10 Works by four_milligrams
Listing Works
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Summary
If he'd killed Yuusaku at Port Arthur, Ogata thinks, their father would have finally acknowledged him. A man as proud and as calculating as Hanazawa Koujirou would never have let his family line wither away so easily, not when he had another potential heir in his back pocket. Ogata would have been adopted as soon as he set foot back on Japanese soil—taught manners and dressed up in a stuffy braided uniform, pinned with all manner of medals and squirreled into a commission that he wasn't even remotely trained for. He's sure of it.
It's right there in his ill-fitting name, Hyakunosuke, clumsy and overwrought for a farm boy, but perfectly appropriate for a back-up son of the Hanazawa family. A second son's name, no less, because Yuusaku has always come first; even before he was ever conceived, the mere possibility that he might one day exist had been enough to keep Ogata shunted behind the spot reserved for him.
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The garden is striking, in the way that all dreadful things are. There's been an effort by the gardeners to arrange the flowers nicely, to make it look like they were chosen from the nursery on some aesthetic principle. There's been a well-mannered attempt to pretend that this is not a museum of violent ends, cobbled together from the overgrown desires of unruly hearts.
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Part of her always wonders, when she sees the vague shade of a young man in military dress, his shape not quite yet formed: is this him? Is this her boy?
Would she know him, even if it were?
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It's been a while since he's gotten to beat anyone up with his bare hands. Tsurumi doesn't always like for him to get so messy. It's something like a reward, something Tsurumi withholds just for the sweetness of giving it.
[usami gets his dick touched and has a very nice time]
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He looks beatific in the mud, limbs arranged artfully like flowers at a funeral, his men wailing around him like widows.
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It isn't until he approaches, later, that he sees the camellias, trampled in the mud. They're scattered around Yuusaku's body, their naked stems still curving from his eye and around to the back of his head in a drooping halo. The shape of it preserves exactly how he'd turned, the exact way he'd stumbled, the exact arc as he fell.
It isn't right, Ogata thinks, for the image of that moment to outlast the moment itself—but he supposes that it only makes sense. Of course Yuusaku has managed to complicate something so simple as being murdered. Of course they've managed to make a perversion even of this.
[a ghost story]
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Ogata tastes blood, and he feels it dribble from the corner of his mouth as he bares his teeth in a smile. There is something satisfying in being treated unkindly, when it's like this: skin on skin, the thrum of adrenaline between them, uncomplicated.
[usami beats ogata up and sits on his face]
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They've done this before, and it feels special every time, but this is different. They are different, now.
[yuusaku is a bad son and some kind of brother]
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Yuusaku's gaze flicks to him and then hurriedly away, his breath coming quick and shallow, hands white-knuckled at his thighs, twisting the fabric of his trousers around his sweat-damp fingers.
"I—" he says, and he chokes on it, blinks hard. "With women, I... I can't."
[a non-sexy rewrite of the brothel scene]
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The curve of his mouth is all wrong, the angle of his jaw too soft. But in the dim light, with the shadows stark over his face, Usami almost looks like him.
[post-war usao/yuuo that no one asked for]