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“Aren’t you going to go too?”
Makoto hears the crunch of the dry soil as Laurent comes up behind him. He spares him only a glance before his gaze rests on his dad, as strange as that is to acknowledge.
Ozaki sits at the foot of his wife’s grave, a hand absentmindedly tracing circles in the dirt. There’s a soft smile on his face and from Makoto’s spot a small distance away, he occasionally hears faint laughter. He supposes they have a lot to talk about.
“I’ll give him some privacy,” he says to Laurent. “I’m waiting my turn.”
He gets a hum in response, and it has that same musical tone Laurent tends to have whenever he speaks- it grates on Makoto’s nerves on a normal day, but today, the familiarity of it washes over him. Makoto glances at him again, taking in his appearance - he looks as good as he always does, which is infuriating if Makoto is being honest. His blond hair catches the afternoon sunlight and frames his face effortlessly, making him look at ease - almost as though he’s breathing comfortably for the first time, whether he realizes it or not.
“What do you want to tell her?” Laurent finally says, pulling Makoto out of his thoughts. He has a pointed smirk on his face, and Makoto embarrassingly realizes he’s been caught staring. He turns back to his dad, ignoring his burning cheeks and Laurent’s expression.
“That’s private isn’t it?” Makoto sneers, hoping to play off his blush. He crosses his arms over his chest, the movement making his shirt stick to his damp, sweaty skin. It’s much too hot outside, especially with the afternoon sun blazing in full force. He moves to stand under a tree that’s offering some shade, and Laurent follows close behind, clearly not taking the hint. It’s a tight fit under the tree, and it puts Makoto close enough to Laurent that he can smell the gaudy cologne he’s become so used to over the past months. It’s a familiarity he doesn’t expect.
Laurent continues, “You should tell her about me, I’m sure she’d love to hear it.”
“She already knows about you,” Makoto grumbles. He leans against the tree, uncaring of the short branches and rough bark poking at his back.
“Oh, does she?” Laurent says slyly. “You talk about me, Edamame?”
Makoto hears the amusement in his voice and grimaces when he feels Laurent inch closer. He resists the urge to move away, both to preserve his pride and stay in the small area of shade the tree offers. “Don’t get full of yourself you French bastard, I’ve only told her about our cases.”
Laurent nudges Makoto’s shoulder with his own, saying, “Don’t be shy ‘mame, tell her more.”
“Oh, I will,” Makoto says, nudging back with more force than necessary. “I’ll tell her all about how you manipulated me for months just to use me in your final master plan for avenging your dead girlfriend.”
Laurent chuckles, showing no discomfort at the accusation. “Ah yes - and you did wonderfully, might I add. Make sure you tell her that too.”
“Of course I will. I have to make sure she knows I know what I’m doing. I don’t want her to worry.”
Laurent hums and slides up beside him, leaning against the tree next to Makoto. It’s small, too small for two people to lean on it, so Laurent ends up pressed against Makoto’s side. Warmth spreads down Makoto’s arm where they meet, and it mixes with the summer heat already coursing through his body. Makoto grimaces at their proximity and tries not to pay too much attention to their point of contact. Leave it to Laurent to completely disregard Makoto’s personal space at any given moment.
“I’m sure she knows you’re doing just fine.” Laurent reassures him, an uncharacteristic air of comfort blanketing the words.
Makoto has to pause for a moment at the unexpectedly gentle remark before turning to face Laurent. There’s a soft smile on his face that Makoto would never associate with the bastard as he looks directly at Makoto. Makoto can’t help but notice that his eyes are a crystal clear blue. He shifts under Laurent’s gaze, too close to be comfortable. “What are you getting so sappy about?” he says, trying his best to sound accusatory.
“Ah, Edamame,” Laurent sighs, sounding reminiscent. “You’ve grown so much since I first met you.”
Makoto scoffs lightly, crossing his arms over his chest. “What are you, my dad?”
“Clearly not, my bean.”
“That’s a horrible nickname, don’t call me that. Edamame is bad enough.”
“Hmm, I’ll think about it.”
Makoto groans and Laurent laughs through his nose. A silence falls between them and Maktoto’s focus shifts back towards his father, listening to the quiet laughs and muffled words he speaks to his mother’s gravestone. Makoto wonders if he should wait inside the coffee shop where everyone else is. His parents probably have a lot to talk about.
Makoto wonders if his mother resents his father at all; for lying, for leaving them, for never visiting. He wonders if she knew the truth about his father, or if she died still waiting for him. He wonders if she agreed to keep the secrets from Makoto. He doesn’t know if he would feel hurt if that were the case. These days he mostly just feels exhausted
Without him realizing it, his fingers find the soft, worn edges of the plastic cat figure that’s in his pocket. He runs over the familiar grooves of the figure and visualizes the spots where he knows the paint has faded. He takes it out of his pocket to look at in the shaded light. Sometimes he thinks he should repaint it, but in the end, he can’t bring himself to - each imperfection holds a memory of its own.
“Still holding onto that?” Laurent interrupts. He leans in to get a closer look and the ends of his hair brush against Makoto’s face.
“Where else would it go?” he mumbles, shifting to avoid the golden strands.
Laurent plucks the cat out of Makoto’s hands, holding Makoto and his protesting hands back against the tree with his other arm. He holds the cat up towards the sun and the light catches on the figurine as he turns it, highlighting its little scratches and uneven bits. “Is there a reason you’ve held onto it so long?”
Makoto reaches for the cat in a fit of annoyance- thankfully, Laurent surrenders it without much struggle. “It was my mom’s.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t judge me,” Makoto mutters, shoving his hands and the cat back into his pockets. “Don’t you have that ring you carry around everywhere?”
“Edamame!” Laurent gasps unnecessarily. “Didn’t you see me dramatically throw it into the ocean? It was a big moment for me, you know. I can’t believe you missed it.” He crosses his arms and pouts as if he isn’t a grown man.
Makoto rolls his eyes before taking in what Laurent just said. “You-“ he starts, surprised. “You threw it away? Why?! Wasn’t it important to you?”
Laurent smiles- and it’s that same uncharacteristically soft expression from earlier, but this time it’s not directed at Makoto. Instead, he looks out to the rest of the cemetery, gaze distant and fond. “That was Dorothy’s good luck charm, I was only borrowing it. Of course, I had to return it to her.”
Makoto visualizes a single stone ring floating somewhere in the depths of the ocean. Laurent had said ‘return’- he takes in the implications of that. No one has told him how exactly Dorothy died but it’s not difficult to piece it together.
He looks down at the cat in his hands, running his thumbnail over a scratch sitting near the cat’s ear.
It couldn’t have been easy, returning something that meant so much to him- but he supposes that’s why it is necessary.
“Did it ever work?” he asks softly.
“Hm? You mean the ring?”
Makoto nods. “Did it ever bring you luck?”
“Of course. I met you didn’t I?”
Makoto’s eyes widen at that and he instinctually snaps up to face Laurent directly- maybe to see his expression, to see if there is any trace of sincerity in his eyes- but the other man is already walking away, one arm raised to wave at Makoto. “It’s hot out here Edamame! I’m going to wait inside before I pass out, you should come too,” he singsongs.
“That bastard,” Makoto grumbles to himself, leaning back against the tree, still fiddling with the cat figurine.
He thinks it’s a tabby cat, but he’s not sure. He wonders if his mother had a favourite breed - she seemed to like any cat she came across just as much as the others. As much as she loved them, they never got a cat because of hid dad’s allergies. Then his dad left and she was hospitalized and couldn’t get one even if she wanted to. Makoto thinks that even if she wasn’t in the hospital, she would not have gotten a cat. She was always waiting, after all, with a fierce trust and determination that Makoto can’t even fathom having.
His father is still talking, face animated but soft. Makoto can see the tenderness in his eyes even from this distance.
The smile on his face tugs at Makoto’s memories, reminding him of moments from his childhood framed by rose-coloured lenses. He remembers emotions more than any actual events. He can recall the feeling of freedom from sitting on his father’s shoulders, tall enough to reach up and knock leaves off of branches without a care in the world. He remembers the warmth of his mother’s touch as she put him to bed with gentle fingers and a kiss on his forehead. He remembers the brightness of his parents’ smiles. It was more short-lived than he ever thought it would be.
His mother still smiled like that well through her sickness. Makoto would walk into her room to find her sitting upright in her hospital bed, framed by the morning sun and holding a plastic tabby in her gentle fingers. She would call him over eagerly and urge him to tell her about his day, night, plans for that week, and anything else he could fit into one hospital visit.
Makoto continues to run his nail in the groove of plastic.
He wonders for a moment what Dorothy’s ring reminded Laurent of. (Soft kisses, coloured lights in the sky, and rumpled sheets)
He wonders what memories his dad has of his mother, of him, wonders what reminds him of them.
A bead of sweat runs down Makoto’s back. He feels sticky all over and vaguely lightheaded from the searing heat. He should go inside, maybe he’ll order an iced coffee. Or maybe he’ll just steal whatever Laurent has just to spite him.
Makoto pushes away from the tree to approach his dad, hearing the soft murmurs of conversation without making out any words. When he reaches the grave, Ozaki pauses, looking at him questioningly before smiling. “Ah, is my time up? I noticed you were waiting.”
Makoto huffs before averting eye contact. “Of course not. I just-“
He pauses, feeling plastic dig into his palm from where his fingers are clenched around the figurine. It’s a familiar feeling. He memorizes the way it pushes into his skin. The jagged edges and rough surface are committed to his memory.
He thrusts the figure out towards his dad before he can regret it, before memories of his mother’s smile and gentle fingers can overtake him. “This was Mom’s” he blurts. “I got it for her when- when she was sick.”
His father’s eyes go wide just slightly before his gaze softens. He takes the cat, gently turning it over in his hands, every movement soft and purposeful. “She always loved cats.”
Makoto watches him, feeling like he’s replaying one of those rose-coloured memories that live in the back of his mind. “She never got one. Not even after you left.”
If the words hurt, his dad shows no signs of it. He just smiles a little more. “She should have. But I’m glad she had this, at least.”
Makoto is glad too.
He clears his throat suddenly, breaking the atmosphere they built. He can go without the touching father-son moments, and he thinks his dad can too.
“I’m gonna head in. It’s hot out here.” He turns around to leave and then adds, “You, uh... take your time with mom.” He walks away before he can get a response.
Everyone is squeezed around a table, drinks and snacks in hand in the coffee shop - they’re all loud and animated and not nearly as sweaty as Makoto is.
He drags a chair over from another table and Laurent shifts his chair over as he sees Makoto coming. If he notices the lack of the plastic figurine in Maktoto’s hands, he doesn’t say anything.
“Not getting anything to drink, Edamame?” he asks as Makoto sits down.
“I am,” Makoto grabs Laurent’s sugary-looking bright pink drink and chugs it down, hearing Cynthia cheer in the background. It’s disgustingly sweet, but it cools him down instantly.
Makoto pushes the empty cup back to a smiling Laurent and leans forward in his chair, joining in on the conversation around him.