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It was one those stifling September evenings when Ogata's contempt had finally swallowed him whole.
At first, it was only a quotidian distraction. But as days rolled by, it became a slow-burning disgust, in its dry, brittle stillness—like momiji sprawling on the autumn road. Everywhere he turned, there was Hanazawa Yuusaku taunting him again with that sight. A sight that grew in him and might have felt like a bounty he put on his half-brother’s head.
It was hats.
Since the last summer, various kinds of hats have never left Hanazawa Yuusaku’s head. One day it was a taupe pork pie. The other day it was a black snapback. Much worse, Ogata detested the fact that his brother, behind every brim, was looking down on him at all times. He would never know what kind of stare cast from someone with regard of their superior height.
But avoiding Yuusaku has gotten too much complicated. After all, they both worked in the same division. Where he was not only a half-brother but also a half-boss. So Ogata thought of inviting him to lunch to ‘discuss’ about it.
It was an old-school gyudon shop, a place where good lunch was guaranteed, but sadly, reservation was not. Packed with loud chatter and lively-manners, it was the kind that made customers coming out smelling like an ashtray.
They sat facing each other in a shared table for four. It was quite an effective way, Ogata thought, of shaming Yuusaku with his affordable lifestyle.
No words were slipping between their bites and chews. Ogata has been looking at the inspector’s ever courteous, trained, and corporate smile over a bowl of a value set unadon as he felt a symbolic disgust worming through his guts. He had thought about fighting tooth and nail for this. He had considered a cheap ploy about cooperating with the shop owner so he could whack the hat.
But he decided not to. Instead, he found himself speaking softly with a cigarette pressed between his lips,
“The hat.” His eyes darted at Yuusaku, both judging yet cautious, after taking one too long drag. The smoke got too harsh it burned the roof of his mouth. He shook his head slowly, letting out a quiet grunt.
“I must be honest. I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to lead people while wearing, once again, that sort of hat,” he tsks-ed and carried through with a glare judging his inspector’s discipline.
Yuusaku, as if protecting the last of his remaining dignity, reeled to reach his brim. The chalky fume from his brother’s previous blow failed to cover the horror glare on his face. But the piercing look made him yielded hesitantly.
The inspector took off his hat, revealing a white line.
It sat only one inch above the his eyebrows: a cut-off tan line separating his forehead in two parts. One part was whiter than the rest of his skin—so flat, organized, and planned. It was pasty-white, somehow whiter than Ogata’s own almost colorless complexion.
It took Yuusaku a short-simmering silent to collect his senses. His face, which was drained of blood out of shock, has just rapidly drawn with huge red flushes on his cheeks. “It’s from the last summer. The… the—,” Yuusaku gulped, clearing his throat.
“—the undercover, I know.” Ogata cut him through.
Reaching back for his hat, Yuusaku nodded. He covered his tear-pooled eyes with a bitter smile. “Please! Don’t look at this.”
Ogata snorted. With amused detachment, the faint muttering of Yuusaku started to fill him in:
“I-Uh. Would you rather see me in a panama, fedora, b-beret… or…?”
Ogata would usually never show an open reaction to his brother. But it required very little of Yuusaku to bring him the excuse to feel entertained. He smiled—chuckled—it was almost therapeutic.