Brothers' Conflict is my guilty pleasure. But the problem is, it's too short. There's always fanfic, but since it's such a small fandom I can never seem to find any decently-written fics. Something with good grammar and semi-coherent plot. The few I have come across seem to be unfinished ans abandoned.
So, only solution to that is to just write my own, I guess.
This idea's been nagging at me for ages. I figure the only way to shut it up is sit down and actually write it. Title taken from Josh Groban's song. Look up the lyrics. May be subject to change.
One
The funeral parlor had been set with enough chairs to seat fifty attendees, but only a quarter of them were filled. A very few close friends of Abigail Simmons talked quietly amongst themselves in the back; lost in the recollection of good memories, no doubt, before Abigail had taken a turn for the worse.
A few former coworkers who'd felt obligated to pay respects huddled in the back right corner, although Abigail hadn't actually worked in the past ten months as her mental health had slowly deteriorated. They didn't talk much, just sat in their chairs with an air of impatience as they snuck glances at their watches or phones. Most likely they were only there as an excuse to attend the reception afterward and help themselves to the buffet. Nobody bothered to shoo them out, though. No sense letting all that food go to waste.
In the front row reserved for family sat Mika Simmons, her eyes fixed blankly on the small altar that held a portrait of Abigail, taken five years ago, and a small, plain brass urn that was empty of ashes and purely for show, for her cremated body had already been interred.
Mika didn't cry. She hated crying in public and, besides, she had already shed enough tears over the last three days. Tears of grief. Tears of anger. Tears of guilt. Right now, she felt too numb and dried out to feel anything but weary resignation. Her mother was dead. An accidental overdose, the coroner had called it, but Mika was suspicious of it being an accidental anything. Abigail has been slipping further and further into her illness, her manic fits increasingly worse and her depression pulling her deeper into despair.
She should have listened to the doctors, Mika thought. She should have had Abigail committed to a state institution, despite the expense of such a thing. Despite the fact that the health insurance had dropped them months ago for suspiciously vague reasons and there was no way for Mika to pay for more medication or hospitalization on her piddling, part-time salary…
A squeeze to her hand dragged her out of her musings and her gaze to the left, where a tall, broad-shouldered woman sat beside her, dressed all in black lace with a ridiculous black veil covering her flaming red hair. "How're you holdin' up there, honey?" Miss Jemima asked in an undertone. "You ready to pack it in and head on over to the gravesite now? Folks are gettin' antsy."
Mika started, glanced around to note the restlessness of the guests, no doubt waiting for her to rouse herself so they could all leave and join the funeral procession to the cemetery. The service had already ended, a pastor she didn't know from a church she had never attended saying a few comforting words to the small gathering. It had been awkward and, thankfully, short. And, were it not for Miss Jemima's insistence on footing the bill for a funeral, it wouldn't have happened at all. Abigail Simmons had never been very good at planning for the future, and that included funeral and burial arrangements.
Mika nodded and rose to her feet, Miss Jemima hovering protectively close as they proceeded to the exit. She paused just long enough to pluck a white lily from the single, large flower arrangement that had been delivered to the parlor, sent with condolences from an anonymous someone. The arrangement was beautiful and looked expensive and she wondered if they'd been sent to her mother's funeral by mistake. The types of people Abigail used to hang with weren't the types to send seven-hundred-dollar crystal vases of roses and lilies to funerals.
As she left the parlor, she noticed one man sitting by himself in the very back row, looking as out-of-place in his expensive, stylish clothes as the vase of flowers residing over her mother's picture. His features were Asian and when he met her gaze and nodded, his eyes soft with sympathy, Mika felt a strange sense of deja vu that she had seen him somewhere before.
"Do you know him?" she asked as she climbed into Jemima's beat-up Volkswagen. "Was he a friend of Mom's?"
"Never seen him before," the lady replied with a sniff. "He looks suspicious, though. Probably some debt collector crashin' your mama's party to try and weasel some money outta ya. Never you mind, honey. Her debts don't got nothin' to do with you."
Mika begged to differ; she'd been in charge of the finances for the past few years and knew very well what sort of struggles her mother had been under. When the insurance had cut out, they'd just kept piling up, the bills for medications and therapy and—in the really bad months—the short-term hospital stays that had always ended with Abigail checking herself out because she "felt better" and, really, without proper means of payment the place couldn't get rid of her fast enough. Mika might have been protected when she was a minor, but now that she'd turned eighteen, she had the feeling that the creditors wouldn't let things go without a fight. Indeed, she'd already received three different phone calls that she'd quickly hung up on when she realized what the callers wanted. Could she be held legally accountable for her mother's unpaid debts and medical bills? She didn't know and was, frankly, rather too exhausted to give a damn at the moment.
The graveyard was a long drive from the funeral home—all the way to the other side and several miles outside of town—and Abigail's gravestone, when they finally located it, looked small and plain with nothing but her name and the dates of her birth and death carved into the pale granite. It rested beside a larger stone that bore the names of her parents—grandparents that Mika had never met—and the plot of freshly-turned earth looked pitifully small beneath it. But a wooden urn holding nothing but ashes didn't need a large space. Mika stepped forward, knelt and propped the lily against her mother's headstone. It was longer than the stone was wide. "I hope you're finally happy, wherever you are," she whispered as she rose to her feet and brushed loose soil from the knees of her black jeans.
She felt rather bad for wearing jeans to a funeral—especially this one—but the few dresses she owned were far too brightly colored for the somber occasion. The gray pullover sweater she also wore at least kept her warm in the chilly, humid air. Task completed, she turned to wait for Miss Jemima to pay her last respects as well, and there she saw the Asian man again, standing a little way off and quietly waiting. As soon as she and Jemima left to go back to the car, he moved forward to also pay respects. Nobody else had stopped to visit the gravesite, although given the distance one could hardly blame them. Mika watched from the rearview window as the stranger knelt to add another lily and a deep red rose to her offering. She stared until he was out of sight, then finally turned around in her seat and pondered the mystery of his strange-yet-familiar face until they arrived at the reception hall for the final gathering.
The buffet wasn't anything special. No fancy spread of expensive foods. No catered meal. Just a few long tables set up with folding chairs in the meeting hall of a local fire station, the food nothing more than platters of cheese and meats, bread rolls, trays of fruits and vegetables. Stacks of throw-away plates and utensils piled on one end. A few large containers of various salads and bottles of soda and iced tea and styrofoam cups at the other. A shorter table held an assortment of cookies and pies and a small coffee station.
A few of the guests—mostly the former coworkers—complained about the simple "cheap" meal. Mika overheard but could hardly muster the energy to be offended. Miss Jemima also overheard and mustered enough energy to be offended for them both as she bodily escorted the "freeloading ingrates" out of the hall amid protests and curses. The remaining guests clapped and cheered when she returned and the mood took a turn for the lighthearted.
Mika smiled at her guardian and leaned into her broad shoulder when she sat down and was rewarded with a one-armed hug. "It's almost over, honey. Just a little longer now."
She barely heard; her attention had riveted on the Asian man who had just taken a seat in the chair directly across from her. This close, she could see he was handsome. Kind eyes and a soft smile. A thin beard and glossy hair that managed to look scruffy yet stylish at once. His clothes were indeed expensive, as was the hint of cologne that teased her nose when he leaned closer, hands folded on the table. "Hello, young lady. Might you be Mika Simmons, by chance?" he asked in softly-accented English. Japanese, Mika realized. His nationality was Japanese. Belatedly recalling his question, she mutely nodded.
He nodded back as if confirming something to himself. "As I thought," he murmured. "You look so much like her. You have her beautiful blue eyes." He leaned back in his seat again, studying her.
Mika exchanged a confused glance with Jemima, who still looked suspicious but held her tongue. "I'm … sorry. Did you … know my mother?" she asked, hesitant. "You look familiar, so I was wondering if we'd met…"
"Ah, no." He released a rather awkward chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck. "Or, I should say, you were far too young to remember me then. But I did meet you once and I know your mother very well. She was … a close friend of mine."
Mika nodded, a silent request for him to continue. He sighed heavily. "This is a bit more awkward than I'd anticipated," he said dryly. "I hardly know where to begin."
"Well, honey, you might begin with the simple courtesy of telling us your name," Jemima cut in dryly. Mika nudged her sharply in the side. She proceeded to look unimpressed.
"Ah!" His eyes widened almost comically as he pushed his chair back a bit and gave a hasty yet polite little bow. "I apologize for my lack of manners," he replied. "My name is Hinata. Rintaro Hinata. And, it may be a bit of a shock, but I am yo—"
"—Father," Mika gasped sharply, for she recognized the name the moment she heard it and his face clicked into place in her mind; the image of a single, crinkled up photograph that her mother would often pull out to either coo over or scream obscenities at, depending on that day's mood. She leaned back in her chair, head reeling as the grainy image coalesced into the living, breathing man seated before her.
"You—That can't—Are you truly—Y-you're my father?"