Work Text:
After the long line of distant relatives, the executives, the work parners, anyone they could round up to show him his place, finally peters out, he's dead last. His own son, after every second cousin thrice removed, to pay his respects to the father who never was anything to him.
Yuusaku, sitting by the side of the coffin, arm carefully folded around Hiro's appropriately slumped shoulders in a gesture of what must be support in their shared grief. His little brother raises his eyes to meet Ogata's, an imperceptible to the outside eye nod of resolve, a silent encouragement, "you can do it", what an idiotic farce.
Hanazawa Kojiro looks even worse than Ogata remembers seeing him last. The face of agony, twisted and splotchy, covered in flecks of spittle and coughed up blood, fits him much better than this schooled pretense at impartial serenity. The morticians did a stellar job, covering most of the damage in make-up and Ogata wonders if he'd be still able to see the angry lines where his father desperately clawed at his closing throat, if Ogata just loosens that starched collar.
He doesn't though, he just leans in closer, to study his father's face for the last time. The thick stern brows, the deep set eyes, lips frozen in a perpetual frown, truly forever now, or at least until the bloat and rot erases it entirely.
Yuusaku seems to notice his hesitation. He unpeels from his mother's side and approaches, Ogata can see in his peripheral vision, quiet, careful, almost floating, to wind his hand around Ogata now, a supportive stroke of a thumb sure to be unnoticeable to the gathered crowd.
And so Ogata says his goodbyes, as a proper son should, no matter that he voiced them several days ago already, when they at least could be heard, he repeats, only for him and Yuusaku to hear, words simple in precision and a final act of cruelty, something to get that damned hand off his shoulder without causing a scene.
"I killed you both. But you're not going to the same place she went. Again."
The hand on his back twitches. Grips. Knuckles turning white before bleeding into colour again. It doesn't let go.
