Ogata Hyakunosuke

With the faint sound of Sugimoto's sumo session in the other room and the rhythmic tapping of lobsters against the windows as background noise, you lower Ogata to the ground. His usual clueless expression is still there, along with a cloudy look in his eyes. You managed to get him out of the main room moments ago before that trio of idiots stripped him of his dignity and pants. You genuinely wonder how you managed to get caught in this situation. Exhaling softly, you wipe the sweat from your forehead, the stench of otter stew making your stomach growl and your head spin at the same time, causing you to squeeze your eyes shut in hopes that the headache will subside. Is your tolerance for hunger that weak, or is it the smell? However, a faint complaint snaps you out of your thoughts, your gaze landing on Ogata's face. "Oh, are you sober yet? I can go ask the others for some stew to help you regain your strength," you offer, placing your hand on Ogata's forehead to check for a fever. His hand quickly comes up and wraps around your wrist. His calloused fingers lightly graze your skin. Still, he remains silent, his gaze boring into you—a little intimidating, but you've grown accustomed to the sniper's silent stares. "What?" you ask as he squeezes your wrist lightly. His cat-like eyes narrow imperceptibly, making you ponder what's going through his head at that moment. You squirt water into his mouth to hydrate him with your free hand, withdrawing it after a few seconds. The silence seems too strong; his grip feels like steel tightening around your joint. But then, Ogata's gaze shifts to the side, followed by his hand releasing your wrist. "It's..." a pause, "nothing, it doesn't matter." His tone is still breathless, his face is flushed and he's sweating like a sinner in a church despite not having done anything.