. He asked a few questions, and the replies left his face pale. He'd suspected it, but having it confirmed still sent a chill down his spine.

Just before he ended the call, a dull thud echoed a few feet away on the rooftop. The sound was way too familiar—it sent him dropping instantly to the floor.

How could he have missed it?

But the bullet that ripped across the yard wasn't meant for him, he soon found out. A security guard had climbed onto the roof and crept closer while Ogata was distracted by the call. The shot had tumbled him clean off the third floor.

Ogata peeked over the roof's ledge. Even if the bullet hadn't torn through the man's throat, the fall would have finished the job.

Silently, he climbed back down the way he'd come. When he reached the body, Pachinko was already there.

He didn't flinch under Ogata's accusing glare. I saved your ass, Ogata could almost hear him say.

"The guards will know someone's missing," Ogata was growing frustrated. "And now we'll have to stick around for a few more days."

Pachinko froze mid-motion as he was tying the body into a carriable bundle, looked up. He looked almost pleased beneath that mild indifference.

Ogata pursed his lips. "I have close to a zero fail rate, and I intend to keep it that way. You can go if you want."

He'd asked before he really knew the answer. Pachinko tagged along behind him like a shadow.

Ogata hadn't planned for an extended stay. He knew he was going to need all the help.

That included but not limited to Pachinko's extensive luggage. But as Ogata quickly checked their inventory, he realized it wouldn't be enough to sustain two grown men for a week.

A wiser option might have been to leave what they had for himself and send Pachinko out for more supplies. But that, too, was risky. If the villa's security had already alerted their employer, sending one man alone into the jungle would make him vulnerable when they started their search.

They were stuck. Together.

---

 

"You know," Ogata began, eyes still fixed on the map spread across the ground, "when I said no lizard, I meant it."

Pachinko turned with an ambiguous hum, not looking up from the twigs he was tying together to prop up the pot. The dead guard lay buried just a few feet away, but that didn't seem to ruin his appetite.

"No lizard," the man nodded, as if he'd fully understood. Once he finished the makeshift kitchen setup, he stood, slung his rifle, and disappeared into the bushes.

By the time he returned, Ogata was hastily covering the evidence.

"The fuck is that?" his eyebrows pinched together. A rat dangled from Pachinko's grip. He nearly flinched at the sight of its matted fur and limp body. Not better than a lizard, really.

Pachinko tossed another thing his way. Ogata caught it—it's a hand of green wild bananas.

"Why are they so small," he said, lifting one of the tiny fruits skeptically. "I don't like it."

He couldn't exactly admit he was already full from sneaking into Pachinko's backpack earlier. The beef had been good, if a bit too salty, and now he was thirstier than ever.

He scanned the nearby coconut trees, already calculating which one would be easiest to climb.

Pachinko, on the other hand, took the bunch of bananas back and stripped one free. He peeled it slowly, almost deliberately, then bent down to reach for it. He nodded as he chewed.

"Small is good," he said around the mouthful. "All the sweetness... very strong, in this…" He gestured vaguely with the half-eaten banana. "мелочь."

Ogata's face remained neutral. If Pachinko was trying to make a point, he didn't see how it was relevant to him.

"I'm going to pick a coconut," he announced, standing up, while subtly nudging the empty package further under a bush before turning toward the trees.

He had spotted a few bent coconut palms heavy with fruit, but as he drew closer, he found the lower-hanging ones were too ripe to hold much water. He grabbed one and tried to pry it open with a tool knife, but the brown, hardened shell refused to yield.

Regardless, what he really wanted right now was fresh coconut water.

He looked up. The green, round ones hung enticingly high overhead, just out of reach.

Ogata licked his dry lips, then began to climb.

Climbing had never been a problem for him—he'd scaled all sorts of terrain for the perfect shot. When he reached the top, he quickly picked a few green coconuts, pleased to find them smooth and intact. Though he didn't want to risk tossing them down and losing all that precious juice.

Peering through the leaves, he scanned for Pachinko, unsure if yelling was wise when they were supposed to be lying low. But all he saw was the empty campfire.

Then he glanced down and found the other man standing right under the tree, looking up.

Ogata swallowed. The rifle was still slung over Pachinko's shoulder, but it was just as likely he was simply… enjoying a view.

"Hey, stop looking at my ass and catch this," he said, half as a joke. But Pachinko visibly flinched as the coconut dropped from above, fumbling slightly before securing it in his hands.

Ogata had finally managed to peel a coconut into a near-perfect shape just before ran out his patience and hot the damn thing open. It usually took a hammer or a machete to open one, so he felt a quiet sense of victory as he pierced a small hole just enough to drain the water into his cup.

The failed attempts lay scattered around them. Some barely scratched, others split into messy, leaking halves. Pachinko had gathered the broken pieces and was carefully shaving the coconut meat and thick milk into a pot already simmering with… other ingredients.

"You're not going to fix it," Ogata reminded him mildly, taking a slow sip from his cup. "It's rat meat. You're just wasting good coconuts."

Pachinko didn't back down. Two days in his company had shown Ogata just how stubborn this man could be once he'd set his mind on an imaginary right path no one else could see. He sniffed appreciatively at the steam rising from the pot. "Smells good."

His words unintentionally made Ogata inhale, too.

Well… it didn't smell like the rat meat he'd imagined. The rich, creamy scent of coconut had smoothed out the gamey edges, leaving a surprisingly clean, almost sweet aroma hanging in the air. It reminded him of the way people slow-cooked chicken in coconut juice. Ogata had to consciously remind himself that this was not the same.

Chicken soup was mild, but the stew simmering before him carried the distinct, earthy scent of undomesticated mammal, carrying the rawness of the land it came from. Maybe that was why the smell wrapped around him had inflicted a strange unease within him. Something unfamiliar. Almost primal.

Pachinko didn't seem to mind any of it. Once the stew had boiled down, he stirred it with a long stick, carefully picking out the bones and shredding the meat into fine threads. He ladled a portion into a mess tin and turned, offering it to Ogata.

Against his better judgment, Ogata looked down. With the bones removed, it just looked like… regular soup.

The night had settled around them. Maybe he should eat something, if only to ensure a decent night's sleep. He took the tin. The warmth seeped into his palms. Hesitantly, he brought it to his lips.

Before he took a sip, he said, "Hope you didn't poison it."

He meant to joke, but Pachinko looked at him, something strange flickering behind his eyes. It was gone almost instantly. He simply served another portion for himself and took the first sip without much hesitation. Seeing that, Ogata finally took a cautious taste.

It was hard to describe the flavor. Rich, milky broth glistening with melted fat, tiny flecks of meat swimming beneath a layer of coconut oil. Given the thick golden grease, now Ogata realized it probably wasn't an overgrown rat after all, more likely some kind of beaver or river-dwelling animal.

Somehow, that thought made it easier to accept. He began eating in earnest, pouring the warm, well-cooked stew into himself. The night was still damp and heavy with heat, and the hot soup only made him sweat more as it settled in his stomach. But for the first time that day, he felt… contented.

"That's surprisingly nice," Ogata admitted, leaning back against the tree and loosening the string on his pants. The soup was rich—maybe a little too rich—and even just one bowl left him feeling pleasantly stuffed, his pants suddenly a bit tighter than usual.

Pachinko didn't answer, though Ogata half-expected him to look awfully pleased with his cooking. The man simply served another full portion, holding it out with a steady hand.

Ogata studied his outstretched arm, feeling a flicker of unease. There was definitely something… off about the man in front of him. No one should be this patient—this caring—toward someone who'd caused them pain. It didn't add up.

"Actually, I'm kind of full," Ogata said.

Pachinko let out a low, frustrating sound. "It will go bad. In this heat," he insisted.

Ogata sighed and finally reached out to take the tin. Honestly, if they weren't on the run, this could almost feel like a camping trip, just lacking beers. But even without the alcohol he couldn't tolerate, the second helping sent a dizzy warmth spreading through him.

He leaned heavily against the tree, letting his head rest against the rough trunk as he closed his eyes. After two relentless days in the jungle, his body was weary. This heavy food coma might have been just what he needed—except a food coma shouldn't make his blood pulse like this.

A food coma shouldn't make his breath catch in shallow, unsteady hitches. It shouldn't make his muscles go loose and weak, sliding him halfway to the ground. And it definitely shouldn't leave him tense and shivered when Pachinko's hand gripped his arm, meanwhile unable to push him away, as though his own body refused to do so.

Distant sirens rang in the back of his mind. Ogata's eyes opened as he found Pachinko hovering above him.

So that was it. Ogata smiled grimly to himself.

"You know what I found out… when I called headquarters?" he muttered, and he didn't mean to sound sultry. His was just too weak to volume up. "They didn't send a Pachinko here."

"Pavlichenko," the other man corrected him.

"Yeah. I know your name. Your first name, your last name, your patronymic name… doubt anyone else does." His lips curled slightly, though the effort cost him. "They sent a local guide. Guy delivers them groceries."

Pavlichenko stayed silent, watching, waiting. Ogata noticed the other man was sweating so heavily that his skin was glistening with a fine layer of silver moisture. He could almost smell the bitterness. It clung to the air like the base notes of some fragrance, mixed with musky and earthy scent, recreating the wildness that was their inescapable reality. He had to shrink his nostrils to keep from breathing it all in. He didn't know what kind of toxin worked this slowly, but maybe that was part of the torture.

"Where is he?" Ogata asked, keeping his tone stable.

The reply came, soft as a breath. "In a trash bag. Near that motel."

Ogata wanted to nod, if only his neck would still support him. "Must've taken you long enough."

Pavlichenko stared down at him, barely keeping hold of his own expression. That was… strange. He nodded faintly, confirming it anyway.

Ogata sighed. "That's kind of… off. Expected better…" He tried to gesture weakly toward the pot. If he'd expected revenge, he'd thought he at least deserved something better. Like a clean shot to the head.

Then Pavlichenko began to breathe in hurried, shallow bursts. He grunted, bending down to move close to Ogata's ear. "I didn't…"

Ogata forced his heavy eyelids open, staring up at him through a haze of sweat and simmering heat. Pavlichenko was sitting on his thighs, breathing above him desperately. Quite a solid presence.

Breathing was becoming unbearable, with this weight on him. "You didn't?"

A growl rolled from Pavlichenko's throat. "No. I wouldn't just…"

A drop of sweat fell from his face, and Ogata rolled his tongue to meet a metallic taste, maybe from where it had trailed across that raw wound. The taste only rekindled an earlier thirst. Ogata couldn't help but groan. His face felt numb and slack. He didn't even care anymore, pawing weakly at the front of his shirt. If he was going down, Pavlichenko was going with him.

"Is it too tight?" Pavlichenko didn't seem to catch his meaning at first, but he was quick enough to intercept Ogata's hand before it could reach the concealed carry. "Let me loosen that vest for you…"

He was dizzy with pent-up energy, but his fingers knew their way around the nylon webbing. They slipped between Ogata's skin and the damp shirt, working the hooks and loops with a practiced ease, like undoing a bra, not that he'd ever gone that way. In one smooth motion, he stripped the fabric away and tossed it aside.

Ogata's body dropped bonelessly to the ground. A low grunt. "The dirt…"

These hands were hurriedly smearing grime into his sweat-slicked skin. He winced in protest. Then he was picked up. He kicked out weakly as he was dragged onto the poncho.

"Better?" the words came between short, wheezing breaths as Pavlichenko tossed his own drenched shirt aside.

The forest was utterly still, not a single breeze to cut through the heavy heat. Sweat clung to their skin, accumulating in the exact same places until it dripped slowly downward. Ogata felt he must be losing his own goddamn mind as his eyes traced a streak painting through the other man's back, watching the ridges of muscle twitch beneath slick skin, trailing down into the seams of his waist.

He couldn't tell what Pavlichenko was busy with. He just reached for the leather belt at his lower back and pulled.

Then Pavlichenko turned. He looked in pain. "Later, please…"

And then his gaze fell on Ogata's body, where the campfire glowed against his sweat-sheened skin. His Adam's apple stood out sharply, bobbing with something like desperation.

Ogata knew he was a horrible sight. He squeezed his eyes shut and tugged again.

Then he heard movement as someone quickly closed the distance between them. A current of urgency passed from hot lips to his ear. "Do you mean it? Can we…?"

He felt the breath against his skin, tingling in all the right places. Words were beyond him now, but that didn't stop the low moan that rolled from deep within his throat.

Pavlichenko leaned in, inhaling deeply over Ogata's neck as though savoring something exquisite. "Please… please, say yes. I can barely hold back…"

If only Ogata could give him permission to indulge all those fanatical desires. But he couldn't form the words. His jaw went slack, every muscle resisting the urge to hold back any sound that might escape, anything that could be taken as surrender.

And the other man seemed to realize it, so he tried again. "Or just a single nod. Please. If we can have sex… just give me a nod."

Ogata's neck muscles tightened. Not even a tremor.

Pavlichenko grew desperate, slowly sensing there might be a refusal in that stillness, yet he didn't simply give up. Some kind of stubborn, unyielding spirit of his people. He pressed his arms firmly into the ground on either side of Ogata's head, caging him in without touching him.

"Blink," he whispered, breath hot and close, "if we can have sex."

Ogata froze. Pavlichenko wasn't planning to take a no for answer.

It was difficult to keep his eyes open with rigid muscles, strained against the growing burn, but he barely managed. His gaze shifted to meet Pavlichenko's—expectant, wicked, peering down from above, waiting for the moment Ogata failed to hold up. He caught the despair in Ogata's eyes and had the nerve to smirk, the scars on his face pulling taut with the movement.

It didn't make sense. Ogata should have wiped that smug look off his face. Pavlichenko shouldn't look like he's playing with trapped prey however he wanted, whether he wanted it or not.

Now, this staring contest made Ogata's eyes burn, tears beginning to well and spill silently. This was unfair. This was a challenge for only one party. And Pavlichenko just blinked whenever he wanted, his lower lashes brushing Ogata's cheeks. One inch closer, and they would've scraped his eyeballs.

"Come on, come on," the words murmured just above his lips, so close he could almost taste them. "Don't cry. Promise I won't hurt… too much."

Ogata glared. He wasn't a fucking crybaby—he tried to roll his eyes, to push back the stubborn wetness gathering at the corners.

Then Pavlichenko leaned in, stuck his tongue out, and slowly licked the tears away.

Something deep within Ogata growled. It sounded like the strongest and cruelest beast that had turned scared and desperate when it's driven by a season of raw need. He squeezed his eyes together, and when he opened them again, he saw a wide smile stretching across the other man's face.

"That's a blink," Pavlichenko muttered, just between themselves. "Thank you, Ogata."

Ogata would have defended himself, no, you trick me into this, if the press of sweaty skin against his own didn't feel so damn good. It was the first truly chilling sensation in this unbearable, eternal summer. Pavlichenko was mumbling something against his neck, but even if Ogata had paid more attention in language class, he wouldn't have caught the blurred words. The tone, though, sounded like a fair warning.

Then a hot mouth descended, teeth closing gently around his windpipe.

He nearly sobbed when a tongue joined in, lavishing the skin as though savoring his very taste. The mouth soon wandered down to his collarbone. He wondered if different parts of a person could taste different, since Pavlichenko made an excited noise, like he'd just discovered a new planet when he buried his face in the hollow there. His hands gripped Ogata's waist, then slid up to pin his arms by the armpits, holding him firmly to the ground. Pinned completely, lower body included.

Ogata wished he'd worn thicker khakis, something to preserve a shred of dignity. At the same time, he almost wished they were thinner, or gone entirely, so the maddening pressure against his groin wouldn't just hover there, and he could actually do something about it.

But Pavlichenko was too absorbed, tasting the shallow lines beneath his pecs and between his abs. This didn't feel like trying to make a partner feel good, but taking his time fulfilling a fantasy he had spent many nights with. Ogata didn't know if Pavlichenko even registered the pain as he buried his injured face in the trail of abdominal hair, rubbing his cheek there before inhaling deeply.

A wave of secondhand shame burned through Ogata. He turned his face away. Pavlichenko was so selfish, so lost in his own hunger. If only Ogata had taken a better opportunity, if only he weren't so useless like this, he'd teach him a lesson. Show him what it meant to give a guy the real stuff, not just the tease.

Then came the metallic clink of a belt being pulled open. Ogata cracked an eye open, squinting as Pavlichenko reached into his own pants. He wouldn't lie, he was curious.

But the other man only stroked himself with frantic motions, his eyes fixed on Ogata's ruined skin, tattered and marked into a masterpiece of his own making. "Красивые… блядь… убью тебя нахуй…" Pavlichenko leaned close, cursing hotly behind Ogata's ear before sucking the lobe into his mouth and biting down.

Ogata whimpered. If he could only bend up, he could touch it. Instead, all he could do was watch the large fist moving rapidly around the thick, reddened tip. That's a big hand, he'd long noticed, big enough to grip them both firmly, stroking them together, gliding against each other. He wanted to slide in and out of their mixed sweat and precum. He wanted kisses between pee holes. He wanted that curved big dick tilted up against his own, trapped between their hips as Pavlichenko thrust helplessly against him, until smearing them both with a foul liquid. Maybe he'd even learn to appreciate the taste.

For a moment, Ogata almost believed he could move. But all he managed was a slight shift of his lips, forming a weak leer aimed at Pavlichenko's strained face.

Pavlichenko tensed at the sight of that smile. His nose twitched, a deep frown breaking through the sweat-damp strands of hair. And the next second, Ogata felt the warmth land on his stomach.

He couldn't fucking believe it. Ogata glanced down and saw the white streaks across his skin. Pavlichenko, still catching his breath, bent down to lick him clean. He tried to climb up, but Ogata had already guessed his thinking process and clenched his teeth tight together, blocking the intruding tongue.

His companion finally gave up and settled for peppering soft kisses across his face and stitches. "You're so beautiful, baby… so perfect…"

Ogata sneered inwardly. He didn't know where the compliments were coming from. He hadn't done nothing to earn them. And he was still painfully hard.

"Don't worry," Pavlichenko grabbed Ogata's hand and guided his fingers to his scrotum to show how full it was. "Still plenty left for you, киска…"

Ogata stared at him silently, but internally, he was screaming. He should have been so disgusted and cringed, but his willpower had turned useless. A treacherous part of him even imagined all the ways he could receive it, how the devious man would take advantage when his body was pliant for him to bend and spread, ruining his jaw and along with his pride, tearing him apart in ways he couldn't easily heal from.

The best part? He could deny it all later. He had no idea where these came from. It couldn't be him. Mustn't be him who had been staring at the other man's back, soaked shirt stretched tight after a day of rafting. Mustn't be him who had been imagining a hand slipping into his sleeping bag in the dead of night. Mustn't be him who had been ditching a getaway together, where he could lock them both in a hotel room and ignore all the scenery.

Must have just been the stew.

He shivered as that large hand began tugging at his khakis. Finally, finally.

Pavlichenko had recovered fast. The earlier release had given him a moment of clarity. He smoothed back Ogata's damp hair, lifting the long strands to better observe his reactions. It felt too intimate, in a way that made Ogata's breath hitch. A hand slid firmly across the fabric of his pants, moving slowly, building just enough friction to draw a soft hum from his throat.

Ogata released a hot breath through his nostrils. He didn't have the luxury of waiting. He pushed into the touch, but that's just a small, blessed relief. He just hoped that hand would keep going.

But then the hand withdrew. His eyes snapped open, only to see the other man crawling toward his backpack.

Pavlichenko turned back proudly, holding something in his hand.

That's a…

"Second bottle," he said, already snapping it open.

Ogata watched, mesmerized, as clear gel dripped from Pavlichenko's fingers onto his groin.

He had already been giving him a borderline erotic massage, too much for that time being. But now, as he spread the cool gel across Ogata's abdomen and into his pubic hair, it suddenly felt not enough. The gel chilled at first but soon warmed and vanished under the heat of their skin and the rhythm of the touch. He gave a few slow strokes to Ogata's erection, but before it could build into a steady pace, his hand slipped lower.

"Ugh…" Soft moans escaped Ogata's lips as fingers began to ease him open. Pavlichenko tilted the bottle, and a cool tremor spilled over his belly as half the contents glistening on his belly. Crazy, to have goosebumps in weather like this.

A faint curve touched Ogata's mouth. Had that damn man actually come prepared?

He shifted, struggling to get a better view. Pavlichenko's lean fingers pressing side by side, taking turns to slip inside. He bit his lip as he watched them disappear into that tight ring, each withdrawal revealing a glimpse of flushed, crimson flesh. He glanced up at Pavlichenko, who was completely absorbed in his task, eyebrows knitted together as if he was holding back himself from finishing the job too soon and too carelessly.

But Ogata's own need had stretched on too long, and he felt every minute draining the last bit of self-control from him. If he didn't find release soon, he wasn't sure his body would remember how. He had no patience left for Pavlichenko, playing romantic games.

"Goo…" The sound slipped from his tense tongue, still very much blurred. Pavlichenko looked up. "Good… enough."

Turns out, Pavlichenko wasn't all that patient either. At the first sign of approval, he withdrew his fingers almost abruptly. Ogata felt so numb he wasn't sure he was ready—but then Pavlichenko stood, kicking off his pants, and Ogata's eyes caught on what swung heavily between his legs. A flicker of alarm ran through him.

Pavlichenko took himself in hand, smearing his juice across Ogata's lips. If there was one regret Ogata could name in his entire life, it was the close-combat blow that had shattered his jaw. Otherwise, he might've had better control now—not just this weak, half-there flick of the tongue. He used to take it all. He still could… if Pavlichenko didn't mind inflicting a little pain.

But the man was already moaning at the slightest touch, rolling the broad, flushed head against Ogata's tongue, fully hard and eager, returned to his former glory. He rested it against Ogata's cheek, leaning down to admire the view. They were almost… the same length.

Ogata nearly whimpered at the thought of how it would feel to be breached by this thing, so painful he'd burn for days. He couldn't wait.

Then his legs were lifted. Ogata smiled faintly as he waited, his head tilting back off the edge of the poncho while Pavlichenko folded him in half. He felt the blunt pressure nudging against the entry, then—a sharp shove.

For a moment, just the head slipped in. The next, a splitting pain tore through him as more began to push inside, slow but too much. It felt like a dull knife being forced into his gut.

He didn't know if he'd actually screamed. If Pavlichenko ever brought it up tomorrow, he'd just decide to say he had lost his memory. But he really thought he could take it. He couldn't believe that good thing was so close and slipping away now.

"Fuck, sorry." Pavlichenko was pulling out hastily. He looked for more gel, pouring between them and slicking up again. But even that only helped halfway before Ogata began to make ragged, pathetic noises again.

"It's all good, baby." A shadow leaned over him, thumb wiping at his eyes. Ogata thought he wouldn't kill Pavlichenko after all, now he wasn't so sure.

"Can you take this much?" A hip thrust for demonstration, and Ogata felt his own head spin.

"Damn, you're too tight," Pavlichenko mumbled, and only god knew whether it was a complaint or praise. He pulled out, repositioned Ogata's thighs, and settled an ankle over his shoulder.

When the rhythmic sliding began between his legs, Ogata released a sigh, disappointed, yet relieved it was something other than just swelling or splitting pain. He smiled faintly as the thick head pressed against his inner thighs, nudging the base of his own dick. He didn’t even mind the size comparison now, not as it leaked fluid all over him. He even hummed at the tender, sticky sensation building into a steady rhythm. Oh, he didn't mind it at all.

He gasped when the next thrust slid along his crack, just barely missing the sore entrance that couldn't accommodate it.

Under Ogata's stare, Pavlichenko resumed as if nothing had happened, bracing the toned thighs and forcing them tighter together. Maybe it was enough for him, if the guy decided to be a gentleman and not quite push through—

But then came another suspicious shift, though it soon smoothed into that slow, familiar slide between his thighs. Pavlichenko began tracing kisses over Ogata's calves. He must love the refined lines there. They called him The Artist for a reason that went beyond the aesthetically placed assassinations, just like they called Ogata The Wildcat for more than a film noir reference.

Ogata purred as the rhythm built, each stroke against his perineum feeling like paradise. Maybe they could team up more often, sneaking away when the mood struck. Not ideal, of course, if the agency found out they were wasting time and resources like this—

The thought that Pavlichenko wasn't really assigned by his agency had completely slipped his mind when another thrust came dangerously close to the mark. Ogata's eyes flew open just in time to see Pavlichenko flash a sharp, full grin, then shoved the rest of the way in, before Ogata's body could even respond or resist.

"Shh, shh…" Pavlichenko held him down, voice low and steady. "You're doing perfect. You're just perfect." He leaned close, his lips brushing Ogata's sutures, hovering near his mouth as he whispered a sweet, coaxing lie. "Doesn't really hurt now, does it?"

When Ogata answered with muffled groans and frantic shakes of his head, he took it as permission. He sighed, content now that Ogata's body had yielded to him, easing slowly through the tightness. He upended the bottle, pouring the rest of the liquid over them.

Ogata felt slick hands slide from between his legs, up his stomach, then grip his chest tightly. "Better?"

"F-fuck you," Ogata managed, his tongue finally loosening. He wanted to yell, to accuse him of using a dirty trick. But Pavlichenko leaned over and covered his mouth, stealing his words. Saliva dripped onto Ogata's lips, flooding his mouth. After a moment of disgust, he found it didn't taste bad at all. He closed his eyes and began to swallow.

And suddenly—he felt it. The thirst of days, the hollow ache that water and juice could never quench, was finally filled.

He pressed his hand against the back of Pavlichenko's head, holding him close by the long hair as he drank deeply from his mouth.

When he finally pulled away, a thin thread of saliva was stretched out unceremonially between them. Ogata groaned and began to move his hips while locking in with the blue gaze so intense they seemed to pierce the darkness. He clenched down, drawing a sharp gasp from them both, but the throbbing pleasure within him had awakened.

Since forever, he was built differently, made to kill, or to be killed. It was up to Pavlichenko now whether he wanted to go all the way with him. Ogata wasn't afraid of a freak; he was afraid he was too much for any ordinary person. Maybe creation hadn't hated him after all, sending someone like this, all lust and stubbornness, straight to him.

He's a goddamn winner.

"We've got three days," Ogata murmured, one hand locking around Pavlichenko's neck in place, the other on his lower back urging him deeper. "Wonder how many more you can give." He pulled him closer, breath hot against his ear. "Counting from now."