lord forgive me if i buss my nine

The Japanese dictionary you kept in your coat pocket rested near and dear to your heart, for as much as you understood, it agonized you to make a fool of yourself. 

The others believed you just couldn't speak.

Much like Vasily, the Russian sniper with a vendetta against Ogata Hyakunosuke who appeared and disappeared as quickly as a flame to a cigarette, your silence was expected. Not one of them had heard you speak, and you made an effort to stay silent near them. Other than a few noises here and there, showing you understood, they knew little about you. They knew your name as you were able to write it out for them in Japanese, but other than that? They did not have much to go on. Your thoughts never stopped running, native language haunting you at every turn. Some dialects were difficult for you to understand, and when Koito became excited, you did have to wait for Tsukishima to explain (and how grateful you were to him—you had yet to voice it, but you hoped your actions proved just how grateful you were to him). 

Speaking of gratitude beyond language.

You stood in front of Sugimoto's group, holding five fat ducks by their necks before them (tardy migrators of some sort, to be in the north so late in the season). A clean shot to the head or upper neck took them each out. Five rounds, five ducks.

Asirpa jumped to her feet, smiling up at you. "This is wonderful! We'll eat good tonight!" She glanced back at Sugimoto, who sat by the fire, cleaning his weapons. His dark eyes met with her for but a moment, finding yours soon after. That sullen gaze, the way he seemed to see right through you...

"Do you still have osama?" Asirpa chirped.

Sugimoto sighed but nodded, reaching into his bag and pulling it out for her. "Here." 

She excitedly grinned, gaze returning to you once more. You smiled in return, motioning for her to guide you to the campfire within the makeshift tent meant to house you for the night—you did not expect her to take the ducks, and she did not try to. She motioned for you to follow her. You liked the miso, but for the life of you, you could not figure out why Asirpa adamantly referred to it as osama. Perhaps it was a conversation that happened a lifetime before your arrival in their lives. No matter. Her reaction to the ducks warmed you from within. It was easy to please her.

"Shiraishi, Sugimoto, Tsukishima, and Tanigaki-nispa," Asirpa listed off several names, gaining the attention from each of the men. Koito thanked his lucky stars that she did not call on him. "Help them clean the ducks!"

You took the seat beside Sugimoto, listening as the men muttered to one another at their orders. It was not something you needed help with. Your knowledge in hunting and cleaning afterwards was a given, seeing as you did that so often now that you were in Japan. One did not always come into money, and one must always be prepared to kill. 

Animals were not your only concern. Not anymore, at least.

Knife held deliberately in hand, you cleaned the duck as quickly and neatly as possible. Tanigaki did the same, going as far as taking Shiraishi's from him so the duck would not look butchered before it even had the chance (though now that you were looking in their direction, they were whispering and then Shiraishi was scrambling to his feet, walking away from the group to a cluster of trees, so that was probably the reason—not to mention it was in the direction of the last town you'd been in). Tsukishima did well enough, silent in his work. Sugimoto did the same, glancing in your direction every now and then. 

He caught you looking. Immediately, it made him pause.

"What?" he asked, though he wished to bite his tongue. What. What would you even say? You didn't talk. It was like talking to a wall!

With your knife, you pointed toward a small bit left behind on the duck that Sugimoto missed. He quickly realized your reason for looking. A warmth rose to his cheeks as he finished cleaning the duck, passing it off to Asirpa for her to use. The Immortal Man then turned to you and uttered a small, thanks. You merely smiled in return, once again not trusting your words. If you spoke, your words would be reserved and ceremonious at best. 

Was that truly such a bad thing? Sitting in the middle of the forest during a harsh Japanese winter was bad. Sitting beside of Sugimoto Saichi, the man that had caught your interest time and time again, not being able to speak to him though you wished to will yourself in doing so anyway, was bad. The way he always seemed to catch your eye, searching for something more, was bad. 

Your insecurity was bad. What a shame you spent so much time on the formal bits instead of the conversational pieces that would truly help you in times like these. What a shame your insecurities kept you from speaking regardless.

Soon enough, the smell of roast duck and root vegetables wafted in the air, an addition to the miso Asirpa took from Sugimoto sitting snuggly within the meal itself. Each bit of food was decadent, delicious, and a reminder that your aim was downright dastardly. Not one man sitting with you wished to be on the receiving end of your meticulous aim. 

When the quiet dinner paired with several hinna hinna came in an end, the moon was calling your name. 

The same moon you saw back when you lived in your homeland. The very moon you could wax poetic if given the chance. 

Despite your exhaustion, you claimed first watch, drawing the short stick between the six adults. You rested your back against a nearby tree, eyeing the others carefully as they settled down for the night through the folds of the makeshift structure keeping wind and snow from beating against them. Sugimoto caught your gaze more than just a few times. Your hand stayed soundly attached to your trusted rifle, body prepared to move into motion if the slightest sound, the slightest sight seemed odd to you. 

Your fingers kept track of the numbers you counted; each body laying before you showed with a finger. Asirpa, Sugimoto, Tanigaki, Koito, and Tsukishima. Five. There should be six. 

Shiraishi. 

Deep in the forest, beyond your line of sight, a crack sounded out—that of a twig, a branch snapping beneath a heavy foot. The others, long since asleep, remained so (so you believed). Your feet moved faster than the rest of your body, hoping to motion. You quickly tread along the forest floor, soft snow shifting under your feet. Rifle lifted, eyes trained on the opening before you, you prepared yourself to shoot—

Your name was called behind you, making you flinch. You peel your eyes from the opening, over your shoulder to see Sugimoto standing there, tired but alert. He heard it, too. Lowering your rifle, only for a moment, your confusion showed on your face. Your lips part, a soft sound escaping quickly devolving into a startled, "Shit," as Shiraishi appeared in your line of sight beside you. Your rifle lifted, but stayed carefully on the flesh of his abdomen that would only harm and not truly maim if your very steady trigger finger decided to take action.

Shiraishi looked at you with wide eyes, Sugimoto's obvious bewilderment dissolving into his words.

"You can speak?!"

Unable to stop the soft groan that left you, you let your rifle drop. Sugimoto came into your line of vision this time, brows furrowed. 

"You can speak," he repeated, amazed at the quick development. "What, do you just not—I thought you didn't have a way to—" his words tumbled out, and it seemed his tired mind had yet to catch up to the rest of his very awake person. 

You shift uncomfortably before him. You were caught. 

"You understand what I'm saying though, yes?" 

The nod you gave was more of a mix between yes and no, deliberate in your effort to show that while yes in some instances, sometimes you didn't. You had lived in Japan long enough now, though, you may have been fooling yourself. You understood much of what you used to have issue with. 

You knew the language far more than you gave yourself credit for.

"Can you speak Japanese?"

Bottom lip twisting beneath the gentle bite of your teeth, you shrug. 

Sugimoto looked at Shiraishi in disbelief. "Did you know this?"

Shiraishi shrugged. "Don't look at me!" he defensively retorted, hands up in mock defense. 

"I'll ask again," Sugimoto said, dark eyes locking with yours. "Can you speak to us? In Japanese?"

Your lips parted. The want to answer him became overwhelmingly obvious. You were such a bleeding heart.

"Not well," you said, the very first words of Japanese you ever spoke to either man coming quickly. 

In traditional, dramatic fashion, Shiraishi yelped, a hand clamping to his mouth. "You speak Japanese," he said, words muffled behind his palm. "All this time?"

You shrugged. They could make out the answer well enough if they truly wanted it. Sugimoto ran a hand through his wild hair, hat long forgotten behind where he had been asleep. His hands fell to rest on his hips. 

His voice was intoxicating—so direct, so enchanting in ways you hoped he would never know had you by the throat. 

"All this time," he echoed Shiraishi's sentiment. Sugimoto let out a soft scoff. "I—well, I knew you could understand us, but you—where are you from? Truly?"

Your answer came in your native language, Sugimoto's interest never once waning. In fact, it only seemed to stoke the flames deep within him, a need to know more coming front and center.

"Really?" he asked. "Why—" he looked over his shoulder, wishing for the fire for warmth. He was too invested, though. He looked to you once more. "Why are you here?"

A question without an easy answer. Why were any of you here? You'd claim the gold, but you had no idea it even existed before joining Sugimoto's group. You'd claim interest in the Ainu culture, but that didn't mean you had to follow the "new type of Ainu woman" around Japan just to get a feel of it. Were you running from your past, or was your past following after you, nipping at your heels and tripping you up? How utterly cruel was your reality that you had little to give him in answer. Little of interest, anyway.

For the third time he'd ever heard your true voice, he quickly realized why you did not speak much in Japanese: "I have no answer for you, Sugimoto-san. There are many things that I have come here for."

"Ahhh, so formal," Sugimoto said, immediately grinning. He had no reason to be angry at your lack of conversation these few months—you were embarrassed. He could see it in the way you looked at him, bashful expression slinking in with the inkling of guilt that ate away at you for your silence. He had what he believed to be your deepest secret in his clutches, and he wouldn't ever give it up. "Let's go back. You can keep watch from the tent."

You gave a small nod. Shiraishi was already running, yelping, trying to keep the cold seeping in through his clothing from doing too much damage. He practically dove into the makeshift accommodations, curling up under his blanket by the fire in an instant. Sugimoto walked back with you, loudly yawning as he looked to your rifle.

"Would you have shot him?"

You shook your head.

"Ah, please," Sugimoto said, turning to face you as you stopped in front of the tent. "I don't care how you sound. Speak to me. To all of us."

You frowned at him. All want to speak had dissipated at the mention of us.

"How are you going to learn if you keep avoiding it?"

"Learn what?" you softly asked.

He grinned. "How to speak to us. What better way than learning from the source?" Sugimoto grabbed your arm and forced you into the tent, sitting you before the opening to keep watch until Tanigaki would wake for second watch a few hours later. "Asirpa will be thrilled."

Your eyes widened at the thought. Asirpa. The sweet girl who had your heart in her fist and she hadn't even realized it. A small smile formed on your lips. You gave a small but certain nod, watching as Sugimoto laid back down after stoking the fire and adding wood to keep it going.