#ogata knit sweater

[ogatitonyakunosuke]

do with these as you please

edit: pattern and colour palette in reblogs for those who can't use online

[eskandarrohani]

[FIC] "Out to the Field" + bonus deleted scenes

Out to the Field + Golden Kamuy + Modern AU + Rated T (major character death) + Ogata Hyakunosuke & Hanazawa Yuusaku + 4.6k of tension and Ogata being himself

Given the sort of thought it was, Ogata would have expected more drama to accompany it. But instead, the thought flitted across his mind in the same way anything else ever did. Casually. As if it carried the same importance as every other thought he had ever had. I think I’ll get Thai food for lunch. Should I buy this shirt in blue or black? There’s a lot of subway traffic today. I could shoot my half-brother in the back of the head.

Written for the Golden Future Zine.

And! Seeing as this has already been out for a spell, I should probably put its deleted scenes out somewhere too. Just for funsies.

[ 1 ]

A certain amount of blame had to be ascribed to Sugimoto, because this was definitely (a little bit) his fault.

Ogata was, as a rule, a hermit on social media and a person who only responded to messages in as few words as possible, and even then only after a grace period of at least 48 hours. Conversely, Sugimoto had a horde of friends back across the Pacific that he kept up with daily via LINE. And despite the fact that a few of Sugimoto’s friends might have also theoretically been classified as whatever-passed-for-friends-with-Ogata-Hyakunosuke, he couldn’t help but feel bemused whenever Sugimoto mentioned someone had asked after him. (It was weirdly often Vasiliy, who definitely did not qualify as anything in the same universe as “friend.” “Sworn enemy” felt more correct.)

“Oh,” Sugimoto said over breakfast one Monday morning, because nothing good ever happened on a Monday morning. “Yesterday I got a message from Nikaidou asking about you.”

“Which one?” Ogata had asked, absently, before frowning and pausing his morning routine of mindlessly scrolling through Twitter to look up at Sugimoto.  “You’re friends with Nikaidou?”

“I’m honestly not sure which one,” Sugimoto admitted. “They’re both in my phone as Nikaidou, and at this point I’m always too ashamed to ask who I’m speaking to.” He took a minute to slurp a spoonful of his hot soup, only to promptly grimace as he scalded his mouth. “As to the friend question,” he paused to take a restorative sip of water, then continued, “No? Or I don’t think so?” His chin crinkled like a drying plum as he thought. “I feel like they might think I’m their sworn enemy.”

“I sometimes think that about you, too,” Ogata drawled, only slightly joking.

Sugimoto grinned with all his teeth, revealing the dark sliver of a piece of wakame clinging to one of his incisors. “The feeling is mutual!” Lip curling, Ogata made a small gesture to his own teeth and Sugimoto licked the seaweed away, unbothered. “Anyway,” he said, “Whichever Nikaidou it was mentioned that your brother was asking around for you.”

“Half-brother,” Ogata reflexively corrected. “Why?” It was meant to come out without any inflection, but even he could hear that he sounded kind of irritated. “What for?”

“Honestly? No idea. I just wanted to let you know, since you like being able to plan for things.”

[ 2 ]

“How much do you think Asirpa would hate this?” Sugimoto asked, holding up a purple sweater. “It looks like something she’d use, right?”

“Shouldn’t you be a little more ambitious when shopping for a birthday gift? Maybe you should try looking for something she’ll like—not what she’ll hate least,” Ogata mumbled. He peeled a glove off so he could better inspect the textile’s feel. The dense purple knit was admittedly far softer and less itchy than he’d expected. He dropped the sleeve he held with a sigh, his breath forming a perfect wisp of cloud in the cold. “Doesn’t she already have a few in this color?” he asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in anything but purple sweaters.”

“I know, but will she hate it?” Sugimoto pressed.

The kiosk’s hawk-eyed vendor watched them from over the rim of her thermos. “That is baby camel wool,” she put in helpfully, as if that meant anything to either of them. “Very good quality.”

Ogata glanced at the tag and subtly showed it to Sugimoto who made a noise like all the air had been punched out of him. “It must be,” he replied with a thin smile.

Sugimoto hurriedly returned the sweater to its rightful place with a harassed ‘thank you’ to the salesperson and ushered Ogata away.

[ 3 ]

“You look like shit,” Vasiliy told Ogata, the perpetual frown on his face thawing as what looked suspiciously like delight tugged at the corners of his mouth. His FaceTime videofeed briefly froze, then sprinted back into realtime. “Did you catch a cold?”

Ogata shifted in his bed. “Probably,” he said. He adjusted the perspiring ice pack on his forehead. “Sugimoto dragged me up and down through both holiday markets last night, and I got rained on when walking home.”

Vasiliy made a guttural derisive sound somewhere in the back of his throat. “You have a weak constitution,” he diagnosed. “This would never happen to me.”

“How good for you.”

“But if it did,” Vasiliy continued, “I would boil potatoes, remove from heat and sit with the pot under a towel and breathe in the steam. It works every time.”

“I thought you said this would never happen to you,” Ogata said, weighing the benefits of hanging up right now and going back to sleep.