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When Ogata came to, he was unsure if he was truly awake. He was aware of the sound of footsteps around him, of the prickly hair of his beard scratching against the flesh of his shoulder, but all was dark. His fingers grazed the soft mattress that he rested on before he reached up to feel his eyes. His right socket was just as he remembered it, a barren hole, his eyelid sunken without the presence of his glass eye. His left, however, was equally empty, and the shock of the realization made Ogata pull his hand away.
Right, he remembered now. He had done that himself.
His memory of the train, of Tsurumi and Asirpa, it all seemed so distant. A fuzziness clouded his mind, disorienting him. Was this Hell? That would make sense, but the lack of agonizing hellfire was not lost on him. He could not think straight – he could not even see where he was.
Ogata tried to sit up but found that his legs would not move. The wave of panic he felt dissipated just as quickly as it arrived when Ogata found that he could eventually wiggle his toes. The muscles of his lower body were simply asleep, not yet caught up with Ogata’s conscious mind. He willed his legs to move, concentrating long and hard, and in time he bent his knees. His limbs tingled with the movement, and it made Ogata wonder how long he had been out.
As he finally moved to sit up, footsteps rushed over to his bedside. A gentle hand pressed against his chest, guiding his body back down. Ogata failed to put up any resistance – he was not yet strong enough. Then, a light feminine voice spoke to him.
“You’re awake,” the stranger said in Russian. Ogata became even more perplexed at not hearing Japanese. Where was he? What had happened after his time on that damned train? Was he truly alive?
“Where am I?” he asked. He felt a cool glass being pressed against his dry lips, and he gulped down the water with the intensity of a man who had been lost in a scorching desert.
“The hospital,” the voice spoke back. A hand took the glass when Ogata had drained every last drop of liquid.
“In Russia?” This made no sense. Not only had he survived, but he was far from Hokkaido. Had his injured form been transported from Fort Goryokaku to another country?
“Please do not move too much,” the stranger said before continuing. “They treated you in Japan for the first year. When you were stable, you were moved here by the young man in your company. It’s a miracle that you’re alive.”
Year. Had Ogata heard that right? His head sunk down against the soft pillow to ease the throbbing in his skull. “How long was I asleep?” he asked, unsure if he truly wanted to hear the answer.
“A little over two years,” was the dreaded answer. Ogata inhaled deeply and held the deep breath in his lungs until they were begging for relief. Only then did he release the air with a bark of humorless laughter. What exactly was he supposed to do now? Where was he to go? This was the worst case scenario that he could have imagined.
The realization that followed hit him like a punch to the gut. Only one person could have brought him here. That same man had likely been the one to find him in his sorry state, bleeding out near the edge of those vacant train tracks. He thought that he had killed the Russian sniper, but it seemed that Ogata wasn’t as good of a shot as he had once thought. He even failed to kill himself at point blank range. Perhaps his bullets were cursed by that wraith.
“Now what?” Ogata wondered aloud, hoping that the nurse would provide him with words of wisdom, a revelation, anything.
“The man who brought you here offered to let you stay with him if you ever woke up. I’m sure that he will be happy to see you. He comes to visit often.”
Ogata would have blinked in shock if he could. His would-be killer came to visit him, sitting at his bedside and praying for recovery like a friend or relative? It was unrealistic, too bizarre to be true. He didn’t even know the strange man’s name. No, it was more likely that the Russian sniper was coming to make sure that Ogata stayed in his weakened state. Ogata would have to rub it in the man’s face that he survived.
“I will send someone to get him soon,” the nurse told him. Ogata didn’t know what to think of his predicament. Usually Ogata prided himself on thinking far ahead, of planning before he acted to ensure success. Nonetheless, he had not thought about what he would do if he survived a gunshot to his one good eye. Surviving wasn’t a card that Ogata had thought would be on the table. Death had seemed so inevitable, and Ogata had accepted it with open arms. He had abandoned his goals, his entire mindset, to embrace the death that had long been awaiting him.
If that had failed, what was he to do?
Vasily Pavlichenko. Putting a name to the face that he had only ever seen in passing did not ease Ogata’s confusion in the least. It did not help that Vasily could not speak – Ogata assumed that he had severed the man’s tongue when his bullet had torn through Vasily’s cheek, shredding flesh and splintering molars, back at the Russian border. The event seemed like a lifetime ago. It was as if Ogata’s long slumber had detached him from his memories. The gold hunt, the war, it all seemed like a dream. He thought of those times like they had happened to someone else, an Ogata in a previous life.
The difficulty that he and Vasily had communicating, though, was a constant reminder that those events had in fact happened to him. The man’s home was small yet comfortable. It wasn’t cold like the air in Hokkaido, and Vasily’s fireplace that Ogata constantly heard crackling added to the warmth. To the best of Ogata’s knowledge, there were four rooms. The one the Vasily had guided him to first had his futon, the fireplace, and a small wooden table in one of its corners. “This is your room,” Vasily seemed to say with his actions.
The cramped kitchen was next, and on the countertop he felt an assortment of rough vegetables. One was earthy and knotted – he assumed it was a potato. The others were round at the bottom and had various long, leafy stems protruding from their tops. Beetroots? Russian cuisine was not something that he was especially familiar with, but he supposed he would have to get used to it quickly.
Carefully, Vasily next prompted Ogata to move from his futon to the bathroom. He spent a while guiding Ogata’s hand to the top of the toilet as if to say, “Please remember where this is.”
“I get it,” Ogata had to say to get Vasily to continue his tour. The feeling of being guided with a hand against the small of his back and another holding his outstretched wrist was strange. Ogata felt vulnerable, and that was not something that he enjoyed. Already, he was disoriented as he was led into the main hallway. Feeling so weak and dependent on guidance made him frustrated. He wanted to remind Vasily that he could still best him in a fight if he wanted to, that Ogata was still a dangerous threat and not someone to be pitied. For now, he would let Vasily be his eyes, but when the time came he’d make a run for it. He was better off on his own, after all.
The next room seemed to be Vasily’s bedroom, but the clutter of supplies, canvases, and easels made it feel more like a workspace. Vasily stopped him before Ogata could step in any paint – he sensed that this room was one huge, artistic mess. “You paint?” he asked the man. With his index finger, Vasily tapped the back of Ogata’s hand once. It had been decided that one tap would mean yes, and two would mean no. It was a poor means of communication, but it sufficed for the time being.
Ogata only knew Vasily from their rivalry on the battlefield. He had to admit that finding out how Vasily spent his time outside of bloodshed was interesting. Art had not been what he expected – hunting and fishing seemed more in tune with what Ogata had seen of Vasily. Art was delicate and refined, something that Ogata associated with those who had avoided the horrors of battle. He assumed that Vasily’s art had to be dark and bloody, a reflection of his experiences in the war.
“What are you painting now?” Ogata didn’t know why he cared, but he figured that he should get used to his new roommate.
Behind him, Vasily hummed in thought before cheeping like a small songbird. Ogata snorted at the noise. “A bird?”
One tap to his hand, a yes.
In his head, Ogata imagined the woodcocks that he and Asirpa had hunted in the snow. Their long beaks and brown feathers stuck out against the white backdrop, making it easy for them to be spotted in a clearing. He remembered shooting three before they even had a chance to notice him. Now, Ogata would likely never be able to even graze one with a bullet. Without his gun, what use was he? The line of thought made him feel uneasy.
“Why did you bring me here?” he asked, knowing that Vasily could not answer enough to satisfy him. They would have to search for a more effective means of conversing.
To answer him, Vasily slowly led Ogata’s hand to feel the scar on his cheek. The skin was smooth and raised, and the shape reminded Ogata of a spider web. Their hours-long battle of wills had left Ogata victorious, and he could recall the momentary pride he had felt before fever had overtaken him. “You saved me because…I shot you?” Ogata asked. He didn’t understand what Vasily was trying to tell him. If the roles had been reversed, Ogata could not imagine himself saving Vasily’s life.
Two taps to Ogata’s hand, a no.
Then why? Ogata would have to hang on to that thought for now. Below the old wound, Ogata felt Vasily’s stubbly beard, cleanly-shaven and precise. Vasily simply stood there, letting Ogata trace the outlines of his features, much too patiently for Ogata’s liking. He wanted Vasily to swat his hand away, to challenge him to another duel. This time, Ogata would certainly lose, but that seemed much more dignified than his current situation. Ogata sighed and felt the long whiskers on his own chin. His beard had grown too long and unkempt. The once-shaven sides of his head had long since grown in as well.
“I want to shave,” Ogata said. He didn’t know why it mattered anymore. He could no longer see his appearance, after all. Assumedly, it had something to do with normalcy. Ogata remembered what he looked like with his old beard, but he had no idea how he appeared now. The uncertainty unsettled him, and he wanted to maintain some semblance of his previous self. Then, he could at least picture what he looked like in his mind’s eye.
That afternoon, Vasily sat him down on a stool in the bathroom and lathered a thick soap onto his face along his jawline. Ogata hated the tender treatment, and Vasily’s perpetual silence made it even worse. He had no clue what the man was thinking. Was he smiling and reveling in seeing Ogata in such a state? The image made Ogata huff and swat Vasily’s hand away from his face. “Give me the razor,” he said. “I’ll do it myself.”
Two taps to his hand. How dare Vasily tell him no? Did he not think that Ogata was capable? Was he noiselessly laughing at the sight of Ogata scrambling to retain normalcy? “Give me it,” Ogata spat.
Ogata heard a sigh, and a long pause followed. Then, Vasily gently closed Ogata’s hand around the sharp straight razor. His hand lingered, uncertain and wary, but Vasily eventually took a step back. Ogata felt his presence remain, and he could make out the irregularity laced into the man’s soft breaths. He didn’t care if Vasily wanted to watch – Ogata knew that he could shave his own fucking face.
Ogata first felt the patches of hair along his jaw and then carefully dragged the razor down his skin. Quickly, Vasily laid a towel across his lap to catch the stray hairs. Only when Ogata’s fingers grazed his suture scars did he pause. Breaking his jaw had left him bedridden for a few months, and even dealing with missing out on that short period of time had been an adjustment. Now, Ogata had lost over two years of his life. How much had the world changed? What had been the result of the gold hunt? Was anyone else still alive?
Lost in thought, Ogata mindlessly shaved the rest of his face. When Vasily took the razor from his hand to shave the patches that he had missed, Ogata was too engulfed in his own feelings to care. The guilt that he had felt before he aimed to take his life crashed back into his mind like a tsunami. Why was he still alive? Was this uncertainty to be his punishment?
Perhaps he could travel back to Hokkaido soon and find answers, learn to fight again in an effective manner if he had to. “Where in Russia are we?” Ogata asked as Vasily patted his face dry.
There was a pause as Vasily thought of how best to answer his question. After a moment, he hummed in triumph and then Ogata heard him walk off back down the hallway. When Vasily returned, it was with a pencil and a sketchpad. He closed Ogata’s hand over the utensil and then rested his own hand over top. In long, fluid movements, Ogata felt Vasily draw the outline of an oblong shape. He finished with an X to the upper part of the shape and then poked Ogata’s chest with an “mmf.”
“That’s where I was in Japan,” Ogata said, nodding in understanding.
Satisfied with Ogata’s reply, Vasily traced the outline of a much larger shape and then drew another X far, far to the west, following it with another “mmf.” Ogata could not stop the gasp that escaped his lips. They were that far from Hokkaido? Based on the impromptu map, Ogata gathered that they were nearly in Europe. Traveling back to Japan on his own would be much more difficult than he had imagined.
He would wait to gather his thoughts and composure before making a move. It was the most reasonable course of action.
Days later, Vasily emerged through the front door with a long object in his hands. When Ogata felt it, he immediately knew that it was a cane, expertly carved to help him feel around the ground and move more efficiently. Vasily handed him the cane and then rapidly touched Ogata’s fingers to his chest. Although Vasily’s means of explaining things to Ogata was limited, Ogata found that he could often understand what the man was trying to tell him. Their minds worked similarly, analyzing actions and meaning with skill that was lost on others.
“You want me to find you…with this,” Ogata repeated to ensure that he had understood correctly. One tap to his hand.
Then, he heard Vasily retreating, speeding away to some other part of their small living quarters. Ogata suddenly felt uneasy out in the open without a wall nearby. A dizziness attacked his mind despite his solid footing. He turned right and felt with the cane until it poked the solid edge of a wall. The fireplace was behind him and the bathroom was in the hallway directly in front of him. He moved forward with a newfound certainty until he felt his cane knock against an unfamiliar object.
The object, a small end table, wobbled before something on its surface crashed down to the floor, shattering into dozens of pieces. He knew that the table had not been there before. Had Vasily set out obstacles to make this more difficult for him? Ogata growled as the permanence of his situation finally dawned on him.
He was blind. This is how he would have to live.
Ogata didn’t want this. He wanted to go back to how things were. Gritting his teeth, he launched the cane in front of him, not caring what it hit. There was a thud as it knocked against a wall, and Ogata sunk to the ground with another growl, pushing the cursed end table over on his way. He held back a sob – he would not let himself cry in front of Vasily.
Footfalls sounded as Vasily rushed to his side and sunk down beside him. Hands rested on Ogata’s shoulders, but he shrugged them away. “You love seeing me like this, don’t you?” Ogata spat. “That’s why you’re keeping me around.”
There were two hard taps to the back of his hand, a strong no.
“Fuck you! Do you know who shot me, Vasily? I did! I wanted to die! You should have left me there!”
There was a tender touch to his hand, questioning and comforting. Ogata yanked his arm away from the warmth of Vasily’s skin. “I’m not your fucking pet!”
Silence followed. Ogata felt Vasily’s presence beside him, but the man made no attempt to communicate further. Ogata did not sense anger – rather, the presence offered a strange comfort that only made Ogata sigh. “I can’t sit around here and do nothing,” Ogata mumbled, calmer than he was moments ago. “I’ll go crazy if I’m lost with my thoughts again.”
A long silence followed before Vasily finally hummed in understanding. Ogata wondered what the man was thinking. He wondered if Vasily was as frustrated as Ogata was at his injury, at his inability to vocalize his thoughts with ease.
More than anything, though, Ogata wondered how he would ever live a happy life when he felt so lost.
Ogata woke the next morning to an incessant poking against his shoulder. He felt the warm sun shining against his face and heard the wood burning in the fireplace nearby. Vasily kept poking, unsure if Ogata was truly awake. Oftentimes, Ogata himself found that, in the early moments of consciousness, it was hard to tell if he was still dreaming or not. Feeling Vasily’s touch each morning was reassuring – it grounded him in a strange, annoying way.
“What is it?” Ogata asked, unable to hold back a long yawn. Birds were chirping -- he assumed that it was nearing midmorning.
Vasily excitedly patted his shoulder, prompting Ogata to get up and begin his morning hygiene routine. Dressing himself in Vasily’s spare clothing was simple enough, although Ogata had no idea if the colors coordinated. He did not care, and neither did Vasily – functionality was what mattered. Vasily even let Ogata borrow his ushanka when the weather was especially chilly.
A short while later, Vasily was leading him down the main road of the bustling town. Ogata found that his cane came in handy when dealing with the unevenness of the dirt road, but he still found himself bitter when he thought of his new dependence on the object. Learning to live again and navigate a foreign town made his head throb – it would take longer than he would have liked.
A bell chimed as Vasily opened a door to a building off of the densely-populated street, and Ogata shuffled inside. An unfamiliar man greeted them and invited him to browse his selection. Ogata then heard Vasily scribbling something down on his notepad and handing it over to the shop keep, a note explaining Ogata’s situation perhaps. The shop keep hummed in understanding before stepping closer to Ogata.
“Welcome to my shop,” he said. “Your friend tells me that you are looking for something to keep you occupied. Do you have an instrument in mind that you would like to try out?”
Ogata raised his eyebrows. Music? That had not been something that he had considered when he told Vasily that he wanted something to do. He had imagined something more laborious like chopping wood or gathering food. Vasily was a creative, though. More often than not, Ogata found him resigned to his room, painting or sketching like a man possessed by his muse. It made sense that Vasily’s mind would come to the conclusion that Ogata should try something artistic.
Ogata looked over to where Vasily stood and let out an amused huff. “I hope you aren’t expecting me to be a prodigy at any of this stuff.”
Vasily squeezed his shoulder, reassuring him before pushing him onward into the shop. Ogata’s fingers grazed various musical instruments that he had never encountered before—strange triangular string instruments that the shop keep called “balalaika,” woodwind instruments called “zhaleika,” and accordions with piano keys adorning the side. Ogata stuck to what he knew, and when he fingers pressed down on the keys of an intricate grand piano, he felt Vasily tap no against his hand.
Ogata failed to hold back a laugh. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I know you’re broke.”
Finally, Ogata picked up a simple violin and was taught how to correctly hold it between his chin and collarbone. It reminded Ogata of a rifle, and when Ogata held the bow in his hand, he could almost imagine himself holding his binoculars instead. The first note that he played came out as a rough screech resembling the call of a dying cat. Vasily laughed behind him.
“This one is good,” Ogata said. The weight of the instrument against his shoulder felt comfortable. He could make himself a master if he tried – he just knew it.
After Vasily had paid and led Ogata back onto the street, Ogata felt a pang in his heart. Why was Vasily doing this? What was in it for him? All of this was so odd, so new. Ogata did not feel like himself, and he was not yet sure if that was a bad thing. Something about Vasily’s attention, his overall presence, made Ogata feel encouraged to carry on. Was it the prospect of another duel that tempted him, or was it something more?
Ogata could not yet decide.
A year passed. Anna Andreyeva, an old, grumpy widow who lived down the street, taught Ogata to play the violin at a discounted rate. She was small in stature, but she could still gather incredible force to swat Ogata’s hands with her sheet music when he messed up one too many notes. Nonetheless, she seemed proud of him, and the old woman enjoyed making him baked goods to take home. In those moments, she reminded Ogata of his grandmother and how she always made sure that Ogata’s stomach was full.
Ogata had learned to travel to Anna's house on his own, but he occasionally still felt Vasily’s presence a distance behind him, following to make sure that Ogata arrived in one piece. It was irritating in a nice, endearing way. Ogata had never known how much he craved support and encouragement until Vasily gave it to him, wholly and unconditionally. Through tender touches or bowls of hot homemade soup, Vasily was always there attempting to cheer Ogata up.
Every week, Ogata told himself that he would run back to Hokkaido. Every week, he ended up staying.
In his mind, Ogata blamed his lack of initiative on the convenience of having Vasily around. Vasily was a safety net, a means to ensure that Ogata did not regress. In reality, though, Ogata knew that Vasily was more than that. He simply was not ready to admit it to himself.
Together, they had started learning a form of tactile sign language to better express themselves to one another. Vasily would sign with his hand flattened on Ogata’s chest or while holding his hands, and Ogata would feel his movements, reading the words that Vasily pressed against him. It took Ogata much longer to learn to converse in such a way – Russian was not his first language, nor was it easy for Ogata to read from touch alone. Vasily signed slowly for him, though, and he became much more proficient in time. Ogata also found that it was amusing to gossip about others in this way while they were still nearby. It was like he and Vasily shared their own special, intimate language.
Although, when Anna gushed about Ogata’s musical progress, he always heard Vasily writing her notes and laughing softly along with her. Vasily never told Ogata what they talked about, but Ogata had not ever gotten the idea that they were speaking negatively about him. When Vasily excluded him from conversations, Ogata found that it was only ever to compliment him. It was like the man was a shy schoolboy passing secret notes during classes.
It was a warm mid-May day that Ogata heard the front door to their home open and an excited Vasily trample inside, immediately rushing over to him. Ogata always told him to take off his shoes before he tracked dirt across the floors, but occasionally he forgot. This time, Ogata did not even have time to scold him before Vasily was pulling him into an embrace, moving him to and fro like they were dancing a waltz.
“What has you so happy?” Ogata asked him, following along with their sudden dance. He had half a mind to purposefully step on Vasily’s toes for wearing his shoes on their clean floors, but he decided against it.
When Vasily stopped his movements, he reached down into his pocket. Moments later, he guided Ogata’s fingers over a rather impressive wad of cash. “Is this from a painting?” he asked, unable to mask his surprise.
Yes, and it was just one painting, Vasily signed against Ogata’s chest.
“What was it of?”
Vasily nickered like a horse, earning a small laugh from Ogata. Despite being adept in sign language, Vasily always seemed to enjoy vocalizing when he could. Ogata couldn’t blame him. Although he was quiet by nature, Ogata had trouble imagining losing his ability to speak.
Suddenly, Ogata found himself being held at an arm’s length. He felt eyes scanning him, and he could not help but raise an eyebrow. Vasily was a strange man, always acting with a mixture of passion and mysteriousness. Sometimes, Ogata wished that he could read the man’s thoughts and see into his soul – he had never been so curious about another person without an ulterior motive.
Vasily retrieved his sketchpad and placed his fingers on the corners of Ogata’s mouth, prompting him to smile once more. If he could, Ogata would have rolled his eyes. “You want to draw me?” Not just that, but Vasily wanted to draw Ogata smiling. It was much too cheesy.
Yes, stay still, Vasily quickly signed before getting to work.
“How long will I have to stay like this?” Ogata had never been the subject of one’s art before. He was not sure what the process entailed.
He received no answer. Ogata knocked a hand against Vasily’s sketchpad, disrupting his process and earning a frustrated “mmf!” His smile did return then.
“Why don’t you paint me and take it to the galleries?” Ogata said with a snort. “Then you’ll surely make a fortune.”
I don’t sell the ones of you, Vasily signed.
Ogata felt the world stop around him.
Heartbeat quickening and sweat coating his palms, Ogata opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Vasily had painted him before? And not just once? Ogata couldn’t wrap his mind around the confession. He had only been joking – he had never imagined that Vasily would truly paint him with care.
Noticing his surprise, Vasily set his sketch aside and led Ogata to the messy studio in his bedroom. On the far wall were dozens of works. Vasily ran his hand over rough paper and canvas alike, spending time explaining each one. You playing violin, you with your rifle in the snow, you riding a horse alongside train tracks. Vasily went on, and with each description, Ogata grew even more unsteady on his feet.
“They’re all of me?” he asked.
Yes, was Vasily’s simple answer.
“Why?” He couldn’t fathom why so much effort, so much detail, was put into displaying…him.
Vasily was still for a long while. Ogata awaited the answer, unable to guess what Vasily could possibly say to him that would explain such devotion. Finally, the answer came, and although Vasily struggled with the signage for handfuls of words, Ogata understood the meaning.
I had never encountered anyone who was a better sniper than me. At first I was furious that you had beaten me – I felt lost and useless. I could only think about you. To begin, I drew you just to remember your face so I could find you again and challenge you. I soon found that drawing you was exciting and fulfilling…it made me remember why I loved art so much. I felt like I had found inspiration in you not just to fight better but to pursue what I truly enjoyed.
Ogata felt Vasily’s fingers getting tired, but the man powered through.
When I found you on the side of the train tracks, my heart broke. I didn’t want that to be the end for you. I had grown to respect you too much. You were much too important to me.
Ogata shook his head. “You don’t even know me.”
I want to, was Vasily’s reply.
For the first time in his life, Ogata felted wanted not out of necessity or convenience but simply because he was himself. He was Vasily’s muse. Although the epiphany made his heart flutter, Ogata gritted his teeth. “You just like the idea of me that you’ve crafted in your head,” Ogata shot back. There was no way that Vasily truly wanted to know the real him.
You shot me on our first meeting, Vasily retorted. I love any idea of you.
Love. Vasily loved him. Perhaps that made the man a masochist, but Ogata found that he didn’t care. He had rejected love before, thinking that it was the path he was meant to follow. Never in his life did he think that he would be faced with another chance to do things right. He was beyond redemption, but even the forces of Hell seemed to want to bestow unto him one gift, a small mercy hung on the wings of fate.
Ogata kissed Vasily with ferocity befitting of a pouncing wildcat. He missed the man’s lips at first but corrected his position before Vasily even finished his sharp inhale. Arms wrapped around his waist, slowly pulling him closer. They stood in each other’s arms until Ogata prodded his tongue against Vasily’s lips. Only then did Vasily pull away.
“What, you’re self-conscious?” Ogata asked. “You get to look at my messed up face all day.”
It isn’t messed up, Vasily responded.
Ogata sighed and guided Vasily’s face to the crook of his neck. “Kiss here, then.”
Vasily complied with a passion and excitement that left Ogata gasping. From his shoulders to his stomach to his hips, Vasily kissed and nipped, taking his time to love every inch of him. Making love was a new concept to Ogata, but with Vasily, the act felt fluid and natural. He wished that he could see the man’s paintings and the look on Vasily’s face as he kissed Ogata, but even without those things, Ogata momentarily felt content. The longing to return to how he once was would certainly return, but for now, Ogata felt relaxed lying beside Vasily in bed, basking in the afterglow of sex.
After they had finished, Ogata attempted to draw for the first time. On Vasily’s sketchpad, he drew what he remembered of the man’s face, his eyes and long lashes, his unique beard and scruffy hair. The sketch was likely a disaster, but when he finished a smile still grew across his face.
“There,” he said, handing the drawing to Vasily. “A portrait of the world’s second best sniper.”
Ogata felt Vasily hug the messy drawing to his chest and with the small action, Ogata's heart soared.