HOMRA One shots (K project)

Yata x Saruhiko's Sister (Reader)

~ Reader's POV ~

(A/N): Pretend Yata is a little older in this, so instead of 19, let's say he's twenty-two. (:

"Hey dad." I muttered wearily, as I sat myself down on the damp, morning grass of Shizume city's cemetery.

I crossed my legs and began plucking the green grass from in front of me, as the rotted, wooden cross watched me through the light haze of the morning sun.

"How are you?"

There was no reply.

As always.

But still, I always asked... just in case he would somehow answer.

I looked up and let my gaze wander over all of the other tombstones left to be lonely in the wide-open space. The warmth from the sun began to show itself and I shivered at the change in temperature.

"Fushimi and I found that drug dealer I told you about last week... he said you would be proud if I told you..."

Silence filled the air once again, and I only sighed.

My father was Veteran in the war; he was killed in action when I was seven years old.

I'm twenty now.

I come to the cemetery to visit him every week or two, and it depresses me more each time to see all the other gently crafted stones marking everyone else's graves, and a lowly white, rotted piece of wood marking my fathers.

What a nice way to honor someone.

Let alone, someone who sacrificed himself for the country's sake.

I stayed seated there for a few more minutes, just rambling on about nothing in particular, and aimlessly picking at the grass until my fingers were stained green.

Eventually, I pulled myself up and strapped my sword to my belt. I smiled down at the grave and brushed my hand over the top of it as I began walking back towards the tall, black gates that would lead me home.

"Goodbye dad."

No reply.

"See you next week."

Just the sound of the birds chirping.

...

Traffic started flowing heavily as I got into the city again; I had my hands deep in my pockets as I pushed my way through the busy sidewalks. Nobody questioned the sword on my hip or my uniform, I suppose Scepter 4 were literally like the police around here.

After heading to the cemetery, I usually met with Fushimi at our favorite coffee shop and we would walk to work together. It was our way of dealing with dad's death.

But Fushimi only visited his grave possibly once a month.

I asked him about it and all he said was that; "It felt wrong."

Our mother was alive and she lived on the outskirts of the city, so we visited her often, Fushimi also said that he would rather spend more time with her, than with a meaningless grave.

I rounded the corner of the coffee shop and scanned through the crowd of people until I saw my brother seated at a table on the open outdoor patio. He had two cups of coffee with him, and was simply waiting for me.

"Fushimi!" I called, waving at him. Our eyes met and he stood up, picking up both cups and waving one at me.

I hurried past the last few people and took the cup from him,