Chapter Text
His first Christmas out of prison, Kiryu receives a strange present: an apartment from Majima Goro.
He’d been suspicious, naturally, when Nishida had shown up at Serena a week after the Millennium Tower incident with an envelope containing a keyring and a note that only said “Merry Christmas Kiryu-chan!” accompanied by a doodle of a smiley face with an eyepatch.
After sharing a bewildered look with Haruka, Kiryu calls Majima up, prepared to deliver a hard “no” to playing another one of his games, preferably forever. He’s hunched in a seat at the bar, which is slowly but surely collecting dust with the mama no longer around to clean it. He’s been craving a drink for days, but it feels like sacrilege to go digging through Reina’s carefully curated liquor shelves. Kiryu pinches his temples with one hand to soothe the impending tension headache that inevitably comes after a chat with Majima.
The phone rings once, twice, before connecting. “Yo, Kiryu-chan,” comes Majima’s voice through the tinny speaker. He can hear murmuring in the background that is quickly cut off by the slam of a door. “What can I do for ya?”
“Nii-san. What is this?” Kiryu gestures to the note on the bartop before realizing how silly he looks and dropping his hand.
“Yer gonna have to be more specific, Kiryu-chan,” Majima teases. Asshole.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Kiryu snaps. “This key? The one Nishida just gave me?”
“What, yer present? Consider it a ‘welcome home’ gift. Or Christmas gift, whatever.”
Kiryu huffs. “Mind telling me what it is?”
Majima giggles. “It’s a key to one of my apartments.”
“Wait, what?”
“Now don’t get the wrong idea, big guy. I don’t use it much. Figured ya could use a temporary place to get back on yer feet.”
Kiryu’s brain is still short-circuiting at the idea of Majima giving him a spare key. To one of his own apartments, no less. “I can’t accept this, nii-san.”
“I’m not yer nii-san, and sure ya can. Ya really gonna tell me ya got somewhere better to be?”
Kiryu flounders. “Well—”
“‘Cause I’ve had my eye on ya 24/7 for weeks now, and the only two places I’ve ever seen ya sleep were Serena and a shack in West Park.”
“But it’s way too much. I couldn’t even begin to pay you back.”
“Now who said I wanted anything in return? It’s a present, Kiryu-chan. Pr-es-en-t. I know ya don’t take kindly to charity, but y’ain’t alone no more. A bar ain’t no place to keep a kid.”
Kiryu glances guiltily at Haruka, who flips through a girls’ magazine in a booth while politely pretending she’s not hearing this entire conversation. “How do I know this isn’t a trick?”
Majima falls silent, but he doesn’t hang up. Kiryu can still hear his breathing through the receiver. “I wouldn’t do that to ya. Let’s just say…I know what it’s like.”
Kiryu ponders the implications of that bombshell. He scrubs his face with his hand, rejection ready on his lips but knowing full well he can’t afford to turn away a genuine offer for help. For Haruka’s sake. “Fine. What are your conditions?”
“Eh?”
“You have rules, don’t you?”
“Hm. Don’t gotta pay rent, I guess. Just save yer money and make sure Haruka has enough. And spend time with her, ya hear? What good is havin’ a new dad if he’s always out workin’?”
Kiryu smiles. “You seem awfully invested in her wellbeing.”
“What can I say? I like the kid. She’s got guts. More than you can handle.”
Another tense moment of silence on the line. Kiryu drums his fingers on the bartop. He sighs. “...Fine. But if Haruka says no, it’s a no. I gotta run it by her first, since—”
“Yeah. I gotcha.”
Haruka’s more agreeable to the idea than Kiryu had expected, to his dismay; he was half-hoping she’d reject the offer outright and spare him the indignity of owing Majima Goro a favor. The only request that she makes—and a pretty reasonable one at that—is being able to see this apartment in person beforehand. Kiryu is quite curious about it himself. What spaces could possibly contain an entity like Majima? Would he kick it in a lavish penthouse suite in Roppongi? Or was this spare apartment only one step above the meager huts in West Park?
The address written on the tiny tag attached to the keyring takes them to a remarkably normal (dare he say boring?) apartment complex in Kita-shinjuku, just west of Kamurocho proper. If you stay at ground level, it’d almost be impossible to guess that it borders a red-light district. Other than the fact that it’s a high-rise surrounded by modest single-family homes, it doesn’t look like a place Majima would even look twice at, much less live in. But then again, that might be the point.
Kiryu makes Haruka stand behind him as he unlocks the door, in case there’s anyone lying in wait to ambush them. He cracks open the door to reveal a compact genkan, a bathroom with a toilet and tub on one side and a washing machine/dryer combo crammed next to the shoe closet on the other. It funnels into a narrow hallway, which quickly opens up into a generous living room flanked by two bedrooms. A large balcony with glass sliding doors allows light to fill the whole apartment. A small kitchen occupies a nook at the opposite wall.
After sweeping all the rooms and checking the most obvious hiding places, like inside closets and under beds, Kiryu declares the place safe for Haruka to enter. She’s clearly impressed by the place, even as sparsely-furnished as it is, and quickly disappears from Kiryu’s side to explore. It’s clean but impersonal; whoever sourced the furniture was clearly just looking for the basics and nothing more. A thin layer of dust coats most of the surfaces Kiryu touches, as if nothing’s been touched since move-in. The only sign that anyone might have lived here is a half-empty bottle of Pocari Sweat in the refrigerator and a few (bizarrely normal) sets of clothes in the bedroom closet. If Majima’s rigged this place up with cameras, he’s done an impeccable job of it, given how bare it is. It seems unlikely, though. That would be going a bit far, even for him.
He wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t use it much, Kiryu thinks. He wonders when Majima picked out this place, how long he’s had it for, why he even has it at all. It suddenly occurs to him that he doesn’t know much about Majima at all. He doesn’t know why he feels slightly guilty about that.
“Oji-san!” Haruka trots into the room, startling Kiryu out of what looks like a staring contest with the floor. “I like this place.”
“That so?” Kiryu smiles and pats her head, smoothing out her hair. “Should I tell Majima-san you like it, too?”
She nods. “Mm-hm. But I have a condition for him.”
“And what’s that?”
Her face hardens. “He still owes me an apology for kidnapping me. He has to promise me.”
Kiryu smirks. “Of course. I wouldn’t let him off the hook for that.”
“Good. But you have to help me write a thank-you note to him first.”
And just like that, Kiryu and Haruka are officially no longer homeless.
Christmas having been thoroughly ruined for both of them this year, Kiryu takes it upon himself to make the New Year festivities a good experience for Haruka despite their limited resources. The day they move into their borrowed apartment, they sweep up the dust and air out the bedding, wishing the year good riddance. After a cursory inspection of the cupboards and cabinets, they hit up a 100-yen store for the rest of the essentials, ensuring that it’ll be at least a few days before Kiryu has to run out again to get something they forgot.
With the leftover money from Kiryu’s adventures around town, he and Haruka venture to a real grocery store (Maruetsu, as opposed to the Poppos and Don Quijotes that Kiryu used to live off) to purchase their New Year’s Eve feast: instant soba, frozen tempura, mochi, pre-made osechi, store-prepared sushi, amazake.
“Oji-san, do you know how to make soba?” Haruka asks, inspecting the array of instant noodles with interest.
“Uh, no. I’m not much of a cook,” Kiryu replies sheepishly. “Though I suppose I should start doing more of it, huh?”
Haruka’s smile is sunny. “I used to do a lot of cooking at the orphanage! I can help.”
Kiryu can’t resist returning her smile. “Thanks, Haruka. I’d appreciate it.” He eyes the packaged foods filling their cart, feeling slightly guilty. It can’t be healthy to raise a kid on this stuff. She deserves better. Something better. Someone better.
If nothing else, it’d be cheaper to prepare meals at home. Kiryu should probably look into it. But for now, instant noodles and reheated tempura are the best they’re going to get. He can’t mess that up. He hopes.
He spends more time than he really should have cooking their New Year’s Eve dinner. Paranoid that he’ll somehow misread the package instructions and destroy the whole kitchen, Kiryu spends almost two hours hemming and hawing over the stove, chopping the scallions at a snail’s pace and peeking at the oven every two minutes. He’s grateful that Haruka won’t be too hungry while waiting, thanks to their store-bought sashimi, and that he started on dinner much earlier than a more seasoned cook would have. It’s a little embarrassing to have to re-heat the soba because it got cold while he was fussing over the tempura, but not as embarrassing as the thought of missing midnight entirely because he’s a turtle in the kitchen.
But at least the food is done, and more importantly, edible. He brings out two steaming bowls of toshikoshi soba topped with shrimp tempura and the smile on Haruka’s face is well worth the time he spent. They sit in front of the television with their noodles, watching the variety show, and Kiryu feels more at home than he has in a long time. It reminds him of…
The year before he went to prison. Kiryu and Nishiki and Yumi, all gathered in Nishiki’s tiny one-bedroom apartment, sipping warm amazake and eating pizza, laughing at the comedy routines under the kotatsu. Sharing a toast with flat beer at the countdown, Yumi giving them each a kiss on the cheek as the clock struck midnight.
Haruka nudges him. “Uncle Kaz, it’s almost time for the countdown!” He startles; they clink bottles of green tea as the shrine bells outside toll once past the hour.
“Happy New Year,” Kiryu says warmly.
“Happy New Year!” Haruka cheers, her eyes bright with childlike excitement.
He won’t ever get those days back, but he and Haruka have something new. Something soft and warm and gentle that Kiryu wants to hold close to his heart and cherish.
On New Year’s Day, they make the trip to Kamurocho’s only shrine, a tiny thing usually patronized by salarymen and gamblers. Unlike other shrines in Tokyo, this one doesn’t attract enormous flocks of New Years’ pilgrims, for which Kiryu is thankful.
They wait in line outside the entrance, hands cleansed and hearts light. Grasping the rope at the same time, they ring the bell together; they clap twice and bring their hands together in prayer. Kiryu prays for a blissfully boring, uneventful year, if the gods allow it.
Haruka picks out a baby-pink omamori from the stand of charms: ‘kanai anzen.’ Please keep my family from harm. Kiryu feels a lump in his throat as he pays for it.
They draw fortunes before the great fence of paper slips, unfurling them from tiny wooden daruma dolls.
“I got a ‘great blessing,’ oji-san!” Haruka says excitedly, showing him her paper slip. Kiryu unfolds his: ‘great misfortune.’ Her face falls slightly as she catches a glance at it.
“It’s alright, Haruka,” Kiryu replies, patting her shoulder. “I think I’ve been plenty blessed this year.”
Haruka shakes her head. “I’ll tie mine to yours, so it cancels out.” She snatches the paper from his hand and trots over to the fence to tie both slips together. Kiryu’s not sure it works like that, but it’s a nice sentiment. He thanks her and gives her his daruma doll to keep.
“Would you like to make a wish?” Kiryu asks, looking over at the large display of ema, wooden wish-plaques.
“I don’t think so,” Haruka answers, taking his hand. “I think I already have everything I could want.”
Kiryu doesn’t know if the gods are here right now, but he sends a hasty prayer in his head, just in case: Oh please gods protect this little girl at all costs.
He smiles at her. “Should we get some hot chocolate on the way home, then?”
Haruka brightens. “I want extra whipped cream!”
They’re about halfway down Shichifuku Street when Kiryu hears the tell-tale screech of “Kiryu-chan!” behind them and stops in his tracks. Haruka freezes beside him, clutching her hot chocolate protectively, and preemptively takes several steps away from Kiryu.
He turns just in time to see Majima bounding toward them in nothing but his usual outfit, despite it being January and freezing cold. Even Kiryu, wanting to set a good example for Haruka, had caved and put on an overcoat and scarf today.
“Nii-san.” Kiryu bows as Majima skids to a stop before him. “Aren’t you cold?”
Majima cocks his head. “Haw?” Kiryu gestures at his bare torso. Majima glances down as if he’s just noticing he’s shirtless. “Not really.”
But then, his face splits into a grin, and not the good kind. “Well…maybe a little. But ya know what might warm me up?”
Kiryu sighs. “I’m not fighting you.”
“Aw, c’mon, Kiryu-chan. Ya really gonna let me freeze to death like this?” Majima hugs himself and shivers dramatically.
Kiryu glances at Haruka, looking as cozy as an unexpected spectator to a street brawl can be. She makes a shooing motion with one gloved hand, rolling her eyes.
Kiryu sighs again. “Alright. Fine. But this better be quick.”
Majima cackles and puts his fists up. “Do yer best, Kiryu-chan.” Then, he lunges.
Kiryu narrowly avoids getting his nose caved in. Kiryu has to admit, he’s missed his fights with Majima just a little bit. He got so used to people genuinely trying to kill him during the ten-billion-yen incident that these scuffles feel like child’s play in comparison. Really fun child’s play, complete with costumes and pretend-play. Wait, had he mentally regressed to toddlerhood while he was in the pen? Is this really what he considers entertainment these days?
Probably best not to dwell on that.
He snatches up a nearby biycle and swings it around, catching Majima in the handlebars and sending him flying. Majima lands on his feet like a cat, darting forward and sweeping Kiryu’s legs out from under him. He stumbles, but before he can recover Majima is on him with a flying kick. Both of them tumble to the ground in a ball of limbs and fists. Kiryu flips Majima off him and scrambles to put him in a pin, twisting his arm and tangling their legs together until Majima cries “I give up, I give up!”
Kiryu rolls to his feet, feeling sweat bead at his temples. Majima’s chest is heaving and his cheeks are slightly flushed from exertion. Standing over his fallen opponent, Kiryu offers a hand to him. Majima takes it; his grip is surprisingly warm. “Ah, good shit, Kiryu-chan,” he sighs, patting him on the back.
“It’s good to see you again, nii-san,” Kiryu says, and he’s surprised to find he actually means it. Friendly faces have been few and far between these days, and while Majima’s categorization as “friendly” is somewhat questionable, Kiryu can at least count on having a good time when they run into each other.
“Ya flatter me,” Majima dismisses. “Good to see you and the kid are doin’ well.”
“Yeah, we’re a bit better. We were visiting the shrine for New Year’s.”
“Oh, is that so?” Majima looks over at Haruka. She gives Kiryu a meaningful look, as if waiting for him to say something.
“Ah. Right. Also.” Kiryu hesitates. “Thank you. For letting us stay at your place. It’s been a big help these past few days.”
Majima waves it away. Is it just Kiryu, or does he look slightly flustered? “Don’t gotta thank me.”
The conversation lapses into awkward silence. Majima clears his throat. “Well. Guess I’ll be on my way, then.”
“Wait, Majima-san!” Haruka approaches him, face steely and back straight. He looks surprised to hear her speaking to him.
Haruka reaches into her jacket pocket, withdrawing a piece of paper folded into quarters and presenting it to him with both hands. Majima takes it, nonplussed.
“It’s a thank-you note from me and oji-san,” she explains. Majima’s mouth forms a tiny “o”. “I had a feeling we might run into you today, so I brought it with me.”
Majima looks down at the paper in his hand. “Can I open it?” He asks hesitantly.
“Yeah.”
With uncharacteristic gingerness, Majima unfolds the note and smooths out the creases.
It’s a colored-pencil drawing of two crudely-drawn people holding hands in front of the red Kamurocho entrance gate. One is drawn with a scribbly bowl-cut and eyepatch, wearing a smile and a yellow-and-black jacket and carrying a knife in his free hand. The other has been drawn with a comically angry face and a gray suit with a red shirt. There’s obviously been a lot of care given to the details, from the two figures’ facial hair to their snakeskin shoes. Majima can even see the pink and blue signs of Serena and Stardust in the background. Thank you Majima-san is written across the top of the page in neat pink katakana and kanji. In the bottom corner: From Haruka + Kiryu. Haruka and Kiryu are written in two different colors with two different types of handwriting, as if both of them had signed it themselves.
“Oji-san helped with the coloring,” Haruka adds. Majima’s silent, shocked expression is starting to make Kiryu worry.
Finally, Majima speaks. “It’s beautiful, Haruka-chan.” He smiles—a real one. One Kiryu’s sure he’s never seen before. Kiryu’s dangerously close to calling it fond. “I love it.” Haruka hesitantly returns his smile.
Very carefully, Majima re-folds the paper and tucks it into his jacket. He fixes Haruka with a serious expression. “Listen, kid.” He drops into a crouch, getting closer to her eye level. “There’s somethin’ I gotta say to ya too.”
He sighs, running his hand through his hair. “I’m real sorry for kidnappin’ ya,” he says. A couple passers-by give them odd looks; Kiryu grimaces. “I know I scared ya. I shouldn’t’a done it. And swear on my life, it won’t happen again.”
Majima plucks at his gloves uncomfortably. “And I hope ya can forgive me, but I understand if ya can’t.” Staring down at Majima resting on his heels, he looks smaller than Kiryu’s ever seen him. He didn’t think Majima was even capable of expressing a sincere sentiment. But if he’s faking, he’s doing an extremely good job of it.
Haruka looks at him critically. A few seconds go by; Kiryu can see Majima visibly start to sweat. Finally, she nods. “I forgive you,” she says. Majima’s shoulders sag in relief.
“You’re Uncle Kaz’s friend,” Haruka continues. “So that means you’re my friend, too.” Kiryu stiffens, embarrassed. Majima tilts his head like a confused puppy, like he doesn’t know what the word “friend” even means. It’s a little sad to watch.
“Friends, huh?” Majima rubs his chin. “I guess so.”
“I guess so,” Kiryu echoes, equally bemused.
Haruka extends a hand to Majima; taking it in his own, he shakes it like a diplomat before getting to his feet. Some kind of truce has been called, but Kiryu can’t for the life of him tell what it is.
“I appreciate it, Haruka-chan,” Majima replies, another one of those mysterious smiles on his face as he begins to retreat. “I gotta run. See ya 'round!”
“Wait,” Kiryu interrupts. He shrugs off his scarf and inexpertly wraps it around Majima’s neck. It piles up around his ears, looking more like a strange hood. Majima stops in his tracks, looking dumbfounded. Kiryu flushes with embarrassment.
“So you don’t get cold,” he clarifies. He can see the tips of Majima’s ears turning pink. “Later,” he adds hurriedly, taking Haruka by the hand and leading them in the opposite direction without looking back. Haruka turns around to wave goodbye as they hustle off.
Notes:
-The shrine that Kiryu and Haruka visit is Hanazono Shrine, which is on the east side of Kabukicho neighboring Golden Gai (the Champion District).
-Hanazono Shrine is known for offering omikuji (fortunes) in little wooden daruma dolls, as well as foxes since it's a shrine dedicated to Inari.
Chapter 2: Readjustments
Summary:
Haruka indulges him with stories about her day as they’re washing the dishes: impressing her classmates with her adventures over winter break, scoring a 90 on her reading quiz, spotting a cool bird outside the classroom window. It’s cozy and comforting and Kiryu could get used to this.
Notes:
We are soon entering the Majima Saga...prepare for a bit of light hurt/comfort.
I'm currently in possession of a lot of extra material that doesn't really fit into the main storyline but is good slice of life stuff. The plan is to insert longer pieces into the fic as "extra chapters" set vaguely in between the important events. Stay tuned!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
On the third day of January, Kiryu walks Haruka to her first day of school. It’s taken a lot of work to get to this moment, actually—between solidifying her temporary transfer into Kiryu's custody (Kiryu suspects Kashiwagi had something to do with how quickly the process was expedited) and enrolling her in a new school, Kiryu’s hardly had the brain space to think about anything else. But why does it feel like Kiryu’s more nervous than Haruka? His eyes are wandering all over the place as they walk the few blocks to the elementary school, constantly checking for traps and assailants. She’s chatting away with an excited skip to her step, and he’s only half-listening as every disaster scenario runs through his head. He’s thankful they’re both wearing gloves so that she can’t feel how sweaty his hand is. He can’t even pretend his paranoia is over Majima ambushing them; they’re not even in Kamurocho.
“Oji-san?” Haruka’s giving him a curious expression.
“Hm?” Kiryu tears his suspicious gaze away from a group of color-coordinated youths across the street to look at her.
“What will you do while I’m at school?” She repeats.
Kiryu is at a loss for words. He hadn’t actually thought this far. He pauses for a few seconds. “Look for work, I guess,” he replies. “Prepare for work tonight.”
Haruka makes a face. “Won’t you do anything fun?”
“Maybe,” he hedges, though it’s clear Haruka doesn’t buy that. “I’ll figure something out.”
“Promise me you’ll do something fun today,” Haruka demands.
Kiryu briefly considers agreeing and making something up if Haruka asks later, but that feels like the coward’s way out. And besides, how far has he fallen if he can’t even do one fun thing today?
“I promise,” Kiryu says.
Haruka narrows her eyes at him, but relents when she spots the school gate.
“Have a good day at school,” Kiryu says, letting go of her hand and ruffling her hair. Haruka makes a “tch” noise that briefly reminds him of Kazama, ducking out of arm’s reach and fixing her mussed hairstyle.
“I will,” Haruka grumbles. “You do something fun today, Uncle Kaz.” She jogs towards the entrance, turning once to wave and call “Bye!” before disappearing behind the fence. Kiryu waits for a few seconds longer without really knowing why. Is he hoping she’ll come back out in tears, unable to bear even a minute’s separation? Does he really want that?
I’m not cut out for this, Kiryu thinks.
He comes back to a dead-silent apartment; no scribbling of colored pencils on paper or pattering of small feet. The tranquility is suffocating.
If it’s currently 8 AM and Haruka gets out of school at 4 PM, but she goes to after-school tutoring until 6 PM, and Kiryu goes to work at 8 PM, that gives him…10 hours of free time to do as he wishes. He can think of many things to do with that time: finish drying the dishes, air out the bedding, do the laundry, prepare dinner…
He ends up sleeping until noon.
For lunch, he picks away at some of the osechi from New Year’s, eyeing the refrigerator’s contents guiltily. All pre-packaged, processed things, because he doesn’t know a skillet from a saucepan. Maybe that’s something he can fix.
A trip to the neighborhood bookstore and the least-intimidating recipe book he could find later, he’s wandering through an actual, honest-to-God supermarket on the hunt for ingredients to make katsu curry. Kids like tonkatsu, right? Kiryu thinks they do. They never had it at Sunshine—meat was too expensive—so it was a rare treat. Luckily, he had taken a thorough inventory of the kitchen before he had left home, and it’s the only thing holding the scraps of his sanity together as he trawls through aisles of products he’s never heard of. What the hell is a napkin ring? Is “self-rising flour” even a real product? Isn’t all flour supposed to be self-rising?
The recipe book (surely a lady nicknamed “Love-obasan” wouldn’t lead him astray?) is all but holding his hand and Kiryu still feels like he’s in too deep. He’s figured out the ingredients for curry—he’s done this a couple of times, enough to know what goes into it—but the pork is scaring him. After wandering through the same aisle three times, an employee takes pity on him and leads him, shell-shocked, through their collection of kitchen utensils to find a proper meat thermometer and tenderizer. He leaves the store with an armful of ingredients and an army of new kitchen gadgets, only half of which Kiryu knows the purpose. He can do this. All he has to do is follow the recipe.
He’s good at following directions, actually; he’d have been tossed out on the first day of his “old job” if he wasn’t. The problem is just the execution, which happens to be agonizingly slow. He checks the steps every minute, re-reading them once, twice, before making any new moves. If he’s working on one task, all the rest grind to a halt until he can complete it. He struggles to cut the carrots and potatoes and onions evenly, sifting through the pieces to carefully shave down the larger ones that slipped through. In his defense, it’s been over ten years since he’s last made curry, and curry-making technology has marched on in that time period.
But if there’s one thing that comes naturally to him, it’s tenderizing meat. In fact, he almost gets a bit too into it—he only barely stops himself from using a Heat Action against the helpless pork cutlet, turning what would’ve been a seismic event into a minor explosion. Even then, the counter rattles ominously, the dishes jumping in the cupboards as if to say try that one more time, we dare you. Meat sufficiently flattened, Kiryu’s head swivels between the frying oil and curry pot like an owl’s, hoping that if he watches them enough they won’t boil over.
Wiping his clammy hands on his sweatpants (Apron! He forgot an apron. Fuck), Kiryu steels himself and carefully drops the first cutlet into the oil, fire extinguisher at the ready. It hisses and pops but remains in the pot, floating like an agitated island. Once golden brown, he fishes it out of its bath and lets it drain on a wire rack, turning his attention to the next. After both are cooked to golden perfection, he lets himself feel proud of his work. Against all odds, he pulled off tonkatsu. Younger Kazuma would’ve never dreamed of it.
The curry is about done, too. It’s been “about done” for the last ten or so minutes, maybe. The rice has been sitting under the “warm” setting for probably an hour at this point. Panicking, Kiryu checks the time, worried that he’ll be late picking Haruka up from cram school at six. Hopefully he managed to give himself enough time to pull together a hot meal for her after a hard day of work—
It’s 3:07 PM.
Kiryu sighs.
Three agonizing hours later, the delight on Haruka’s face when he brings her home to a lovingly-prepared dinner is a breath of fresh air. The ache in his shoulders from spending the afternoon hunched over the kitchen counter and the sting in his eye from chopping onions all melt away as she digs in, heaping praise on him for the delicious food. Kiryu can taste all the mistakes he made while he’s eating—a little too much salt on the meat, the potatoes slightly overcooked—but he’s reasonably confident she’s not entirely making it up for his benefit. It’s not as good as a restaurant meal, not by a long shot, but he made it himself.
Haruka indulges him with stories about her day as they’re washing the dishes: impressing her classmates with her adventures over winter break, scoring a 90 on her reading quiz, spotting a cool bird outside the classroom window. It’s cozy and comforting and Kiryu could get used to this.
“Did you do something fun today, oji-san?” She asks meaningfully, handing him the stack of clean dishes for him to put away. He thinks for a moment.
“I guess making food was fun,” he concedes. If he stretches the definition of “fun” a little bit to include “quite stressful, really,” he supposes making katsu curry today would count. Cooking would probably be more fun if he wasn’t so bad at it. But unless he suddenly acquires a housewife, which seems unlikely, this is his burden to bear. He’ll have fun learning how to cook even if it kills him.
He ensures that Haruka gets ready for bed by the time he leaves for work, planting a kiss on her head and reminding her not to stay up too late. For the moment, the best he’s got are odd jobs picked up around the city, with the occasional shift work at clubs desperate for last-minute fill-ins. It’s not the steady work he’d been hoping for, but it’ll do. Especially if it helps them survive for another few weeks.
As he approaches Kamurocho, the lights and sounds around him getting louder, he lights up a cigarette and it’s like he’s twenty again, feeling invincible and so utterly stupid. A starry-eyed, baby-faced brat who didn’t have the first clue about what it meant to be a yakuza or what it’d cost him. A kid so desperate for a family to call his own that he’d gone looking in all the wrong places.
He doesn’t miss it.
Walking home in the dark through Kamurocho is a dangerous affair. Kiryu really should’ve been expecting it.
And yet he’s being dragged by the neck into a back alley, a scenario that (by all accounts) should have been completely preventable.
In Kiryu’s defense, it was cold and he was tired and had just gotten off work and had run out of cigarettes halfway through his shift so he was irritable and distracted. But that had never stopped Majima.
Once the naive disbelief had worn off, his fighting instincts kicked in and he pushed back hard, throwing an elbow into Majima’s gut and hunching his back to toss him over his shoulder.
Majima lands on his back with a high-pitched “oof!” but whips out his knife in the blink of an eye, crab-walking on his back and swiping at Kiryu’s ankles like a human spider. Kiryu sidesteps out of reach and waits for him to roll to his feet before they’re locking fists again—Majima clawing at him with his tantō while Kiryu tries to dodge his way out of a new sewing project.
Taking a risk, Kiryu dances in and out of Majima’s attacks, waiting for a chance to strike. He finds one—without hesitation, he weaves within arm’s reach and lunges, cracking Majima in the jaw with a right hook. While he’s off-balance, Kiryu sweeps his legs out from under him and tries to pin him by the chest.
Unfortunately, Majima has him beat by a wide margin in leg length, so Kiryu ends up in perfect position for a triangle chokehold. As he feels Majima’s legs constricting his neck, putting him in immediate danger of suffocation, Kiryu abandons all pretense of playing nice. Thighs and shoulders straining, Kiryu rears back as high as he can, lifting Majima up by the legs and slamming him back-first into the concrete.
And that’s where the fight ends: Majima winded on the ground, Kiryu winded and barely on his feet.
“Let’s call it a draw,” Majima wheezes.
“Deal,” Kiryu puffs.
Majima crawls to his feet, clapping Kiryu on the back as if that’ll help him open up his crushed windpipe.
“I’m disappointed in ya, Kiryu-chan,” Majima says, fishing in his jacket for a pack of cigarettes. “I said I’d be watchin’ ya 24/7, and I still got the drop on ya! What gives?”
“I was on my way home from work,” Kiryu coughs. Majima rolls his eyes.
“No shit. Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.” Majima extends the pack to Kiryu, who takes a cigarette gratefully. He cups his hand around the open lighter Majima offers. His face is so close to Majima’s hand that he can smell the leather of his gloves. Kiryu straightens his back and lets out a stream of smoke. Majima snorts. “Ya think some dipshit with a knife’s gonna care that ya just got off work when he’s lookin’ for folks to stab?”
“I was hoping so, yeah,” Kiryu deadpans, glancing at Majima’s knife discarded on the ground.
Majima clicks his tongue and ducks down to snatch it up. It disappears into his jacket with a flick of his wrist.
“I’m lookin’ out for ya here. Could at least be grateful.”
Much as Kiryu would like to pretend that everything’s back to normal, Majima has a point. Kiryu speaks softly. “I know you are.”
Majima freezes; clearly he’d been expecting some snide comment. Kiryu presses on. “It’s good to see you, nii-san. I’m glad you’re here.”
Majima looks away and walks toward the mouth of the alley, pretending to be engrossed in blowing smoke rings. Kiryu is content to let the silence linger.
Majima sighs. “Soft as a marshmallow.” Kiryu can’t see his face. He drops the butt of his smoke and stubs it out, then plucks the squashed filter from the ground and tucks it into his pocket.
Without another word, he’s gone, leaving nothing but a trace of cigarette smoke and new bruises on Kiryu’s neck. Kiryu half-heartedly peeks into the street, but of course he doesn’t see any trail. He rolls his head on his shoulders, testing the injured muscle and finding it aching, but not too bothersome. He’ll sleep it off.
Kiryu starts walking, holding the burnt-out filter between his fingers all the way home.
The month of January passes in week-long increments consisting of homemade meals, overnight shifts, after-work brawls, and shared packs of cigarettes.
Their financial situation isn’t as dire as it could be, considering Kiryu has only been out of prison for a few weeks and basically had nothing to his name when he’d been dumped back onto the street. He’s made a decent chunk of money just by running odd jobs for hapless civilians and punching the lights out of thugs dumb enough to get in his way, but it definitely isn’t a sustainable way to make a living with a kid relying on him. Even disregarding the cost of rent, sending Haruka to school requires buying books, pencils, school uniforms, and lunches. And since she’s missed almost a month of school due to…extenuating circumstances, she needs an after-school tutor to help her catch up. He might’ve been a terrible student himself, but he’s determined to raise Haruka right.
Which means that, for the first time in his 37 years of life, Kiryu Kazuma has to find a civilian job. A real job, not a temporary gig pressed upon him by desperate business owners or a handout offered to him by a mysterious real estate agent.
Unfortunately, with his checkered and downright alarming employment history, there aren’t many jobs willing to take in an ex-con. But Kamurocho is a land of opportunity, or so scouters say. Kiryu just hopes nobody asks him about the 10-year gap in his résumé.
After a few weeks of bouncing around different clubs, picking up odd shifts for last-minute callouts, he finds a steady gig working weeknights at a large nightclub, spending his shifts patrolling around the floor like a shark and tossing out the occasional rowdy patron. Perhaps the only good thing to come out of last year’s fiasco (aside from Haruka, of course) is that his name holds quite a bit of clout around town, so being recognized as the Fourth Chairman is enough to dissuade smaller fry from starting fights. He carries the teeth-prints of practically every small-time thug on his knuckles at this point, which probably helps. In his earpiece and plain black suit, it’s almost relaxing to make rounds between sections, picking up abandoned bottles and emptying ashtrays. But then some pulsing beat that he can feel in his teeth gives him a start or he gets blinded by the strobe lights swinging around. Nightclubs sure are different than they were back in his day.
On nights where subduing drunk noodle-limbed salarymen doesn’t quite scratch the itch for violence, Kiryu comes back to the Coliseum. He tells himself it’s to stay in shape, unwilling to admit that he never feels more alive than when he’s drawing someone else’s blood. He tells himself it’s easy money, trying his hardest to ignore the voice in his head that adds it’s the only thing you’ll ever be good for. He tells himself he’ll worry Haruka by dragging himself home bloody and bruised night after night, squashing down the guilt of leaving the Clan.
Of course, he still has the kind of face that somehow invites everyone and their mother to share their problems with him, so his weekly trips to the pawn shop to trade in their gifts add to their meager but increasing emergency fund. Life goes on.
And during his days, he cooks. Simple dishes like oyakodon, onigiri, miso. An easy repertory consisting of child-friendly foods. Haruka brings back vivid memories of her school lunches and happily helps him recreate them—bibimbap, pickled daikon, karaage. He’s still slow, but he’s expanding his horizons.
On nights he’s working, Majima will find him without fail. Sometimes they throw down and go their separate ways. Sometimes Majima drags him to fast food restaurants packed with partygoers in various states of inebriation and regret. Sometimes they buy drinks from vending machines and shoot the shit on a park bench. Sometimes they hit up a shogi parlor and get into heated squabbles about rules, or lack thereof.
Even during his smoke breaks at work Kiryu still catches sight of that shiny golden jacket, prowling through crowds like a panther among mice or disappearing in and out of alleyways like a ghost.
It’s hard to feel lonely knowing there’s always someone watching.
The more time Kiryu spends around Majima, the more of him he notices. There’s a side of him that isn’t on display, a side that hides and only comes out when he thinks no one will see. It hides in the corner of his eye, the way it crinkles just a little bit when he cracks a genuine smile. It hides in between his teeth, the way the tip of his tongue worries at a chipped incisor when he’s thinking. And it hides in his breaths, the way it hitches when he’s caught off guard and huffs when he’s agitated and trying not to show it.
Majima might be an enigma of a man, but he can be read just like any other. It only takes time.
It’s a level of intimacy Kiryu’s only ever achieved with Nishiki, and in the end, none of it mattered. He still couldn’t save him.
But when Majima’s habits change, Kiryu notices.
The day after Valentine’s Day, he finally works up the courage to say it. They’re sitting backs to the wall in the empty lot in the Champion District, worn out after another knock-down drag-out fight and nursing their injuries over vending machine drinks.
“You seem on-edge lately,” Kiryu says. “Something going on?”
Majima’s breath hitches just a tiny bit. A microsecond. Almost invisible. Almost. Kiryu can see the outline of his lips moving silently. A chipped tooth worn smooth.
“What gave it away?” Majima finally replies. He might be slippery, but he rarely lies when asked a direct question. Majima appreciates honesty. He rolls an unlit cigarette between his fingers, hugging it to the side of the can as he takes a sip of his coffee.
Kiryu wonders how much is appropriate to point out. When do his observations cross the line between harmless deduction and wild speculation? He’s not good at these kinds of judgments.
“You’ve been drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he starts, nodding at the can of BOSS in Majima’s hand. “You like melon soda. But I haven’t seen you get it for a while.”
Majima gives an amused snort.
“You usually jump me from anywhere. Traffic cones, garbage cans, car trunks. Confined spaces with blind spots. But you don’t do that anymore.” Kiryu hesitates. “Does it make you nervous?”
Majima bristles and opens his mouth, no doubt about to say something to the effect of “fuck off,” but Kiryu cuts him short.
“Your hands are shaking,” Kiryu points out. “Your eye is dark around the edges, like you haven’t been sleeping.”
Finally, he goes in for the kill. “And you didn’t deny it when I pointed it out.”
Majima’s face is stricken, like he’s looked into a mirror and found his reflection for the first time. People see me? They notice me and make judgments about me? There’s more to my appearance than the persona I’ve cultivated?
He lets out a bark of laughter, humorless. “I guess ya caught me,” he admits. “Now what, detective?”
Kiryu honestly doesn’t know. He’s managed to crack open Majima’s armor a few times now, and every time he’s elected to handle him with a light touch. Exposure therapy.
“Do…do you want to talk about it?” Kiryu ventures, softly.
Majima makes a fist with one gloved hand, pressing it to his good eye and rubbing hard. He sighs. He mumbles and fidgets, unsure of what to say. He takes another sip of coffee and winces at the taste.
“Clan drama,” he finally says. “Same shit, just new management.”
Kiryu feels a stab of guilt for the mess he’s left behind. Of course there had to be someone to clean it up. Of course it had to be Majima, one of the only senior officers left standing.
Clearly it must show on his face, since Majima waves it off. “I’ll manage.” He attempts a smile. “Don’t worry your li’l head about it.”
That does not alleviate any of Kiryu’s worries at all, actually, and Kiryu says as much. Majima sighs again, longer and more dramatically this time.
He fixes Kiryu with a deep, dark eye. “I’m serious. You didn’t wanna be involved in this shit anymore, so I ain’t letting ya.”
Deep down, Kiryu knows he’s right. He can’t get involved. Not anymore.
“I understand. I just want you to know that I’m..here. In any way you need me.”
Majima smiles. His eyes crinkle at the corners, just a little bit. “Kiryu-chan,” he breathes, something dangerously close to fond creeping into his voice. He swallows hard. “Thank you.”
Notes:
-Love-obasan is real and her name is Ai Kidosaki (rest her soul). She had a cooking show on the NHK and was a popular writer of home-cooking style books.
-The "human spider" move Majima does is supposed to be the same move Nishitani used. The one where he just flops on the floor and starts clawing at you if you get too close.
-Majima likes melon soda.
-I'm aware that Kiryu's being irresponsible by leaving Haruka alone while he's out working. We'll come back to that.
Chapter 3: Friends
Summary:
Kiryu sighs loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose and pacing around the living room. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the Tojo Clan. I was concerned about you as a friend. I know that’s a foreign concept to you, but that’s what friends do.”
Notes:
Two chapters in one day because I've lost control of my life. Please don't expect output to be this fast ever again, I most certainly won't meet those expectations.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Two days later, Majima disappears.
It starts on Kiryu’s way to work, passing by South Senryo to find the street swarmed by police in uniform. He makes a mental note to ask Date about it later. Whatever it is, it probably involves the Fourth Division.
It occurs to him that this might be a bigger deal than he originally thought while he’s at the club, which is unusually subdued for a Friday night. The patrons there are jumpier than usual tonight, and those who are unbothered are too intoxicated to remember their own names, let alone current events. It reminds him of Stardust shortly before it was raided by the Shimano Family. The customers seem to have a sixth sense for this kind of thing, growing nervous much earlier than someone like Kiryu. But not nervous enough to stay in, apparently.
Kiryu’s never been interested in the gossip among the regular staff, but he’s been here long enough that sometimes he’s invited into their conversations. And he’s very invested in hearing more, especially if it involves people he knows. While the atmosphere feels more relaxed after the club closes for the night, there’s more chatter in the air than usual. He helps clean the floor with the rest of the hall staff, delivering an armload of empty glasses to the bar.
“Hey, Kiryu-san, aren’t you friends with the Mad Dog?” The bartender asks him. She’d been deep in some conspiratorial conversation with another bouncer at the bar, but Kiryu had purposely kept his distance so he wouldn’t look like he was eavesdropping.
“Hm?”
“The Mad Dog,” she repeats. He can’t remember her name. Aki, maybe? Or was it Natsu? “That guy you’re always fighting with. The crazy one with the knife.”
“Oh. Him.” Kiryu pauses. “I guess we’re friends. He was…my senpai once.”
She presses up against the bar. “Do you know, then?” Maybe-Aki asks in a hushed tone. Kiryu comes up to the counter. “About what happened on Senryo this morning?”
“No, not really. Why, was Majima-san—I mean, the Mad Dog—involved?”
She and the other bouncer exchange an uncomfortable look. Finally, maybe-Aki’s companion sighs and leans in close, her eyes darting around. “There was a murder. Some Tojo big-wig. Rumor has it, your senpai was behind it. Skipped town, and no one’s seen him since.”
Kiryu had noticed Majima’s conspicuous absence in the neighborhood. Though Majima usually reserves their squabbles for after Kiryu’s shifts, Kiryu still catches him around the city several times throughout the day. He’s hard to miss, after all.
He hadn’t said anything to Kiryu about going out of town. It isn’t like him to disappear for a whole day, but Kiryu’s had his fair share of assignments that took him out of Kamurocho for days at a time. Even if something unusual happened, Kiryu’s more inclined to chalk it up to a coincidence.
Kiryu furrows his brow. “I don’t know if that’s true,” he says doubtfully. “But it sounds serious.”
Aki nods. “The gokudō are spooked, so now everyone’s nervous. If another war breaks out…”
“We’re all fucked,” her friend finishes bluntly. “Whatever they were fighting about a few months ago was bad enough. Was out of work for weeks because I worked next door to Bacchus and everyone was too scared to open shop after what happened there.” Her mouths thins into a hard line, her expression darkening. Kiryu knows; he saw the aftermath himself.
His face must look pretty grim too, because Aki scrambles to add, “But it’s all just rumors! Hopefully it’ll blow over in a few days.”
Kiryu schools his expression into something more passive. Less concerned. “Yeah, I hope so,” he agrees. But he can’t help but think there’s more to the story than that.
After he gets home, having walked his usual route waiting for a Majima that never turned up, Date ends up calling him.
“Kiryu,” he says brusquely. “Got time to chat?”
Kiryu looks down at the scrambled egg slurry he’s been mixing, about to be poured into a makiyakinabe to make tamagoyaki. He turns off the burner and leaves the kitchen. “Yeah. I have an idea of what you’re after.”
“So you heard.”
“I did. I was hoping the Tojo Clan would stay out of trouble for at least a few months after I left, but I guess that was too much to ask.”
Date sighs. “Never a dull moment with these guys. We’re not even close to getting the full picture here.”
“Not sure I can help with that.”
“Sure you can. When’s the last time you saw Majima Goro?”
Kiryu scowls. “Depends. Why do you need him?”
Date laughs. “He may or may not be a person of interest at the moment. Don’t worry, we’re not after your buddy, not yet. Just wanna ask him some questions, is all.”
“He’s not my ‘buddy.’”
Date scoffs through the receiver. “Don’t bullshit me. Outta all the Tojo punks, Majima’s the only one you’ve stayed in contact with. You’re practically attached at the hip.”
Kiryu’s frown deepens, but he can’t really deny it outright. Date’s not wrong. At least, not entirely. “Person of interest in what, exactly?”
“Murder case. High-profile one, at that.”
“Who?”
“You don’t know him,” Date says dismissively. “Just believe me when I say the Tojo’s losing their shit at the moment.”
Kiryu laughs. “When are they not?”
“Good question. Now back to Majima. When’s the last time you spoke?”
Kiryu hums, thinking. “I haven’t seen him since the day before yesterday. Didn’t seem to be acting any different than usual.” He omits the clear signs of stress he’d noticed Majima showing the last time they met.
“Hm. He didn’t allude to any issues within the Clan? Any tensions?”
A pause. Kiryu bites his lip. “He said something about ‘Clan drama,’ but I assumed he meant they were still dealing with the fallout from…” he trails off.
“I gotcha. Any clue where he might be right now?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Well, I got a few ideas.” There’s the sound of a pen scratching on paper over the line. “Keep an eye out for me, would you? Let me know if you hear anything new.”
“Sure,” Kiryu agrees automatically, though he doubts he’ll be doing anything of the sort. He might believe Majima isn’t a murderer, but the police are less likely to be so understanding. He has no interest in the inner politics of the Tojo Clan. His investment is slightly more…personal.
“Thanks,” Date replies gruffly. The line goes dead.
Kiryu sighs. What have you gotten yourself into now, Majima-no-niisan?
Kiryu can’t help but feel somewhat responsible for this situation. Maybe if he’d stuck around to keep the peace after he left the Clan, this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe if he hadn’t handed the reins to Terada and picked someone more familiar with the Clan, things wouldn’t have escalated like this. Maybe if he’d been quicker to save Kazama, he wouldn’t have been responsible for selecting a chairman in the first place. Maybe—
He can’t dwell on it. Not now. He has to find out if Majima’s alright.
If he wants answers, he’ll have to track the Mad Dog back to his den. And if there’s anyone there who would know anything more, it’d have to be his right-hand man.
So Kiryu scrolls through his phone for his most frequent contact and sends a message.
Nishida, he writes. Everything alright?
He puts the phone down and keeps his eyes glued to the eggs he’s cooking, waiting for them to turn just firm enough to fold into a roll. He can already tell he’s used too much oil by the way the edges bubble up and begin to brown.
His phone pings with a reply, but he focuses hard on rolling up the sheet of scrambled egg. It’s much trickier than it looks, but once he manages to peel up one side it’s fairly straightforward. He watches in wonder as the little roll tumbles forward, forming a multilayered omelette. He pours in more eggs in front of the skinny roll and picks up his phone while he waits for them to cook.
Kiryu-san! We’re all back on our feet, thanks for asking. The only real damage was to our pride. We’ll definitely be hearing from Boss later about letting a rival family get the jump on us, but he was worried for us, I could tell.
Had the Majima Family office been attacked? Evidently. Kiryu didn’t envy the punishment that most certainly awaited them from Majima. If there was anything he absolutely wouldn’t tolerate, it was weakness.
Kiryu folds the solidifying egg sheet into the growing roll, repeating the process with more egg mixture. Any idea how Majima-no-niisan is doing? He types. Where he’s run off to?
He’s almost finished with the omelette by the time Nishida gets back to him. The pan was a little too hot on this last layer; the outside is a bit more browned than he’d intended.
The boss was framed, says Nishida. He left town to hunt down the real culprit, but that’s all I can tell you.
I see, Kiryu replies. He carefully transfers the cooled tamagoyaki to the cutting board, dividing it into neat slices. The cross-section doesn’t look half bad, if he says so himself. He jots down his observations and ideas for improvement in the margins of the recipe book. He retrieves his phone. I really am glad you’re doing well. Can’t imagine the Majima Family could function without you, he replies.
Thank you, Kiryu-san. That means a lot coming from you. I hope I can continue to meet your expectations!
Spoken like a consummate professional. Bless that boy.
Also, you didn’t hear this from me, but the boss is planning some more “games” for you.
Kiryu smirks. He scoops up a slice of tamagoyaki with his chopsticks and takes a bite.
Hm. Needs more sugar.
Two days after that, Majima calls him.
He and Haruka are just finishing cleanup from dinner that evening (Hamburg steak and vegetable stir-fry), Kiryu washing dishes while Haruka dries.
“Oji-san, your phone is ringing,” Haruka says, nodding at its spot abandoned on the coffee table. He hadn’t even noticed the noise over the sound of running water. Hurriedly, he shuts off the faucet and dries his hands, patting the excess water onto his pants. His heart skips a beat when he sees the caller ID.
He picks up the call. “Majima-no-niisan?
“Yo, Kiryu-chan,” comes Majima’s voice through the tiny speaker. He sounds much less energetic than normal.
“Did something happen? Are you in trouble?”
“Haw?” He can hear the incredulity in his voice. “What, a guy can’t call up his old pal after comin’ back from a vacation?”
“The last time you called me you were blackout drunk and I had to wander around the Champion District for an hour trying to find you.”
Majima huffs. “That was one time.”
“Also, you were missing for three days! I even had Date-san calling me to ask where you were.”
“Look, Kiryu-chan, it’s a long story,” Majima sighs. “One that I can’t tell ya over the phone.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“‘Cause a little birdie told me that somebody was worried sick over me the whole time I was gone and I’d better call him to tell him I’m alive or he’ll beat the snot outta me.”
Kiryu flushes. “I was not ‘worried sick.’ If someone you saw every day just up and disappeared without a trace, wouldn’t you wonder?”
“Nope. And I’d advise ya do the same, if yer really determined to stay away from the Clan.”
Kiryu sighs loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose and pacing around the living room. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the Tojo Clan. I was concerned about you as a friend. I know that’s a foreign concept to you, but that’s what friends do.”
Majima is silent. Kiryu thinks of the weeks of tiredness under his eye, the stress of adjusting to a promotion, the shuffling of families. Majima is many things, but at the moment “okay” is not one of them. Kiryu knows this from experience.
Kiryu chews on his words before finally spitting them out. “Where are you? Have you had any time to recharge?”
At least Majima actually answers the question. “I’m at home, drownin’ my sorrows. It’s Sad Sack Saturday, didn’t ya know that?”
“What?”
Majima grumbles. “Like I said, it’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time. Would you like company?”
Reluctantly, Majima mutters, “I wouldn’t hate it.”
Kiryu checks the clock. Just a few hours before Haruka’s bedtime. “Alright, I can swing by for a bit. But just for a few hours.”
“Fine by me.”
“See you.” Kiryu hangs up before Majima can rescind his invitation. He rejoins Haruka at the sink, picking up the last few dishes. “Did you hear all that?”
Haruka nods. “Is Majima-san okay?”
Kiryu shrugs. “I can’t tell with him. Probably not, but he’s putting on a brave face about it.”
Haruka purses her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe he doesn’t want to make other people worry,” she muses.
“You might be right about that,” Kiryu sighs. “I’ll finish this up and head out after. I’ll try to be back before bedtime.”
“Good luck, oji-san.”
The address that Majima texts to him leads to an upscale building on the north side of Kamurocho; one with a revolving door and a reception desk and an honest-to-god valet. It’s a place that practically screams “ill-gotten wealth.” The receptionist doesn’t even blink at Kiryu’s approach and simply picks up her desk phone to call Majima’s apartment before allowing him through. He wonders if it’s a common occurrence to see large, threatening-looking men traipsing through the lobby. He wonders how many other yakuza officers live in this very building.
The elevator ascends so quickly his stomach lurches, rocketing towards the top floor. Of course Majima would have a penthouse suite. This is, after all, a person who has multiple apartments, at least one of which he can justify loaning out to ex-convicts with nowhere else to go.
The hallways are so quiet it’s unnerving. It’s Saturday night and Kiryu had passed by throngs of clubbers and bar-hoppers on the way here, but even then, aren’t there some people who are staying in? Are the walls just that thick? Maybe Kiryu’s being presumptuous, but this place feels awfully lonely to call a home.
He double-checks the address on his phone before coming to a stop at a dark-wood door with gold numbers etched into a plate mounted at eye level. He knocks. And waits.
It’s so dead silent he can hear his heart beating in his ears. Just when he’s about to work up the courage to knock again, the sound of tumblers rotating and locks popping sounds behind the door. It swings open.
Majima looks tired, drawn. The skin beneath his eye is translucent and bruised, like he hasn’t slept in days. His hair is slightly rumpled on one side, like he’s been sleeping on it. His usual eyepatch has been replaced by a white medical patch that criss-crosses his face. But most startling of all is his outfit: an oversized sweatshirt with a pink Bun-chan on it, with a matching pair of Bun-chan patterned pajamas.
“Majima-no-niisan,” Kiryu says automatically, stopping himself just before he can bow. He glances up and down at Majima. “Uh…you look…comfortable.”
Blearily, Majima looks down at himself. “Oh. Thanks.” His cheeks turn slightly pink with embarrassment. “Come in,” he says, retreating deeper into the dark apartment and leaving Kiryu to close the door behind him and remove his shoes.
“Just—gimme a second to change,” Majima mutters, about to disappear down a side hallway.
Kiryu frowns. “You don’t have to do that,” he replies. “It’s your house.”
Majima stops in his tracks. “...Right. I guess so.” He rubs his face, as if he’s only just remembered where he is and who he’s with.
It’s dark in the penthouse, but there are few sources of light here and there. The weak light from the living room television casts reflections on the large windows, blinds open to allow the light of the city to filter in. Like the apartment he’d loaned Kiryu, there’s almost nothing in the way of personal effects—no decorations, no knick-knacks, not even any mess. Some of the kitchen lights are on, illuminating the stone countertops and the bottles of alcohol littering it.
“Ya want a drink?” Majima asks, busying himself at the makeshift bar. He drops ice cubes into a whiskey glass and pours a generous measure of Yamazaki.
“Sure.” Kiryu passes behind Majima, venturing further into the kitchen. A fine layer of dust covers the stove and its burners. If Majima’s anything like Kiryu used to be, his cabinets are probably all empty, too.
Majima presses a glass into his hand. Kiryu sips it slowly, savoring the expensive liquor. It’s been a while since he’s had a good drink.
“How long have you been back?” Kiryu asks, leaning against the counter.
“I dunno. Few hours?” Majima says absently, fixing himself a glass of the same. He makes his way toward the living room couch, taking the bottle with him. Kiryu follows.
Majima flops ungracefully onto the end of the leather sofa, sighing and splaying his limbs everywhere. Kiryu awkwardly perches next to him on the middle cushion, nursing his whiskey. Some idol show is playing on the television. The girls look upset.
“It’s Kaori’s graduation,” Majima says. “Last foundin’ member of Morning Musume. Won’t be the same without her.” He takes a deep swig of his drink. “Twenty-four an’ already too old fer the idol biz. So goddamn young.” He shakes his head.
“Nii-san.” Kiryu fixes him with a hard stare, which Majima blatantly ignores. “What’s wrong?”
“How many times do I hafta tell ya, I ain’t yer fuckin’ nii-san,” Majima snaps with unusual venom.
Kiryu recoils, stung. He looks away. “I’m…sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t realize it bothered you so much.”
All the fight drains out of Majima. He slumps farther in his seat with a grimace. “Nah, I should be apologizin’. It ain’t yer fault. It’s just…” He trails off, a distant look in his eye. “It’s been a rough couple of days.”
Kiryu leans foward, elbows on his knees, swirling around the melting ice in his glass. “Just start from the beginning,” he advises gently.
Majima groans. His hand comes up to card through his hair, the other reaching over to snatch up the bottle of Yamazaki and take a swig directly from it. Kiryu closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing, hoping that he’ll at least get something from Majima before he clams up.
But Majima tells him everything. He complains about Terada, about being forced out of Clan decisions, about the competition for the position of wakagashira. About Uematsu’s murder and the betrayal of his own kobun. He spoke of returning to Sotenbori with distaste and fondness at the same time, noting that the “dump of a cabaret” he used to manage was still standing while in the same breath cursing Ibuchi for having the gall to start a fight there. But then, he started to waver.
“So Ibuchi’s dead and you’ve cleared your name,” Kiryu repeats. “But what went wrong after that?”
Majima takes a deep, shaky breath. He presses the side of his fist into his good eye. “That idiot of a kobun, Kawamura. He fuckin’ killed a goddamn Omi officer. And I didn’t stop him in time. He was my responsibility.”
Kiryu glances down at Majima’s gloveless, intact hands. “What did you give up?” he asks uneasily.
Majima knocks back another drink, his eye glassy. “I dissolved the Majima Family.”
Kiryu’s heart sinks. Though he’d never had a family of his own, he remembers the excitement that he’d felt when Kazama had hinted to him that he’d be given his own ten years ago. The pride of having people loyal to you, who respect you and would even die for you, is almost enough to outweigh the pressure that the position bears. Majima had had his own family long before Kiryu. He had looked genuinely upset when recounting Kawamura’s betrayal. And to lose it all, just when he’d wriggled out from under Shimano’s thumb…Kiryu’s face grows hot with shame.
“I’m sorry, Majima-san. I was so quick to get away from the Clan that I forced the position onto Terada without even considering the well-being of the people in it. I should’ve known better. If I hadn’t—none of this would’ve—”
“Shuddup,” Majima interrupts, swinging his head around to glare at him. It lolls on his neck like it weighs a ton. “I couldn’t care less about that shit. I can rebuild. Finally get outta this fuckin’ circus. I don’t want yer guilt or yer pity.”
Kiryu looked up at him, taken aback. “Then what happened in Sotenbori that’s gotten you so…so…” he gestures up and down at Majima.
“So pathetic?” Majima supplies.
Kiryu shakes his head firmly. “It’s not pathetic to express your feelings.”
Majima throws his head back and lets out an exaggerated groan. “Fuckin’ marshmallow.”
“Haruka doesn’t need a brick wall as a parent. I think she likes me as a marshmallow.” Kiryu nudges Majima’s knee with his elbow. “I think you like it too.”
“Fuck me, I really do.” Majima covers his eyes with the back of his hand. His cheeks are flushed with drink, and perhaps something else. Kiryu can’t see it in the dim lighting. They sit in silence for a few minutes. The television has since moved on to a reality show about a detective agency.
Finally, Majima continues. “Fuck it. I’m fuckin’ drunk and I can’t talk to anybody else about this.” He drops his hand and stares at the ceiling. “I’ll tell ya. The real reason I asked ya over.”
Kiryu tilts his head curiously. “Go on.”
“I saw someone in Sotenbori. Someone from a long time ago.”
“Who?”
Majima rolls the syllables off his tongue like he hasn’t said them in years. “Makimura Makoto.”
Kiryu’s eyes widen. “You’re serious? She was in Sotenbori?”
“Mmhm.” Majima licks his lips. “Stayed there all this time hopin’ for a chance to see me again. Even worked in the same place as before, if ya can believe it.”
“What happened?” Kiryu presses.
“Went there on a lead. Talked to her for a while. She…never saw my face. Didn’t recognize me. And I tried to keep it that way.”
“Was she happy?”
Majima smiles, wistful. “I think so. Had a hubby and a brat and a new family name. Even told me the story about how I rescued her in the eighties, as if I didn’t know every word of it already.”
Kiryu remembers the last time he saw her: frail and weak, eyes hollow with blindness and grief. All because of him. He failed her. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive himself. Or that he even deserves forgiveness. “I’m glad,” he whispers, his throat suddenly tight.
Majima continues, oblivious to Kiryu. “She said she was movin’ overseas real soon.” He swallows hard. “I don’t think I’ll be seein’ her again.” He closes his eye and presses a hand to it as if fighting back tears.
Kiryu’s heart aches for him. He hates seeing Majima like this, bereft and distraught. “Did—did you love her?” He asks in a hushed tone.
For a moment, the only sound in the room is that of the television playing a soft, warbling tune.
Majima takes a deep breath. “I think I did,” he croaks. Something inside Kiryu twists unpleasantly, but he can’t put his finger on it. “But it never would’a worked out. I think she’s happier now than she ever would’a been with me.”
But not as happy as she would’ve been with her brother still alive, Kiryu thinks bitterly.
“I used to dream about it, y’know. Wife an’ kids, all that shit. Didn’t do me a lick of good in the end,” Majima continues. “I think…I just ain’t cut out for it. It ain’t meant to be. Not for me.”
“That’s not true,” Kiryu replies, a bit sharper than he intended. “You’re not in the Clan anymore. You don’t ever have to go back if you don’t want to. This is your chance…to start over.”
Majima hums. “Start over…” he echoes. “I can, can’t I.”
“You can.” Kiryu insists. “I can help you. If that’s what you want,” he adds hurriedly.
“That’s nice of ya, Kiryu-chan.” Majima’s eyes flutter sleepily. Kiryu smiles.
“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” he says, hauling Majima off the couch and onto his feet. Majima sways a bit, and after waiting several moments to ensure he isn’t in immediate danger of falling, Kiryu nudges him away from the living room. As Majima disappears down the hallway, Kiryu gathers up the whiskey glasses and alcohol and turns off the television. He drops off the dishes in the kitchen before following in Majima’s direction.
Kiryu finds Majima flopped facedown on his unmade bed, mumbling incoherently. Sighing, Kiryu pushes and rolls Majima into a proper sleeping position and smooths out the covers, draping them over Majima’s body.
“Ya tuckin’ me in, Kiryu-chan?” He asks sleepily, a goofy smile on his face.
“I guess so.” Kiryu pulls the covers up to his chin. “I’ll be back,” he says, returning to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and some painkillers. He sets them down on the nightstand.
“I’ll be heading out,” Kiryu murmurs. “You’ll be okay?”
“M’yeah,” Majima hums. “Good night, Kiryu-chan.”
Kiryu smiles. “Good night, Majima.”
Notes:
Pointless facts:
-Kiryu is making tamagoyaki, a rolled egg omelette prepared in a special rectangular pan called a makiyakinabe. Kids love it.
-They also eat Hamburg steak, which is a classic kid favorite. Kiryu's learning them for Haruka.
-Majima is watching Iida Kaori's graduation special. He's a fan of Morning Musume, apparently.
-That "reality show about a detective agency" is a show called Knight Scoop. Uh, look up "knight scoop pudding affair." Truly, reality is stranger than fiction.
Chapter 4: Foreman Kiryu
Summary:
Majima sighs. “Look, just—stop workin’ the night shifts and come work for me.”
Kiryu eyes Majima and his setup skeptically. He knows that Majima’s got a good nose for business, but construction seems like an entirely different beast. He doesn’t know the first thing about construction management, either.
Then again, it’s not like he has anything better to do. “...Fine.”
Majima whoops, delighted. “Welcome to the team, Kiryu-chan!” He grabs Kiryu’s hand and shakes it vigorously.
Notes:
I don't know what I was thinking with this chapter. I just wanted it to be funny.
Also I have no idea how construction works please don't kill me
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He doesn’t see Majima for a few days after that, but when they finally cross paths again, it’s altogether a very confusing experience for Kiryu.
After dropping Haruka off at school, Kiryu follows their short home almost on autopilot, daydreaming about the next recipe he’ll be testing out (nikujaga, a classic). That is, until he finds his path blocked by a construction zone on the sidewalk—a construction zone that happens to have set up shop directly in front of his apartment building. He stops in his tracks, confused. He’s almost certain this wasn’t here when he left with Haruka ten minutes ago, and yet here it is: a small group of burly-looking construction workers accompanied by a small bulldozer, a cement mixer, and a mess of traffic cones and construction tape that bars Kiryu’s path.
Unfortunately, there’s no way he can walk around it—it butts right up against the apartment building, occupying the sidewalk from curb to door. Just when he’s about to consider making a break for it and hoping none of the workers see him, a worker in a hard hat and high-visibility vest emerges from the group and approaches him, arms folded.
“Uh—is it okay if I pass through here? I live in the building right there,” Kiryu says, pointing to the high-rise behind the construction zone.
The construction worker shakes his head, face steely. “No unauthorized personnel allowed, sir. I suggest you find a way around.”
Kiryu splutters. “Around—? How? Look, I just need to get to my apartment.”
“Can’t let you do that,” the worker says. “If you got a problem with it, you’ll have to take it up with the bossman.”
Kiryu huffs. “Fine. Where’s this ‘boss’ of yours?”
The worker looks over his shoulder at something behind him. “Hey boss, need your help with something.” Kiryu sighs inwardly, hoping this encounter won’t end with a fight.
Whatever he’s expecting, it’s certainly not Majima, whose head pops out from an open storm drain inside the construction zone wearing a yellow hard hat. “Oh, Kiryu-chan!” He chirps, a wide smile breaking across his face as he turns to look at their visitor.
“Majima-san?” Kiryu says, aghast. “What are you doing?”
Majima rolls his eye. “Fixin’ the sidewalk, what’s it look like I’m doin’?”
Judging from the fact that he’s shoulder-deep in a dirty storm drain next to a perfectly normal-looking sidewalk, it does not, in fact, look like he’s fixing the sidewalk.
Kiryu sighs heavily, scrubbing his face with his hands. “Just—can you tell your employee to let me through?”
Majima pokes an arm out to wag a finger at him. “No can do, Kiryu-chan. We here at Majima Construction take workplace safety very seriously. That means no enterin’ the construction zone without proper PPE.”
Kiryu growls at him. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you.”
“Dunno what yer talkin’ about, Kiryu-chan.”
Letting a breath out through his nose, Kiryu tips his head back to look up at the sky and counts to three internally. When he feels like he’s no longer in danger of spontaneously combusting, he turns his gaze back to Majima. “Fine. Let’s just fight and get this over with.”
“Now who said anythin’ about fightin’?” Majima asks cheekily, but begins to shimmy out from the storm drain anyway. “But if ya insist…”
Watching Majima extract himself from he sewer, Kiryu notices that not only is he wearing a hard hat, he’s also wearing a high-visibility vest over his snakeskin jacket and steel-toed boots instead of his usual shoes. Workplace safety, indeed.
As it turns out, PPE gives Majima an extremely unfair advantage in a street fight. Kiryu finds himself having to fight dirtier and faster just to compensate for Majima’s increased attack power and defense, always on the back foot. The tip of Majima’s boot catches Kiryu in the ribs and he swears he hears something crack. A hook that would’ve split Majima’s head like an egg simply glances off with a hollow bonk, leaving him giggling and no worse for wear. Luckily, Majima’s hi-vis vest makes him, well, highly visible, giving Kiryu that much more time to predict his movements. A well-timed tiger drop flings him like a ragdoll; thankfully, the vest seems to confer no defensive benefits.
With Majima now laid out on the street, Kiryu straightens up and swipes the blood from his nose. “Did you do this just to get me to fight you?”
Majima grins. “Well, maybe a li'l.” He rolls onto his knees and pushes himself to his feet. “But Majima Construction’s a legit business. I figured out what I wanna do now that I’m a civvie.”
“You started a construction company?” Kiryu wrinkles his nose. “Do you even know how to build things?”
Majima waves a gloved hand. “Ya can look up anythin’ on the Internet nowadays, can’t ya?” Which is…not an answer. Majima puffs out his chest proudly. “Anyway, we got big plans, but we’re still tryin’ to recruit new folks.”
Kiryu glances at the construction workers, who, upon closer inspection, don’t seem to be doing anything at all, actually. “I see.”
“We got a lotta grunts, but there ain’t enough qualified individuals to work supervisor positions.”
Kiryu can see where this is going. “Is that so? Sounds difficult.”
“Could use some kinda supervisor to keep these morons in line,” Majima teases, wiggling his eyebrows. “Someone strong and brawny, with a firm touch…”
“Hmm,” Kiryu puts a hand to his chin. “It’d be nice to have a day job.”
“‘Course! And beats havin’ to hire a sitter or drop Haruka off at Date’s when yer workin’ the late shift,” Majima adds.
Kiryu tilts his head. “I don’t need to, though? She’s fine on her own.”
“Wait, what? Ya just leave her alone at night?”
Kiryu shifts uncomfortably. “...Should I not be doing that?”
Majima’s mouth drops open. “What the fuck, Kiryu-chan. Of course not.”
“She’s just sleeping!”
“What if the fuckin’ buildin’ burns down? What if she has a fuckin’ nightmare? Who’s gonna be there for her then, huh?” Majima throws up his hands. “Unbelievable.”
Kiryu thinks about his own collection of nightmares since he’s gotten out of prison, as well as the few times he’s been woken up by Haruka’s crying at night. He feels like an idiot for not thinking about it, and guilty about the times he must’ve left her hung out to dry.
Majima sighs. “Look, just—stop workin’ the night shifts and come work for me.”
Kiryu eyes Majima and his setup skeptically. He knows that Majima’s got a good nose for business, but construction seems like an entirely different beast. He doesn’t know the first thing about construction management, either.
Then again, it’s not like he has anything better to do. “...Fine.”
Majima whoops, delighted. “Welcome to the team, Kiryu-chan!” He grabs Kiryu’s hand and shakes it vigorously. He whips his head around and barks, “Nishida!”
On cue, Nishida pokes his head out from behind the bulldozer and trots toward them, bearing a yellow hard hat and hi-vis vest identical to Majima’s. Majima snatches the hard hat out of Nishida’s hands and shoves it onto Kiryu’s head, giving it a hearty slap for good measure. Nishida scurries around him and throws the vest over Kiryu’s shoulders like a king’s ermine cloak.
“Wouldja lookit that! Ya got all yer PPE!” Majima coos. Getting behind Kiryu, Majima starts ushering him past the construction tape, into the construction zone. “Come on in, Foreman Kiryu!” Kiryu stumbles along, stunned.
Majima continues pushing him all the way up to the apartment complex entrance, only stopping to dart forward and hold the door open. “After you,” he teases, bowing low. Kiryu numbly obeys him, entering the building.
Majima slams the door behind him with a cheerful “We’ll be in touch!”
Kiryu stays rooted in place for several seconds, face blank. What just happened?
“So Majima-san just offered you a job? And you took it?” Though it’s long past sunset, Kiryu can still see the flabbergasted look on Haruka’s face as they’re walking home.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Haruka huffs. “Isn’t this just another of his tricks?”
Kiryu shakes his head. “No. At least, I don’t think so.” Haruka rolls her eyes—she knows better than to trust Kiryu’s credibility when it comes to not falling for scams. “I’m serious!” Kiryu replies defensively. “I believe him when he says he’s not in the—er, business—anymore,” he insists, barely stopping himself from blurting “Tojo Clan” for the whole street to hear.
“And you think he can run a construction company,” Haruka says skeptically.
Kiryu flounders. “Well—I…” Haruka raises her eyebrows. “...Not exactly,” he admits. “But he’s more business-oriented than he looks. And if he really needs help, then how can I say no to him?”
“You can’t say no to anyone, Uncle Kaz,” Haruka retorts. But eventually, she relents. “Fine. I just…don’t want you to get hurt again.” Her expression is hard. “I won’t forgive Majima-san if he lets that happen.”
Kiryu slings an arm around Haruka’s shoulder, rubbing it up and down. “I know. He might not look it, but Majima-san can be a reliable guy. Please believe me on that.”
Sighing far too heavily for an ordinary nine-year-old, Haruka leans into him. “I want to.”
True to his word, Majima makes contact about a week later, while in the intervening time continuing to make a nuisance of himself to Kiryu after his shifts. A new addition to their after-work bouts is Majima’s hard hat, which has tested Kiryu’s abilities more than he cares to admit. Had he really been relying on headshots that much?
After dropping Haruka off at school, Kiryu heads to West Park, half-expecting an ambush. And he gets one—inasmuch as Majima’s very appearance counts as an ambush.
“Kiryu-chan!” he calls brightly, smoking a cigarette in front of the perpetually-burning can fire at the entrance. “Thought ya’d never show.”
“I’m right on time, though,” Kiryu replies irritably.
Majima cackles. “Ya been outta the game that long already? In our line of work, ‘early’ is on time and ‘on time’ is late!” He claps Kiryu on the back. The cherry of his cigarette glows as he takes a deep drag.
“If you want me ‘on time’ to every meeting, you’re going to have to raise my salary,” Kiryu deadpans. Guffawing, Majima gives Kiryu another few bone-rattling slaps and ushers him toward the restroom leading to Purgatory.
“Um, where are we going, Majima-san?” Kiryu lets Majima push him through the tiny stall and through the door behind it. West Park is just as he’d left it—dotted with the remnants of burnt tents and scorched concrete, but it’s seen worse. He nods politely at the few homeless residents who had stuck around after the debacle, but it’s notably emptier than it was in December.
Majima spins around to face Kiryu, arms outspread. “Welcome to the new site of Kamurocho Hills!”
“Kamurocho Hills?” Kiryu eyes the brown grass and scraggly trees.
“Yep!” He strolls around the concrete desert like a king surveying his realm. “I got a whole vision, Kiryu-chan.”
“Do you, now.”
“Fuck yeah! It’s gonna be a shoppin’ mall and an entertainment venue and an office space and an apartment complex, all rolled into one!” He waves his hands in the air, making incomprehensible shapes.
Kiryu nods thoughtfully. “Sounds ambitious.”
“I got big plans for this dump, Kiryu-chan. It’s gonna blow the Millennium Tower outta the fuckin’ water. Might even be taller than the Millennium Tower, matter of fact.”
“Interesting.” Kiryu folds his arms. “And you’re sure Majima Construction is up to this task?”
Majima drops the miming act and scowls at him. “Ya sayin’ ya think I can’t do it?”
“Not at all,” Kiryu responds evenly. “It just seems like a big project for a new company, that’s all.”
Majima leans in close, his face suddenly splitting into a conspiratorial grin. “Ya think I ain’t had this figured out from the beginnin’? Kiryu-chan, ya underestimate me.”
Kiryu stares at him, unimpressed.
Majima’s smile falters. “Look, Kiryu-chan. We got capital out the ass. Like I said, we made a pretty penny outta sellin’ this patch of dirt. Even Nishida says we got the fundin’ for it.”
Kiryu sighs. “I don’t know the first thing about managing a construction site, though. Am I really the best person for the job?”
Majima throws an arm around Kiryu’s back, steering them toward the entrance to Purgatory. “Here’s the thing, Kiryu-chan,” he explains, voice low. “This project’s worth a lotta money. Like, so much money I stopped botherin’ to count the zeroes. Once we get this shit off the ground, there’s gonna be a lotta people fightin’ for a slice of this pie.”
“Really?”
“C’mon, didn’t ya work in real estate? You should know how cutthroat things can be. I ain’t kiddin’. That’s why we need a foreman who can knock some skulls together and protect our investment.”
Kiryu recalls his brief stint in real estate in the 80s. He hadn’t even been managing particularly important properties, and yet he’d gotten his hands dirty more often than he’d anticipated. Not to mention the amount of blood spilled over the Empty Lot—a cheerful thought that Kiryu promptly banishes from his head. Majima’s hawkishness begins to make more sense to him.
Majima guides them past the main strip of Purgatory, past the pleasure houses and the rather tired-looking girls hanging around in front of them, no doubt nearing the end of their shifts. “I guess I understand,” Kiryu reluctantly admits. Majima still hasn’t taken his hand off Kiryu’s back, and the more time that passes, the more aware Kiryu becomes of Majima’s warm palm against his suit jacket.
The large doors of the Florist’s house grow closer and closer. Majima grins. “Plus, we ain’t totally reliant on savings.”
Majima throws open the massive doors and swaggers into the Florist’s office without a care in the world. Kiryu trails behind, expecting to catch sight of the Florist’s wall of monitors and growing increasingly more confused when he doesn’t. Majima flops into the Florist’s chair and props his feet up on the desk, looking completely out of place among the marble columns and fish tanks.
“Uh, what are we doing here?” Kiryu asks, looking around for the Florist. A particularly fat arowana stares lifelessly at him over Majima’s shoulder. “Where’s the Florist?”
“Yer lookin’ at him,” Majima says smugly. “Well—the owner of Purgatory, that is.”
Kiryu furrows his brows. “You own Purgatory now? Since when?”
Majima adjusts in his chair, hand fumbling behind him confusedly as if searching for a tantō that’s no longer there. He folds his hands behind his head instead, leaning back as if nothing had happened. “Since the shit with Ibuchi went down. Florist called me up one day, askin’ me if I wanted it, and I said sure.”
“Wait, what happened to the Florist?”
Majima shrugs. “Gone back to the sunny side. Heard he upgraded to the Millennium Tower, workin’ with the cops. ‘Course, I think this setup’s way sweeter.”
Kiryu gawps at him. “And you said yes?”
“Sure did.”
“Why?”
Majima rolls his eyes at Kiryu. “Wouldn’t you? Personally, I don’t care for the brothels myself. Not like they’re offerin’ anythin’ ya can’t get above-ground. But when ol’ Florist-han mentioned the Coliseum…that got me interested.”
“You don’t have to own the Coliseum to fight there, though,” points out Kiryu.
“Sure. But one of the perks of ownin’ the joint,” Majima leans forward in his seat, leering at him. “Is that whenever Kiryu-chan takes some poor sap down to pound town, I get free front-row seats. Forever, if I want.”
Kiryu gives him a rare smirk. “Doesn’t seem like your style to just watch me fight.”
Majima’s grin widens. “Oh, believe me, I ain’t plannin’ on just watchin’. One of these days, I’m draggin’ yer ass into that ring.”
The corner of Kiryu’s lip quirks upward. “Only if you’re prepared for me to be the one dragging you out.”
The smile on Majima’s face is downright predatory. Unfortunately, it’s at this very moment that Majima’s phone chirps in his pocket, startling both of them. Majima curses, sitting upright and fishing in his jacket for his cell. He rolls his eyes upon seeing the caller ID but answers it anyway, relaxing and putting his feet back up on the desk.
“Yo,” he says, tilting his head to stare at the ceiling. A shrill voice echoes from the speakers, and while Kiryu can’t tell what it’s saying, it’s obviously agitated. Majima grimaces. “Calm the fuck down, Nishida. Gimme yer big-boy words.”
More of the shrill voice, slightly slower. Majima sighs loudly. “Awright, awright, I’m on my way. Try not to get yer panties in a twist in the meantime, yeah?” He snaps the phone shut decisively, groaning as he pushes himself out of his chair. He stretches and yawns, revealing a narrow strip of skin between waistband and snakeskin jacket. Kiryu carefully averts his eyes.
“Sounded serious,” Kiryu comments. Majima waves a gloved hand at him dismissively.
“Everythin’s serious with that kid. Flippin’ his lid over surveyors, of all things. I swear, I gotta get him medicated one of these days.”
Kiryu snorts. “Well, you’d better not keep him waiting.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Strolling past him, Majima cracks open the door and holds it open for himself and Kiryu. “Let’s put a pin in this, yeah? Ya know how to find me.”
“And you know how to find me.”
Majima laughs. “At all times.”
Five minutes into Kiryu’s first morning at Majima Construction, Majima pats him on the shoulder, says, “Welp, I’ll leave ya to it, Kiryu-chan. I got permits ‘n’ shit to take care of.” And promptly strolls off the construction site for the rest of the day, leaving Kiryu stranded in West Park with several hundred blank-faced, newly-minted Majima Construction employees staring at him.
Of course, Kiryu immediately starts to panic.
He catches sight of Nishida scurrying away, attempting to make a hasty exit of his own, and chases him down, grabbing him by the back of the neck. Nishida squeaks like a cornered mouse.
“Nishida,” Kiryu whisper-screams, shaking him. “What do I do?!”
Nishida whimpers, cowering. “I don’t know!” He squeals. “Please, let me go!”
“Where the fuck are you going?!”
“Boss told me to ‘look up how to build shit’ on the Internet,” Nishida replies, thick eyebrows quivering. “And we don’t have a computer on the worksite, so—”
“I get it,” Kiryu hisses. “But what am I supposed to be doing?!”
Nishida trembles. “I don’t know! Make a speech or something? Whatever a foreman does?” He struggles harder, fruitlessly attempting to twist out of Kiryu’s grip.
Kiryu makes a sound between a sigh, a growl and a scream. He reluctantly lets go of Nishida’s collar; he bolts like a rabbit from a cage, disappearing into the restroom. Kiryu spares a brief glance at the crowd of new builders that are suddenly his responsibility now fuck shit fuck. He wracks his (woefully-empty) brain for the barest clue of what to do. He worked in real estate, didn’t he? What did he say to his new employees?
Composing himself as best he can, he heads toward the makeshift platform Majima uses as his preferred yelling spot and picks up the megaphone, conveniently abandoned. A sea of eyes follows him, awaiting instruction. Some are faces he recognizes from Majima’s stunts, while others are faces he might recognize if they were black and blue and twice their normal size.
He fumbles for the switch on the megaphone. “Uh.” he winces at how unexpectedly loud his voice sounds. Clearing his throat and squaring his shoulders, he stands on the platform and addresses the workers before him. “Good morning,” he says. No one says anything in reply. “Um. I’m Kiryu. Kazuma. Majima-san has appointed me to be the foreman of this site. Which means my job is to manage the day-to-day operations here. So, for as long as you’ll be working on this project, I’ll be directing you.” No response. “I look forward to working with you!” He yells, bowing stiffly.
Absolute silence. Kiryu starts to sweat. What does he do now? He thinks hard. Harder than he’s thought in years, or maybe ever. What would a manager do? What would his best manager do?
What would Nugget do?
He can picture her in his mind’s eye right now, the hardened look of a seasoned real estate veteran in those beady avian eyes. The soft, pleased cluck he’d give when Kiryu made a new investment and put them in charge. The excited bob of her head when Kiryu gave him their year-end bonus (in birdseed, of course). Nugget opens his beak and squawks, but Kiryu gets her message loud and clear: ASSERT YOUR DOMINANCE!
Kiryu gasps. He’s got it.
“...And if you got a problem with it, then step the fuck up,” Kiryu finishes, voice getting louder. “If you wanna die, come at me!” He roars.
The silence is deafening. The only noises he registers are the pound of his pulse in his ears and the heave of his chest.
Finally, someone in the crowd yells, “Let’s fuckin’ get him!”
And they all rush Kiryu at once.
In hindsight, it might have been a bad idea to incite the entirety of Majima Construction to attack him at the same time. He feels like he’s pulled a muscle or seven. Perhaps a bone or two. His back has thrown one too many bodies today and has decided to throw itself out right after them. However, as Kiryu staggers to his feet, he’s already much better off than his opponents, all of whom lie groaning on the concrete. He searches for the megaphone, and upon spotting it, stumbles to retrieve it from where it’s landed in the bushes (miraculously unscathed).
Kiryu raises the megaphone to his lips and puffs, “Is that it? I fought all of you at once and I still came out on top.” He swipes his bloody lip with the back of his sleeve. “Why is that?” Some of the downed workers groan in response. Or maybe that’s a death rattle.
“I’ll tell you why,” Kiryu continues, clutching a stitch (or perhaps a broken rib) in his side. “It’s because none of you know how to work as a team.”
He takes a deep breath, wincing, and continues. “As foreman, I’m in charge of assigning tasks to teams of workers, who have their own jobs to do. Follow my lead, and you’ll be stronger in a team than you ever were alone. Only then will you be able to defeat me in combat.” Some of them start struggling to their feet, looking at him with renewed respect and concussed delirium.
“At Majima Construction, we’ll grow stronger, together,” Kiryu’s voice rises. He can practically hear the company anthem. He wishes there was some kind of flag or banner behind him that would make this moment look cooler.
“So…let’s build shit!” Kiryu yells. A chorus of weak agreement rises from the ground. Kiryu allows himself a small, proud smile.
They’ll work on it. Together.
By the time Majima comes back, they’ve made incredible progress on Kamurocho Hills—the miniature version, constructed of dirt and sticks and rocks scavenged from the park.
Kiryu had placed the concrete team in charge of securing enough sculpting material, digging holes until they hit a decent clay that could adhere to the stick skeleton provided by the scaffolding team, who had spent the morning uprooting the scraggly bushes and turning their branches into wooden piles. The stonemasons are hard at work laying small rocks for the foundation, using a mud and grass slurry as a makeshift mortar to hold them together. The landscapers had scouted out a suitably flat spot to plant their project and now lovingly construct miniature flowerbeds of clover and St. John’s wort around the tower’s stump. Gary had even taken it upon himself to smash a boulder into pieces when the masons ran out of perfectly-sized rocks to lay.
Everyone is hard at work in perfect harmony, not a single disagreement in sight (those had all been fought out in the morning). They’re also all covered in mud, somehow—even Kiryu, who hasn’t gotten near a dirt pile all day for fear of getting distracted by the worms. He tells himself that’s what Nugget would do, even though both he and Nugget have been distracted on jobs by bugs on multiple occasions.
But more importantly, Nugget would recognize hard work. “Strong work, everyone,” Kiryu announces proudly. “We’re nearing the end of the day, so let’s pick this up again tomorrow. Be sure to get a good night’s rest.”
Kiryu hears the bathroom entrance slamming open behind him, followed by the clack of dress shoes. “Finally submitted all those fuckin’ permits!” Majima crows, Nishida trailing behind him like a terrified shadow. “Now all that’s left is sourcin’ those…materials…” he trails off as he catches sight of Kiryu, and more specifically, their project.
Picture this: several hundred grown-ass adult men in construction helmets huddled around a towering mass of mud vaguely shaped like a skyscraper, scrambling back and forth across a park to collect rocks and sticks and flowers to decorate said mass of mud like a horde of schoolboys marooned on a desert island. And overseeing them, the man in charge, covered in dirt and bruises like their warrior king.
Majima’s jaw drops, his eye popping. “Kiryu-chan, what the fuck?”
Kiryu shrugs. “You left me to it.”
Notes:
-PPE is serious business. Majima Construction is JISHA-compliant.
-I couldn't figure out if Nugget was female or male or...whatever, and I couldn't bear to misgender Tachibana Real Estate's most beloved manager. So fuck it, Nugget with any/all pronouns.
-Yes, Kiryu is the Lord of the Flies.
Chapter 5: Bento Boxes
Summary:
“Thank you,” Majima says, something dangerously close to fond in his voice. Kiryu doesn’t know what to call it. He doesn’t know what to think. All he knows is in that moment, he’d do anything to see that smile again.
Notes:
Essence of Bento
Seduce the enemy with a delicious bento to fill the Heat Gauge and make their kokoro go doki-doki. This flustering effect only works against certain stronger foes.R2 near certain enemies (3rd Heat bar)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Aside from the rough start, Kiryu’s days at Majima Construction pass in relative peace. Of course, he’s occasionally called upon to render emergency first aid to workers with scraped knees or settle “workplace disputes” by force, but that’s par for the course on a construction site. Isn’t it?
True to Majima’s word, once rumor begins to spread about the extent of the new Kamurocho Hills project, their site receives many more visitors than before. Granted, most of them are rubberneckers who stand beyond the construction zone and comment on their apparent laziness, but others look like hired scouts sent purely to watch them work. None of them have made a move on their site just yet, but Kiryu reckons it’s simply a matter of time before one of these big fish sends someone else to muck up their site. Not that he’ll let that happen, obviously.
Even though he doesn’t do much actual construction work, only stepping in when a pile needs driving or a pipe needs laying, their longest days demand just as much energy as his collection job used to. Oddly enough, it’s the mental work that takes the greatest toll on him. The workers don’t make it easy, and he stays on his toes constantly to nip safety violations in the bud as soon as he sees them.
But no matter how he might feel, he knows Majima has it hardest of them all. He does the least construction work of the team, instead shutting himself up in this trailer office or spending entire days offsite in talks with subcontractors. He’s there before Kiryu arrives and stays after all the rest of them have been dismissed for the day. At least Kiryu’s job lets him blow off steam occasionally. Majima’s got nothing—or at least, he’s doing nothing. Kiryu doesn’t know how to help. He’s not good with words, and Majima’s constantly on the move and therefore impossible to catch.
He’d like to think he knows Majima well enough to tell when he’s fine and when he’s not. And while he seems upbeat, his smile is brittle and his shoulders are tense. Kiryu’s not sure how much work it actually takes to run a construction company, but now that they’re officially off the ground and getting into the swing of things, he’s sure Majima’s doing too much.
With so little free time during the day, Kiryu begins to cherish the mornings. At the very least, he can have some peace and quiet to mentally prepare for the day ahead.
Haruka, bless her, has taken an interest in cooking as well, joining him in the kitchen to help assemble a bento for Kiryu’s lunch as he works on their breakfast. Though Kiryu ends up doing most of the work, as all the bento materials are either leftovers from the night before or frozen dishes he made ahead of time, it warms his heart that Haruka wants to help out around the house. Before long, they work like a well-oiled machine, dancing around each other in the compact kitchen as Haruka defrosts packages and stuffs bento compartments while Kiryu fries eggs and cuts fruit.
Haruka also has an artistic streak that he’s sure she inherited from Yumi. She arranges the components much better than Kiryu ever could—nestling leftover pot stickers into silicone cups, packing the neighboring spaces with sliced vegetables or layered salad, sprinkling bonito or nori flakes on the rice to give it flavor. He could learn a thing or two from her aesthetic sensibilities. At any rate, it’s certainly more appealing than the bento from Poppo with the fake grass and plain rice.
Plus, Kiryu has to admit that homemade food really makes him appreciate his meals more. Convenience-store food is utilitarian; it tastes good, but there’s nothing particularly special about it. A hand-packed bento, on the other hand, is worth savoring. Getting to sit down for lunch and enjoy it is a refreshing break during his long days, especially when he thinks about how Haruka carefully put it together.
It makes him feel loved in a way he hasn’t for a long time.
The first time he ends up making a bento for Majima, it’s an accident. Really, it is.
Kiryu’s groggy, the coffee hasn’t kicked in yet, and he’s so used to cooking for two that he doesn’t really think about it until he realizes he’s prepared two portions of salmon and is halfway through a second tamagoyaki. While he probably could throw the extras in the fridge and save them for tomorrow’s lunch, tamagoyaki’s not that good after a day. Something about the texture feels off to him once it’s been refrigerated.
“Why don’t you give one to Majima-san?” Haruka suggests. “He’s never tried your food before.”
Now that Kiryu thinks about it, he’s never actually seen Majima eat anything on the job. But still, isn’t it weird to give him a bento out of the blue? He says as much to Haruka. She frowns.
“Uncle Kaz, isn’t that what friends do?”
He doesn’t know. They never had homemade bento at Sunflower; all of their meals were provided by their school, not that he remembers much of it. But, on the rare occasions that they went out on weekend excursions, Yumi and Yuko always put together packed lunches for their group with whatever the kitchen had. Are he and Majima good enough friends to do things like that for each other? Have they accumulated the friendship points to unlock the Essence of Bento?
Well, it’s been a while since he acquired a new move.
“I guess so,” Kiryu responds, shrugging. So Haruka dutifully fetches a second bento set from their cabinets and puts together another box, wrapping both of them in colorful furoshiki cloths.
And that’s how Kiryu ends up walking to work with two bento boxes under his arm, securely nestled in a canvas shopping tote. Unfortunately, half of Kamurocho seems to have a bone to pick with Kiryu this morning, so when he’s confronted by a group of teenagers who don’t have anything better to do on a Thursday morning, he just sighs and sets his bag carefully out of harm’s way before taking a quick moment to feed the hungry punks their own teeth.
Between that interruption and the extra time Haruka had taken to pack the second meal, he’s cutting it close this morning. He makes it to work on time, but with none to spare to drop off the bento. Majima Construction prides itself on punctuality, so if Kiryu doesn’t take charge as soon as he arrives, it usually means someone will get up to something stupid in his absence. He can already feel his blood pressure spike as he stops the stonemasons from mixing mortar with their bare hands.
No time for bento at the moment. Kiryu charges in, promptly forgetting all about his morning.
Of course, the gravity of the situation makes itself apparent as lunchtime grows closer. Kiryu doesn’t even know why he’s so nervous—surely it’s a normal, reasonable thing for a grown man to make a bento for his friend, who is also a grown man? What is he, twelve?
Instead of channeling all his nervous energy into embarrassment, Kiryu decides to redirect it to anger. Stupid Majima, who won’t even feed himself. Stupid Kiryu, feeling these stupid feelings. Stupid bento.
He might have overdone it, though, wincing as he knocks just a bit too hard on the door to Majima’s office trailer. An irritated “What?” sounds from inside, which Kiryu takes as an invitation to burst in, clutching the bright pink bento by his side.
He’s never been in here before, so it takes a moment of confused spinning to locate Majima, who’s sitting at a large office desk facing the door and hunched over a stack of papers. Majima’s glaring at him. Instinctively, Kiryu glares back.
Majima’s annoyed expression drops, replaced by confusion. “Kiryu-chan?”
Kiryu stalks toward him, stopping in front of the desk and shoving the bento into Majima’s face. “Here,” Kiryu growls. The bento dangles from its pink cloth ties, held tightly in Kiryu’s fist.
Majima’s face is blank. He looks at the bento. Then at Kiryu’s stormy expression. Then back to the bento. He blinks once. Twice. Thrice, even. Kiryu can feel his cheeks heating up.
“Haw?” Majima says eloquently.
Kiryu can feel his confidence deflating. His gaze bounces all over the tiny space—anywhere but Majima. He struggles to find more words. “Uh—a bento.” Said bento shakes slightly in his grasp. “For you.” His face is definitely tomato-red.
Surprised, Majima lays down his pen and takes the package from Kiryu, holding it like a bouquet of flowers, or perhaps a landmine. “For real?” His voice is soft.
“I—um. Made too much this morning,” Kiryu says lamely. His sweaty fists clench at his sides.
Majima’s expression is unreadable. “Can I open it?” He asks.
Kiryu nods.
Majima handles the bento with the same care he’d given Haruka’s drawing, fingers undoing the knot with a gentleness that Kiryu didn’t think him capable of. He pops open the box to reveal a broiled salmon fillet on a bed of seasoned rice, sliced tamagoyaki, watercress and cucumber salad, and red pickled daikon (“For color!” Haruka said.) Majima stares at the food for so long that Kiryu shrinks in embarrassment.
Kiryu babbles. “If you don’t like it, I can—”
“I like it,” Majima interrupts, finally looking Kiryu in the face. “I was just…zoned out, s’all. No one’s made me a bento in a real long time.” There’s a faraway look in his eye.
“Oh.” Kiryu shifts from foot to foot awkwardly.
Majima shakes himself, replacing the box lid. He gestures to the piles of paper on his desk. “I gotta—I gotta finish this up. But as soon as I get this outta the way—”
“Yeah.”
The tiny office is quiet.
Kiryu fidgets. “I should leave you to it, then,” he says, eyes darting around for the door and starting toward it.
“Kiryu-chan,” Majima calls, his voice devoid of humor. Kiryu turns around.
Majima smiles. It’s like seeing the sun peeking out from parting clouds, the wag of a dog’s tail, Haruka’s arms outstretched and awaiting a hug. It makes something in Kiryu’s chest kick like a trapped animal.
“Thank you,” Majima says, something dangerously close to fond in his voice. Kiryu doesn’t know what to call it. He doesn’t know what to think. All he knows is in that moment, he’d do anything to see that smile again.
Kiryu looks away. “You’re welcome.” His face still feels warm.
On his way out, he catches a glimpse of something on the far wall, directly facing Majima’s desk. It’s a framed colored-pencil drawing: two crudely-drawn people holding hands in front of the red Kamurocho entrance gate—one with a scribbly bowl-cut and eyepatch, the other with a comically angry face and a gray suit with a red shirt.
Kiryu freezes, a very odd and strangled noise escaping him, before throwing himself headfirst out the door.
“Did he like it?” Haruka asks that evening. Kiryu shrugs; he’d found the empty bento box, washed and dried, among his things before he left work, a little note that said Thanks, Kiryu-chan <3 tucked inside.
“I guess so,” he responds, dropping his own empty box into the sink as he busies himself with dinner. Where’d Majima manage to clean his? Kiryu doesn’t remember seeing any sinks on the construction site except the ones in the public restrooms, and the thought of using those to wash anything makes him feel ill. He places it in the sink with the rest of the dishes. Just to be safe.
Haruka’s face splits into a smile that Kiryu can only describe as smug. “Maybe you should make him one tomorrow, then.”
Kiryu’s cheeks redden. He really would like to see Majima’s sunny expression again. “Maybe I will,” he replies, aiming for casual but missing the mark completely by the way Haruka’s grin widens.
The second time, it’s entirely intentional.
When Kiryu arrives at the kitchen that morning, he finds Haruka already setting up the bento dishes—twice the ingredients, twice the boxes. Kiryu gives her a suspicious look. Haruka meets his stare head-on, her eyes the picture of innocence. After a stand-off that lasts just a few seconds too long, Kiryu sighs and brushes past her, rolling up his sleeves and preparing to make extra onigiri.
This time, he rehearses his script the entire way to work. He even manages to shove the bento into Majima’s face with a minimum of scowling.
Majima raises his eyebrows. “Again?”
Kiryu bristles. “If you don’t want it—”
Majima backpedals. “No, no, I want it!” He extracts the bento from Kiryu’s death-grip. “I just didn’t really think ya’d give me another one.”
Kiryu shrugs artfully, hiding the slight blush on his face. “I needed the practice. And you need more food.”
Majima laughs. “Ya sayin’ I’m too skinny, Kiryu-chan? If you’re tryna make me too fat and lazy to kick yer ass, ya gotta do better’n that.”
At that, Kiryu smirks. “I can kick your ass already, I don’t need to slow you down further.”
Majima’s grin is challenging. “Oh, them’s fightin’ words. Better watch out, Kiryu-chan, ‘cause I’m gonna be on your ass.”
Kiryu opens the door with a parting smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”
After hours of screaming until his voice grows hoarse, his lunch break is a welcome interruption to the day. It’s a nice opportunity to get some fucking alone time for a change.
Of course, it being a construction site, the entirety of West Park has been leveled and replaced with slabs of concrete, not a hint of greenery to be seen. It’s a shame, really; Kiryu misses the giant gingko trees that had provided some semblance of life in this otherwise barren city. And shade that he sorely misses, now that he’s regularly out here in the light of day.
The workers he’s managing have the same idea, apparently. Their preferred lunch spot is near the restrooms, where at this time of day the sun shines down at the perfect angle to cast a little slice of shade on the concrete. Just like grade school, Kiryu deliberately seeks out a quiet place away from the rest—in his case, under the meager shadow of Purgatory’s entrance.
He and Nishiki used to hang out near the vents on their school rooftop where no one else ventured, yelling at each other over the roar of the fans as they scarfed down their school lunches. As long as Kiryu and Nishiki had each other, nothing else mattered. Not the taunts from their classmates. Not the crumbs of Kazama’s life they were never privy to. Not the grief of losing a family that Kiryu had never really known.
Now Nishiki isn’t here anymore. Kiryu would like to say he feels his absence like a severed limb, but he’s been alone for ten years already. He’d lost and mourned Nishiki long ago. Even if he were still alive, it wouldn’t change the fact that ten years had separated them. A lot can change in ten years. Kiryu would know.
“Care for some company?”
Kiryu starts and looks up, dimly aware of the picture he must make, staring off into space. Majima hovers over him, his face unreadable. Kiryu shrugs and gestures to the empty spot next to him. With a dramatic sigh, Majima sits on the concrete alongside him, stretching his long leathered legs.
Kiryu studies him curiously. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take a lunch break,” Kiryu notes.
“Well, I didn’t have a lunch before, did I?” Majima replies, waggling the pink bento Kiryu had given him that morning. “Figured I’d pay Kiryu-chan a visit and give him a runnin’ commentary on his cookin’ skills.”
“Be very careful with what you say next,” Kiryu deadpans. Majima cackles, unperturbed.
“I’m just fuckin’ with ya, Kiryu-chan.” Unwrapping the bento with the same care he’d shown yesterday, Majima pops open the lid. Kiryu busies himself with his own to stop himself from staring.
“Ooh, onigiri,” Majima coos. “Wonder what’s inside?” He claps his hands together, cheerfully yelling “Itadakimasu!” before picking up a rice ball. Kiryu’s already busy shoveling greens into his mouth, only slowing down with effort.
Majima makes a happy noise as he bites into an onigiri, completely unlike the exaggerated moans he makes just to get on Kiryu’s nerves. It’s cute, Kiryu thinks, before immediately squashing that thought down and focusing on his (half-demolished) salad.
“Umeboshi!” Majima beams, cheeks stuffed with sticky rice. “Umeboshi’s my favorite.”
Kiryu carefully files that information away for later and allows himself a small smile. “Good to know.”
Majima chews, a wicked grin cracking across his face. “Hey, watch this.”
Crawling across Kiryu’s lap to face the street, he turns his head and tilts his chin up, working his mouth strangely. Kiryu makes a strangled noise at Majima’s weight settling on his legs.
Majima takes a deep inhale, holding it in for a split second. Then, with a thunderous “Ptooey!” spits the pit of the umeboshi halfway across the construction site, where it sails over the fence (and presumably into some poor passerby’s face).
Kiryu stares at the spot above the fence where it had disappeared, flabbergasted. “Why—why would you do that?!” He fights down a peal of laughter to avoid inhaling the piece of karaage he’d just stuck in his mouth.
Majima sits back and puffs out his chest proudly. “Should see me do that with watermelon seeds. I shot one right into my bro’s ear from five meters, once. Took an hour to get it out.”
“That’s not really something you should be bragging about…” Kiryu comments weakly, trying not to smile and failing.
Majima scoffs. “Says the guy who calls himself ‘Kamurocho’s Fastest.’”
Kiryu opens his mouth, a defensive and indignant retort already on his tongue; but, realizing that it would only prove Majima’s point, thinks better of it. Instead, he bites into his own onigiri and winces at the burst of sour, salty umeboshi on his tongue. Majima giggles at his plight.
Kiryu separates the pit from the rice with his teeth and tongue. Majima watches him eagerly, deflating when Kiryu simply bows his head and spits it back into the bento box to throw away later.
Majima tuts in disappointment. “You’re no fun, Kiryu-chan.” He bites into his second onigiri, humming contentedly at the tuna mayo inside. “But I guess ya can stay, if ya keep givin’ me food.”
Kiryu picks at the remains of his lunch, smiling. “You a cat or something?”
Majima shrugs. “What can I say? I like good food. If that makes me a cat, then nyan-nyan, bitch.” He raises a fist and flops his wrist up and down like a one-eyed maneki-neko.
Kiryu doesn’t know what to say to that. He can’t decide whether that was adorable or the most unsettling display he’s ever seen from Majima. And this man’s chased him with a knife through West Park in a tuxedo and bloodied noh mask.
“Anyway, aren’t you the foodie here?” Majima continues, digging into his salad. “I’ve seen ya eat. And I mean, really eat. Like a fuckin’ woodchipper.” He makes an exaggerated slurping sound.
Kiryu grumbles. “I don’t do it that often.”
“‘Course ya don’t.” Majima slaps him on the shoulder. “I’m sure ya got this tall all by yerself.” He pops the last of his karaage in his mouth, practically purring. Nyan-nyan indeed. Kiryu could get used to this—the companionable silence, the subtle signs of contentment in Majima’s relaxed shoulders and unguarded conversation.
“You’re even taller than me, though.” Kiryu points out.
Majima waves a hand. “I take after my pa,” he says casually, setting aside his empty containers and reaching into his jacket for his cigarettes.
Kiryu has his lighter out and hand cupped around Majima’s smoke without even thinking about it. Old habits die hard. A flicker of embarrassment crosses his face, but he holds firm.
Slowly, Majima leans forward and lets Kiryu light it up for him, staring straight into his eyes. Kiryu doesn’t flinch; he never has, and never will. But Majima continually tests him, as if waiting for the day he’ll finally waver. Majima pulls away, the cherry of his smoke glowing.
Kiryu extracts his pack of Seven Stars and follows suit. For a few quiet minutes, they sit in the shadow of Purgatory and smoke. Kiryu quietly mourns the loss of the light atmosphere they’d enjoyed mere moments before.
Finally, Majima sighs, plucks the butt from his mouth, and stubs it out on the concrete next to him. He rises to his feet with a few creaky joints, stretching. “Kiryu-chan!” He croons. “Let’s fight.”
Kiryu looks up. “Huh?”
Majima rolls his eyes. “Ya owe me a fight, remember? Or do I hafta slap the memory back into ya?”
Kiryu sighs. “Do we really have to do this now?”
“What, ya got somethin’ better to do with the last—” Majima glances at his (bare) wrist, “—fifteen minutes of break?”
“I guess not,” Kiryu reluctantly admits. Stubbing out the remains of his cigarette, he hauls himself to his feet much less gracefully than Majima had. He rolls his neck, meeting Majima’s excited eye.
Kiryu puts up his fists.
With a shriek of glee, Majima lunges for his throat.
As it turns out, engaging in strenuous exercise just after eating a meal is an ill-advised course of action that only becomes more apparent as the fight drags on. While Majima had come at him with his usual zeal, it’s obvious that he’s been slowed down by the sticky rice and fried chicken. Luckily for him, Kiryu is equally sluggish, able to press his attack with full force but unable to evade cleanly. The tip of Majima’s shoe catches Kiryu’s clavicle through the open collar of his shirt, just short of his throat. Kiryu retaliates with an elbow to Majima’s ribs, knocking him out of kicking range with a hiss.
The altered gravity pulls the two of them out of their usual smooth orbit, crushing them together like space debris. Majima socks Kiryu in the gut and it’s all Kiryu can do to not throw up. Kiryu gets Majima into a chokehold and slams him to the ground, Majima landing with none of his usual agility. In the end, both of them are winded after just a few minutes, Kiryu declared the tentative winner by virtue of being doubled over but on his feet instead of starfished on the ground like Majima.
“Next time,” Kiryu croaks, “let’s fight before we eat.”
Majima wheezes. “Deal.”
Notes:
-Here's the reference for the delicious bento featured in this chapter: https://www.justonecookbook.com/15-easy-bento-ideas-recipes/
-Majima made Nishida run across town to their real office to wash the bento dishes.
-Haruka thinks they are Very Good Friends :)
-Will I ever explore Majima's lore? Maybe. Or maybe not! I just hope I conveyed how confusing this guy is to Kiryu. He drops the wildest shit imaginable into ordinary conversations.
Chapter 6: Dinner Date
Summary:
He thinks about what it might be like to date Majima Goro, and to his surprise, the idea doesn’t immediately repulse him.
Notes:
The side chapters have been moved to their own work, so check out part 2 of this series to find them!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Operation: Get Majima-san to Take Care of Himself,” as Haruka has aptly named it, has been a success. So far, anyway—this is a two-parter, oji-san.
“The first step is having lunch with him,” Haruka says matter-of-factly, waving her spoon. “But if you really want to look out for him, it’s going to take more.” She takes another bite of her chicken curry, chewing thoughtfully.
Kiryu shoves a chunk of potato into his mouth and reluctantly admits that she has a point. It’s nice to shoot the shit over bento every day, but it still doesn’t change the fact that Majima’s still doing much more than he reasonably should. They’re only slowing down his inevitable burnout.
Kiryu humors her, planting his elbows on the table and steepling his hands like a strategist. “What do you suggest then, General Haruka?”
“Hmm…” She stirs together the gravy and rice on her plate. It’s hard to tell whether she’s thinking or just expressing her approval of Kiryu’s homemade curry. It was a lot easier to make roux from scratch than he thought. The hint of flavor from their usual brand of butter gives it a familiar taste.
“Why don’t you invite him over for dinner sometime?” Haruka proposes.
It’s not a bad idea, Kiryu thinks. It’d force Majima out of the office, even if only for a few hours. Kiryu also wouldn’t mind seeing him more often, which makes him unique among the handful of Kiryu’s friends. He can’t imagine seeing Date every day, but maybe that’s just because Date is…well, Date. His own wife couldn’t even do it.
Majima is different. Every encounter with him is simultaneously familiar and foreign; same show, different costumes. Kiryu’d be the first person to admit that his own social skills are lacking, but even he is usually able to figure out people’s motivations given enough time—not so with Majima. Kiryu still doesn’t fully understand him, which would have perplexed him had Majima been anyone else. Instead, Kiryu just finds it charming. (And aggravating, but mostly charming.)
“Is that something you’re okay with, though?” Kiryu asks. “You don’t have to be around him if you don’t want to.”
Haruka shakes her head. “You’re happier when he’s around, I can tell. And if he makes you happy, he can’t be a bad guy. I don’t mind.” Is he really that easy to read? Troubling.
“It’s not about whether you mind,” Kiryu corrects gently. “You shouldn’t have to feel uncomfortable in your home. You’ll always come first.”
Haruka makes an unhappy noise around a bite of carrot. “If he’s your friend, oji-san, then I want to be his friend too. You know?”
“Ah.” Kiryu takes a sip of his water. “I see.” He has to admit, the idea of Haruka and Majima becoming better friends makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside.
“I just don’t want you to be lonely, Uncle Kaz,” Haruka says, looking down at her plate. “You can rely on me. I know I can’t do much, but I want you to be happy too.”
Kiryu smiles. “Thank you, Haruka. I promise I won’t lean on you too hard. It’s the adult who’s supposed to be doing the heavy lifting, after all.”
Haruka giggles. “I’ll leave that to you, don’t worry.”
It’s such a simple ask, and yet it’s so difficult to muster up the courage to burst the delicate bubble of companionship that Kiryu and Majima share. It’s so easy to drop off a bento box at Majima’s desk every morning, leave, eat lunch together, have a friendly brawl in front of all the employees, and forget all about it. It’s not like Kiryu is shy or anything. Him, shy? Perish the thought.
So why does it feel like the world will end if Majima declines his invitation? He chalks it up to Majima being his first real friend since—well. He’d rather not think about it. And he hasn’t had a best friend since—
He’d rather not think about that either.
But he can’t mope around looking like a coward in front of Haruka forever; what kind of father would he be if he couldn’t do this much? Besides, Haruka’s got this sad disappointed face that looks exactly like Yumi’s and she levels it at him every time he comes home all defeated and it’s really demoralizing.
So after days of hemming and hawing and generally acting strange during his conversations with Majima, he waits until everyone has left work for the day and approaches his office.
“Kiryu-chan.” Majima greets him absently, not looking up from his desk. He’s plotting numbers on a great ledger. Kiryu might have been isolated from the world for 10 years, but not even in his day were people using ledgers for business. “Got somethin’ on yer mind, yeah? Let’s hear it.”
Kiryu supposes there’s no point in acting innocent. Majima looks bored, if anything, eye still firmly trained on his desk. Maybe he’s taking pity on Kiryu, who might explode if he has to make eye contact right now.
He swore he had rehearsed his sentence in his head, but now it’s gone entirely. He’ll have to wing it. “Uh…would you—hm.”
“Spit it out,” Majima prods, though there’s no heat behind it.
Kiryu looks at his feet. “Would you…like to come over for dinner with me and Haruka sometime?” His face burns with embarrassment. What is it about these situations that makes him so damn wimpy?
Majima looks up. “Dinner,” Majima repeats, face blank. “Why?”
Kiryu hesitates. “...Because you’re my friend?” He ventures.
Majima narrows his eye. “And you wanna invite me over for a family dinner…as a friend. After ya made me lunch for weeks. As a friend. And came over to my apartment in the dead of night. As a friend.”
Kiryu feels like he’s being lured into a trap. “...Yes?”
Majima’s face is deadly serious. “You have no fuckin’ clue what yer askin’ me, do ya.”
Kiryu senses there’s no good answer to this question. “...No?”
There’s a tense silence, like the lull before a bomb goes off.
Abruptly, Majima slams his head onto the desk, smushing his face onto the wood surface. He lets out a loud, guttural groan, clutching his hair in his hands like he’s in genuine pain. “Ughhhhhh,” Majima wails.
“Majima-san?” Kiryu asks, worried. Majima’s moaning only gets louder. “UUUUUUUUGGGGHHHHHHHHHH,” he continues.
Kiryu shrinks back. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Yer killin’ me, Kiryu-chan,” Majima mumbles, partially muffled.
“I’m sorry?” Kiryu offers.
“Fuck off,” Majima growls, finally picking up his head. His chin is propped on the desk, his neck bent at an awkward angle, but now he can look Kiryu directly in the eyes.
“You could’ve just said no.” Kiryu tries not to sound too hurt about it.
“Shut the fuck up and listen to me, ya moron,” Majima snaps. His hands are balled into fists on the desktop.
Kiryu shuts up and listens.
“I should fuckin’ kill ya for toyin’ with me like ya are right now,” Majima says, his teeth gritted.
“What?” Kiryu can’t help but defend himself. “I’m not—”
“I know!” Majima practically screams, burying his face in his hands. “That’s the worst part, I know yer a hundred percent serious!” Majima sighs angrily. “You’re a fuckin’ idiot, y’know that? Can’t believe I gotta explain this to a grown-ass man.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Kiryu frowns. “Explain, then.”
Majima snarls, face incandescent. It’s gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a measured breath and a schooled facial expression. He speaks to Kiryu like he would to a five-year-old. “Ya been doin’ a lotta nice things for me lately,” Majima says deliberately, looking ready to lunge for Kiryu’s throat. “Ya let me cry on yer shoulder. Ya make me lunch. And now you’re invitin’ me to dinner.” His voice is delicate, but with barely-restrained rage bubbling underneath.
Kiryu cautiously agrees.
“Y’know, most people would have that happen to ‘em and go, ‘Damn, this guy’s got a huge fuckin’ crush on me.’” Majima points at him accusingly. “And they’d be real mad if they started goin’ along with it, lettin’ this guy be sweet on ‘em, only to find out he was doin’ it because he’s too stupid to understand how friendships work.”
The pieces snap into place. Kiryu flushes. “Oh.”
“And most people,” Majima continues, “Woulda throttled the shit outta the guy fer leadin’ them on like that.”
Kiryu nods miserably.
“If,” Majima lifts a finger, “They knew he was doin’ it knowingly. Lucky fer you, I ain’t most people. I think you’re the kinda guy dumb enough to make that mistake.”
Majima stands up and looms over his desk. “Which means…I’ll give ya one chance to back out. One.” He circles around the desk and stalks closer, until their faces are only centimeters apart. “Ya wanna live? Ya better cut this shit out. Quit bein’ my housewife, kick my ass like a real pal, and back the fuck off.”
The hairs on the nape of Kiryu’s neck are standing on end, and he can feel the air between them crackling with energy like it does before they fight. Only a sliver of Majima’s eye is visible, but its dark iris catches the light like the sharp edge of a blade. Kiryu swallows.
He thinks about what it might be like to date Majima Goro, and to his surprise, the idea doesn’t immediately repulse him. Like taking in a feral stray—he’s guaranteed to get bitten, but the desire to care is stronger than the fear of mutilation. And who fears violence any less than Kiryu Kazuma? He used to live off it. Still does. Probably will until the day he breathes his last.
“What if I don’t want to do that?” Kiryu asks. “What if I do like you that way?”
Majima plants his hands on Kiryu’s shoulders and hangs his head, making another pained groan. “Don’t. Whatever ya do, don’t fuckin’ lie to me.”
“I mean it.” Kiryu knows that whatever he says next could ruin their relationship for good. But he wants to try. God, he wants to try. He lifts a tentative hand and places it lightly on Majima’s waist, over the jacket. Even through the thick material he can feel Majima’s muscles tense. Majima stiffens but makes no move to push him away.
“I’ve never done this before,” Kiryu admits. “I’ve never felt this way for anyone else.” Majima still isn’t looking at him. “But all of this,” he continues, gesturing between them, “All the time we spent together. The moments I spent thinking about you. It meant something to me.”
Majima’s hands tighten at his shoulders painfully.
“I didn’t have a name for it, but it was special. And knowing what it is doesn’t change that.” His face is warm; whether out of embarrassment or anticipation, he doesn’t know.
“I like you,” Kiryu says. “And I hope that…you like me too.”
The room falls silent. This close to Majima, Kiryu can hear his breathing, his little exhalations tickling the space between his collarbones.
Finally, Majima snorts. “You’re so bad at this, Kiryu-chan.” Kiryu hears more than sees the smile on his face. Majima throws his head back and cackles. “That’s so fuckin’ corny!”
Kiryu’s hand is still on his waist. His thumb strokes the snakeskin experimentally. He smiles, sheepish. “You like it.”
Majima drapes his arms around Kiryu’s neck, pressing himself close and bonking their foreheads together painfully. Kiryu’s brain rattles briefly in his skull while Majima grins at him, sitting pretty in his construction helmet. “God help me, I do.”
They settle on a date and time—not so soon that Kiryu panics when he doesn’t have a plan ready in time, but not so far out that Kiryu works himself into a panic from the anticipation.
The night before, he spends extra time preparing the ingredients for nabe, the perfect dish for the rapidly-dwindling cold nights. One that is almost impossible to overcook, burn or curdle. Easy to make. A dish best enjoyed in the company of others.
Haruka insists on dressing nicely for the occasion, changing out of her school uniform as soon as she gets home and replacing it with a new dress she’d gotten on a clothes-shopping trip the weekend before. Kiryu applauds her when she emerges from her room, twirling to show off the red, velvety skirt. The white rounded collar gives it a youthful look. He doesn’t really get women’s clothing—hell, he doesn’t even get men’s—but at least Haruka’s happy.
He’s still chopping vegetables by the time the hour rolls around, purposely avoiding the clock. Of course, that means he all but jumps out of his skin when he hears a knock on the door.
Haruka reaches the door first. “Majima-san,” she greets cheerfully.
“Why hello, Haruka-chan,” he answers. He eyes her up and down. “Ya look very nice tonight.”
Haruka preens at the praise. “Thanks! I picked it out myself.” Kiryu envies how easily Majima interacts with women, always saying just the right thing to make them smile. She backs away from the door to let him in.
Majima produces a pink pastry box from behind his back, presenting it to her like a queen’s crown. “I brought ya a present.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that.” She takes the box anyway, looking at it curiously. “Thank you.”
He waves a hand. “Only polite to bring a gift fer the hostess.” He finally meets Kiryu’s eyes, an entirely inappropriate grin on his face. “Cute apron.”
Kiryu blushes, suddenly very aware that he’s wearing his apron with Golem Tiger on the front (alongside a caption reading “RACECAR spelled backwards is RACECAR”). “Uh…thanks.”
Luckily, Haruka saves him by opening up Majima’s gift.
She gasps in delight. “Cream puffs!” Kiryu peers over her shoulder.
He’s never seen profiteroles so large. Upon a base of airy choux, cream piles up in great ribbons like a lady’s petticoat. A cap of craggy dough sits primly atop, dusted finely with icing sugar. For the finishing touch, a small raspberry is stuck to the surface of each by an equally minute dollop of cream.
“Thank you, Majima-san!” Her smile could melt even the coldest of hearts. Majima’s expression is soft as he pats her silky hair, careful not to mess up the neatly-combed part.
“‘Course, kiddo.”
Kiryu clears his throat. “I’m just finishing up dinner, so we’ll be ready to eat in a few minutes.”
Majima follows him into the kitchen. Haruka trails behind and carefully places the box of profiteroles in the refrigerator. Kiryu busies himself at the cutting board, shoulders prickling with tension. He hears Haruka scurry off somewhere.
“What’re we havin’?” Majima asks, inspecting the array of chopped vegetables strewn around the counters.
“Nabe,” Kiryu replies shortly, cutting green onions. “Probably the last chance to have it before fall.”
“Y’know it’s the 21st century, right? You can have nabe whenever ya want.” Kiryu feels Majima sidling up to him, the faint smell of tobacco clinging to his clothes.
Kiryu tenses up; Majima senses it, halting in his tracks. “This okay?” He murmurs, dangerously close to Kiryu’s ear.
Kiryu’s eyes are glued to the chopped onions. “…Yes,” he replies. “I’m just…not used to it.”
Majima smirks, voice low and velvety. “Tell me if it ain’t,” he says, scooting closer, pressing himself against Kiryu’s back, and hooking his chin over Kiryu’s shoulder. His arms reach around Kiryu’s body, gloved hands covering Kiryu’s own.
“Yer technique is all wrong,” he points out, steadying Kiryu’s knife hand. “Ya gotta hold yer left hand like a cat’s paw, fingertips folded in.”
He demonstrates, curling his fingers over Kiryu’s and flexing them toward his palm. “Get it real close to the knife so yer knuckles can deflect the blade.”
He brings Kiryu’s hands closer together. “Make yer cuts in a rocking motion, like so…” he holds Kiryu’s wrist, pivoting the knife up and down by its tip.
He loosens his grip but doesn’t pull away, watching as Kiryu mimics Majima’s movements. The green onions fall apart into neat, even rings. “There ya go.”
He withdraws with a pat to Kiryu’s shoulder, grinning at his reddened ears.
“Thank you, nii—I mean. Majima-san.” Kiryu fights to keep his breaths even.
Majima gently bumps his hip against Kiryu’s. “You can still call me nii-san,” he teases. “If it’s you, I don’t mind.”
Kiryu makes a pathetic attempt at a “yeah,” which ends up sounding more like a choking bleat. Majima cackles, slapping him on the back.
The worst part of preparing nabe is waiting for the pot to boil, sitting around the table and watching it hungrily as if staring will make time pass faster. Kiryu can’t exactly take credit for the presentation, given that fresh vegetables and meat looks nice on its own, but it’s pretty damn nice on the eyes.
The pot is packed with raw vegetables and mushrooms: frilly napa cabbage, dark chrysanthemum greens, long green onion, vibrant carrot, scored shiitake, chunks of shimeji, and delicate enoki. Slices of tofu swim in the broth, along with pale chips of daikon and lotus root. Paper-thin slices of beef sit on the sidelines, waiting to jump in the pot for a quick-boil. Ponzu and sesame sauces, dark and light contrasted together, allow for dipping. And of course, chopped green onions for a colorful garnish.
As soon as the dashi begins to boil happily and Kiryu declares it ready to eat, he serves Haruka, scooping up her favorite vegetables (long green onion and enoki). Majima swoops in to grab a large shiitake, biting into the meaty flesh. Kiryu shoves cabbage and greens into his bowl; Majima grumbles, but after a quick glare from Kiryu, he reluctantly eats his vegetables.
“Majima-san, how long have you known oji-san?” Haruka asks, crunching down on a piece of lotus root.
“Me ‘n’ Kiryu-chan?” Majima ponders for a moment, chopsticks swirling in his bowl. “Depends who ya ask. Me, I say I’ve known him since the eighties.”
Kiryu frowns. “That far back?” He gives Majima a suspicious look. “The first time you talked to me was…that night ten years ago.”
Majima laughs. “See what I mean?”
Haruka furrows her brows. “Then what’s the true story?”
Kiryu begins to tell his version of events, but Majima beats him to the punch, declaring, “I met this guy on Tenkaichi Street in 1988 and as soon as I saw him, I knew I had to kick his ass.”
“You screamed ‘Kiryu-chan!’ at me and got dragged off by police officers before you could fight me,” Kiryu interjects.
“Ah, so ya do remember!”
“No, I met you seven years after that, when you begged me for a fight, and when I refused, you swore you wouldn’t stop stalking me until you got one.”
“Is that true, Majima-san?” Haruka asks.
Majima shrugs. “More or less.”
“And that’s why I’ve had him on my back ever since I came back to Kamurocho.”
Haruka gawps. “After ten years? He remembered after all this time?”
“Yep.” Majima puffs up proudly. “If it weren’t fer me, Kiryu-chan woulda been found lyin’ in a ditch within two days of gettin’ out.”
Grumbling, Kiryu moves to scoop up a piece of beef from the pot, only for Majima to make a move on the same piece. They briefly fight with their chopsticks for dominance, but Majima runs his foot up the back of Kiryu’s leg under the table. Kiryu jumps, flustered, giving Majima the opening he needs to snatch it and shove it in his mouth. Kiryu kicks him under the table.
Haruka, bless her, says, “Majima-san must have really liked Uncle Kaz!” Which somehow manages to embarrass both of them at the same time.
Clearing his throat, Kiryu steers the conversation into safer waters. “Majima was just offended I refused to fight him.”
Majima points his chopsticks at Kiryu. “No, you said ya wouldn’t fight me ‘unless ya had a reason,’ so I gave ya a reason! Multiple reasons, actually.” He nudges Kiryu with an elbow. “Real question is, why’re you still playin’ along? Ya never turn me down when I ask, even after I said ya were in peak form.”
“I have a reason now,” Kiryu replies casually.
Haruka tilts her head. “And what’s that, Uncle Kaz?”
Kiryu smirks. “Because it’s fun.”
Majima sputters, nearly choking on a piece of chrysanthemum green. He plays it off coolly, but Kiryu notices the way his cheeks redden.
For dessert, Kiryu and Haruka split one of the enormous profiteroles, which Majima had politely declined (“All yours, Haruka-chan”). Haruka hums in satisfaction, a bit of cream on her nose that Kiryu swipes away with his thumb. The choux is delightfully flaky and soft, the smell of baked dough still lingering.The cream is thick and rich, its heaviness offset by the stiff whipping that allows it to melt on his tongue.
Kiryu can’t remember the last time he had a pastry, or if he ever had one at all. Another one of those luxury items that the orphans never had, and by the time he was grown he’d already been chiseled into a masculine shape, an adult man who couldn’t eat pastries because that was what girls did.
Fuck that. If enjoying a damn pastry is wrong, Kiryu doesn’t want to be right.
“Thank you, Majima-no-niisan.” He looks up and sees Majima already staring openly. Majima startles, averting his eyes and turning pink as if caught and embarrassed at having been.
Majima coughs. “Least I could do.”
Bellies full of vegetables and udon, Kiryu forces everyone to bear the leftovers back to the kitchen, where he boxes them up and puts them in the refrigerator for tomorrow’s dinner. Despite the amount of work it’d taken Kiryu to set everything up, the cleanup process goes by in a flash thanks to having three times the hands as usual.
Haruka quickly volunteers to clean the table, leaving Kiryu and Majima to do the washing and drying in awkward silence. Kiryu’s never seen Majima without his gloves on—at least, not in a scenario where he didn’t have to worry about getting clocked in the jaw with them. They’re slender and bony, crisscrossed with dark scars and stark tendons. His nails are painted baby-pink, little flowers of white polish studding them.
Majima notices Kiryu staring. “What?” He challenges.
“Your nails. They look…nice.” Kiryu really wants to get better at giving compliments, he really does, but “nice” is the most positive descriptor he has at the moment.
Smiling widely, Majima makes sure to brush their hands together when Kiryu passes the next plate over to him for drying. “Ain’t they? Pink’s my favorite color, y’know.”
Kiryu will remember that for later. “Do you go to a salon?”
Majima hums. “Used to, but I like doin’ my own manicure more. Therapeutic, or some shit.”
“I see. Haruka’s been trying to paint her own nails, but I don’t know enough about it to teach her.”
“For real? I could show her how,” Majima starts eagerly, but tacks on hastily, “If she wants to, of course.”
Haruka’s voice echoes from the living room. “Yes please, Majima-san!”
“You got it, kiddo,” Majima calls. A distant cheer floats back; Majima chuckles.
“Thanks, nii-san,” Kiryu says quietly. “I’m not great at girl stuff, so it’s a big help.”
Majima scoffs. “‘Girl’ is just a mindset, Kiryu-chan. Even you could do it, if ya put yer mind to it.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever tried.”
“Ya should. I’ll even do it for ya! I can already picture it in my mind: Kazumi, Kamurocho’s strongest hostess!” Majima makes a cinematic sweeping gesture, flinging water droplets everywhere. “Not Kamurocho’s prettiest, though. Goromi’s already claimed that title.”
Kiryu snorts, amused. “Must be a heated rivalry.”
“Yer damn right it is! They fight in a field of white flowers under the full moon ‘n’ shit like samurai. But they’re equally matched, right? They call it a draw an’ confess their love for each other over the bloodstained lilies an’ then—”
“I get it,” Kiryu interrupts loudly, face red.
Majima leers at him. “I’m just sayin’ ya’d make a real pretty hostess.”
“Who would make a good hostess?” Haruka asks. Despite being totally unrelated by blood, Haruka seems to share Kiryu’s poor timing, as evidenced by her trotting into the kitchen at that moment.
Kiryu blurts out “no one” at the same time that Majima says “Yer oji-san!” and unfortunately, Majima has the louder voice.
Haruka giggles. “Uncle Kaz, a hostess?”
Majima flicks water into Kiryu’s face. “He says he wouldn’t be a pretty hostess, but I disagree. Haruka-chan, help me out here.”
Haruka nods thoughtfully. “Oji-san is cute sometimes, even if he doesn’t know it.” Kiryu splutters, but Majima just nods along like they’re philosophers discussing whether the nature of man tends toward order or chaos. “I think he’d make a good hostess if he tried hard.”
Majima shoots a smug look in Kiryu’s direction. “See?”
“I think you’re just trying to get me into a dress,” Kiryu grumbles.
“Well, I wouldn’t be against the idea…” He taps his chin with a pink, flowery fingernail.
“It’d be fun, Uncle Kaz,” adds Haruka.
Kiryu glares at both of them. Individually, they’re persuasive but ultimately resistable. But teamed up…Kiryu fears he may have created a monster.
Dishes washed and dried, Kiryu herds Haruka back to the living room. She yawns, and with a start Kiryu realizes it’s an hour past her bedtime.
“Why don’t you start getting ready for bed? I’ll finish up here,” Kiryu says, nudging Haruka in the direction of her bedroom. She obeys, but not without flashing him a knowing look. “Bye, Majima-san,” she calls.
“See ya, Haruka-chan,” he answers, pausing in the middle of pulling on his gloves to give her a flappy wave. She laughs and disappears into her bedroom.
In the genkan, Majima slips into his shoes and turns to face Kiryu. “Well, thanks for havin’ me over, Kiryu-chan,” Majima says, rocking back on his heels. “Let’s go out sometime, just you an’ me.”
Kiryu can feel himself getting hot under the collar. “Sure.” He can’t take his eyes off the way Majima’s tattoos shift with his breaths. He tears his gaze away to look Majima in the face. His eye crinkles with amusement. Kiryu’s eyes dart between Majima’s eye and lips. “Can I…?”
Eventually, Majima takes pity on him. Grabbing him by the collar, Majima hauls him in and brings their lips together. They hold position just long enough for Kiryu to note the taste of dashi on his breath, the scratch of his facial hair, the unexpected softness of his lips. But then, Majima pulls back, grinning smugly.
“Gotta keep it clean for the kid, right?”
“Y-Yeah. Right.”
Majima slips out the door, letting it shut behind him with a soft click.
Kiryu swears he can taste Majima’s cologne for the rest of the night.
Notes:
-Majima likes to match his manicure to his underwear. Make of that what you will
-Where did Majima get those profiteroles? Were they made in a bakery, or in a home kitchen? Who baked them? All good questions.
-Like and subscribe for old woman yuri
Chapter 7: Expert Opinions
Summary:
Kiryu closes the door and thinks about Majima’s bare apartment, empty like he’d just run away from home with nothing but the clothes on his back. He wonders if Majima even has a home. And if there was some way to bring a piece of it here.
Notes:
I'm sorry............this was supposed to have plot, but it turned into filler. If you don't like dialogue, you can skip this chapter. Big changes are coming, I promise.
AO3 ate my formatting and I had to fix it AGAIN...apologies if you saw the ugly version
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Bit by bit, spring arrives on their doorstep.
The supermarkets herald the changing of seasons, daikon and cabbage replaced by young bamboo shoots and wasabina. (Majima complains about the recent increase in greens at dinnertime, but Kiryu tells him to shove it—into his mouth, preferably.) At work, the builders ditch their heavy coats on warmer days, seeking shelter away from the sun rather than in it. The tower climbs higher, steel beams like trees with scaffolds like ivy.
If anyone were to peek in on Kiryu’s and Majima’s shared lunch breaks, they probably wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary (for them, anyway). Majima is as upbeat as ever, sprawling in ever-lengthening patches of sun on the concrete and complaining to Kiryu about anything and everything. Occasionally he’ll get a grunt of acknowledgement or confusion or sympathy, when Kiryu can be bothered to listen. He’s not as good with words as he is with his fists, but thankfully, Majima doesn’t seem to mind.
Since Kiryu’s fumbling confession, it’s been blissfully domestic between them. Kiryu can sense the unsated hunger from Majima, quietly demanding more, but he’s not exactly sure how to feed it without upsetting their current balance. Kiryu’s not a novice when it comes to dating, but this might be the first time that he’s ever wanted a relationship to last beyond a good fuck.
Kiryu might have gotten his foot in the door with the housewife strategy, but surely Majima would chafe at that kind of domesticity in the long term. Loath as he is to admit it, Kiryu gets the feeling. If he hadn’t had his scraps with Majima for an outlet, it’d have been much easier to fall back on old habits.
Majima stretches himself out in the sun lazily, and Kiryu imagines how that lean muscle would feel under his hands. Would he thrash and attempt to throw Kiryu off like a wrestling match, or would he arch into the touch? Would Majima think of Kiryu’s affection as just another leash?
He’s dimly aware of Majima talking to him. “Yo, Kiryu-chan.”
Kiryu startles. “Hm?”
“Are ya even listenin’ to me?” Majima asks tartly, craning his neck. He’s sunning himself just outside the shade’s reach, almost touching Kiryu’s crossed legs.
Kiryu feels a bit sheepish. “Sorry. I was a bit zoned out there.”
“Yeah, no kiddin’.” Majima reaches an arm up and flicks Kiryu’s forehead; he makes an indignant noise in the back of his throat.
Scowling, Kiryu rubs his forehead. “What did I miss?”
“Ah, nothin’,” Majima says breezily, but he doesn’t look Kiryu in the eye. “Just talkin’ out my ass as usual.” Kiryu can’t help but feel as if he’s missed something important.
“Tell me again?” Kiryu presses.
“Nope,” Majima teases. “Should’a been payin’ attention the first time, Kiryu-chan.” He bares his teeth in a familiar grin, but there’s color in his cheeks that has nothing to do with the warm day.
Kiryu might not be the brightest, but this practically demands further investigation. He has one chance to coax out an answer before Majima’s rare window of vulnerability closes for good. “I was thinking of you,” he confesses. “That’s why I was distracted.”
For a moment Majima looks genuinely surprised. But his open expression is wiped away immediately, replaced by a smirk. “By what? Was it my good looks?” He strikes a sultry pose. “Or my winnin’ personality?”
“You looked comfortable.” With effort, Kiryu peels his eyes away from the colors of Majima’s tattoo. “In the sun.”
Majima’s eyes narrow, gaze turning predatory. “Oho, enjoyin’ the show?” He drags himself closer and preens, showing off the snakes framing his collarbones as he drapes across Kiryu’s lap. He pillows his face in Kiryu’s thigh, cheekbone digging into Kiryu’s skin.
Kiryu lifts a hand and lets it hover under the fold of Majima’s jacket. Majima wriggles impatiently. “You can touch, y’know.”
He does, hand sliding under the snakeskin to feel the sun-warmed body underneath. He can feel the solid framework of his ribcage, the ripple of the serratus anterior. Majima stretches and draws the skin tight over bone, arms reaching to snatch Kiryu’s half-eaten lunch out of his hand. Kiryu can’t even be bothered to complain.
“Care to share your thoughts?” Kiryu murmurs, stroking the soft expanse of his side like an overgrown housecat. “Only fair.”
Majima stuffs a piece of Kiryu’s sushi into his mouth and hums; Kiryu can feel the vibration of his throat.“Thinkin’ of a date with Kiryu-chan.”
Kiryu lets his warm palm rest against a tattooed snake’s jaw, trying not to smile and only half-succeeding. “Sounds sappy.”
Majima scowls, headbutting Kiryu’s leg. “I know! Ya make me sappy.”
Cute, his brain comments.
“What kind of date?”
Majima makes a frustrated noise. “I dunno, that’s the fuckin’ problem.” He glares up at him. “Do I gotta wine and dine ya? Drag ya into a dark alley and punch yer lights out? I dunno what the fuck you’d wanna do.” He bites down on an octopus-shaped hotdog with more force than necessary.
Kiryu’s lips quirk upwards. “I’m not that hard to please, nii-san. I’m happy whenever I’m with you. Can’t you tell?”
Majima gapes at him. “Do you somehow not know how intimidatin’ ya look? The most I’ve ever seen ya emote was at Pocket Circuit, and even then ya were all—” Majima’s face goes stony, imitating Kiryu’s victory pose, “‘—I win,’” he says in a deep, flat voice.
Kiryu frowns. “I do not sound like that,” he replies, sounding very much like that.
“Ya just don’t wanna admit it.” Majima pokes him in the nose, heehee-ing in delight when Kiryu’s face scrunches up. He drops Kiryu’s bento, picked clean. Kiryu sighs; at least he ate the vegetables.
“I don’t,” Kiryu insists, hands unconsciously skittering higher up Majima’s ribs. Majima jolts violently, an odd noise bubbling up from his throat. Was that…laughter?
Experimentally, Kiryu ghosts his fingers over the same spot, eliciting an undignified squawk and wriggle. “Don’t pet me like that,” Majima snaps, but it’s oddly strained.
Kiryu smirks. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll punch ya.” As if to illustrate his point, Majima makes a half-hearted swipe at Kiryu’s face. Kiryu has no doubt Majima could clock him for real, but the nice weather and filling meal must have him in a particularly good mood today.
Kiryu weighs his options and comes to a (possibly ill-advised) decision. Moving quickly, he leaps over Majima’s prone body and sits on his stomach, pinning him to the ground. His hands slip under Majima’s jacket to tickle the sensitive skin under his arms; Kiryu can’t help but giggle like a schoolboy at Majima’s surprised shriek. Majima thrashes and squirms, laughing helplessly as Kiryu holds him down and tickles him mercilessly.
“Take it back!” Kiryu yells over Majima’s squealing.
Majima manages to choke out a venomous “Never!” while fighting for breath. His hands reach for Kiryu’s collar, trying to drag him in for a headbutt, but Kiryu rears out of his grasp and presses his advantage.
He takes a risk, scooting back just far enough onto Majima’s hips to bend down and blow a loud raspberry into Majima’s stomach. Majima practically jumps out of his skin, letting out an honest-to-god squeak.
“Okay, okay, okay! Fuck, I take it back!” Majima cries, curling into a quivering ball when Kiryu rolls off him. It takes several seconds for Majima’s laughing to calm down, and when he does there’s real tears in his eye. “What the fuck, Kiryu-chan?”
Kiryu shrugs. “I was defending my honor.”
Majima wheezes. “Just fuckin’ punch me next time, man.”
They’ve settled into a pattern: once or twice a week, Majima shows up at their door and joins Kiryu and Haruka for dinner, always bearing gifts. Once, it was a bundle of flowers for Haruka—pulling one tiny pink daisy from the bunch and sticking it through a button-hole on Kiryu’s shirt with a slow one-eyed wink. Another time, it was an extremely out-of-season watermelon (but Kiryu had forbidden seed-spitting, to Haruka and Majima’s disappointment). This time, it’s Majima’s personal manicure kit, at Haruka’s request.
After the first few visits, he’s earned Haruka’s trust enough to have conversations with her even when Kiryu leaves the room. Most of it flies completely over Kiryu’s head. It doesn’t matter, though—they’re getting along, and Kiryu hopes it stays that way if this relationship with Majima is going to work out.
For now, they’re happily teaming up to recruit Kiryu as a test subject for Majima’s nail-painting lessons. (Kiryu managed to negotiate the after-dinner cleanup in exchange, which they had bulldozed in ten minutes.) Majima’s giant makeup box unfolds to display a plethora of polishes, tools, and sponges. Have manicures always been this complicated? Kiryu wonders what he’s gotten himself into.
They’ve immobilized him, Majima and Haruka each working on a hand. After much deliberation, Haruka has selected a rich burgundy for Kiryu’s left hand; meanwhile, Majima brushes a luminous silver onto his right. To his credit, Majima is a pretty good teacher, gently correcting Haruka’s technique and steadying her hands as she paints. His own nails are black and shiny, like patent leather, and keep catching Kiryu’s wayward eyes.
“Why am I the only one getting their nails done?” Kiryu asks. “Don’t you want to learn how to paint your own nails, Haruka?”
Haruka hesitates, looking a bit embarrassed. “Well…I wanted to learn like this so I could do it for my classmates at a sleepover. A lot of the girls in my class talk about doing nails.”
Kiryu frowns. “When did you get invited to a sleepover?”
Majima tuts. “Kiryu-chan, y’ain’t gonna be a wet blanket, are ya? Let the girl have some fun.”
“I never said she couldn’t go,” Kiryu protests, trying to give Haruka a reassuring smile. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I’m glad you’re making friends.”
She shrugs, focusing intensely on her work. “My friend Sasae was talking about having one soon,” she explains. “I didn’t want to make you feel lonely, though,” she adds teasingly.
Majima cackles, wiping an invisible tear from his eye. “Wouldn’t want that, would we, Haruka-chan!”
Kiryu splutters, about to insist that he doesn’t get lonely, thank you very much, but Haruka continues: “But I feel better now that Uncle Kaz has a friend of his own. You’ll keep him company, won’t you, Majima-san?”
Majima’s hand stutters to a stop in the middle of a line. “‘Course, kid.” His voice sounds uncharacteristically sober. “I’ll keep him outta trouble for ya.”
“I’m a grown adult,” says Kiryu irritably. “I’m the one keeping you out of trouble most of the time.”
Haruka talks over him, face serious. “He’s in your hands.”
Majima nods. “Tell ya what,” he replies, “I’ll take him out to play while yer away. Make sure he’s got all the wiggles out by the time ya get back.” Haruka giggles.
“I’m not a dog.” Kiryu scowls as they both settle down into barely-suppressed snickers.
Does that mean they’d be going out on a date while Haruka’s gone? Kiryu feels a rush of nervous excitement. Sure, Majima had said something to that effect the first time he’d been over, but suddenly it feels much more real. When’s the last time Kiryu even went on an actual date with someone he wasn’t paying? Don’t answer that, he scolds himself.
What do guys even do on dates? Scratch that—what does Majima do on dates? Logically, Kiryu knows what whatever they end up doing will be fun just because Majima’s there, but that doesn’t mean he’s not allowed to worry about what crimes they commit to get there. Kiryu starts to sweat, praying that neither Haruka nor Majima notice how clammy his hands are getting.
Haruka, sweet thing, breaks the silence. “Majima-san, where did you learn how to paint nails?”
Majima brightens, humming before he launches into his story. “Back in the day, I used to manage a cabaret. I’d do makeup and nails for the girls all the time.” Kiryu’s ears perk up, but he stays quiet; Haruka has a way of digging up crumbs of Majima’s past that Kiryu has yet to achieve. Of course, Kiryu knows all of that from Goromi, but he’d spilled blood to unlock that information. Haruka doesn’t even have to square up.
Haruka tilts her head. “In Kamurocho?”
“This was in Osaka. Long time ago, workin’ a real civilian job.” Majima shrugs, betraying no emotion in his voice. “Can’t ya tell?” He adds, playing up his Kansai accent.
She nods thoughtfully. “Do you miss it?”
“Not at all,” he says immediately. “Don’t miss it one bit. Customer service is a shitty gig.” That’s not the impression Kiryu got at Bantam, but maybe there’s more to “Lord of the Night” title than prestige.
Luckily, Haruka tilts her head and probes for him. “But don’t you get to make the customers happy?”
Majima snorts. “Yeah, by bowin’ and scrapin’ and makin’ a fool of myself. And then there’s the unhappy customers. Some people will find any reason to be upset with ya.” He pauses. “But the girls made it all worth it.”
“The girls…”
“Yeah, the hostesses.” A memory of pink snakeskin bubbles to the front of Kiryu’s mind; he promptly stuffs it back in his mental “for later” drawer.
“...Were you dating one of them?” Haruka teases. Kiryu chuckles.
“Haw?” Majima squawks, looking appalled. “Naw, nothin’ like that. I was a professional, missy,” he replies archly. Kiryu finds that hard to believe, somehow. “Those girls were like my own kids. Even though some of ‘em were older than me.” Kiryu knits his eyebrows, wondering just how young Majima must have been.
Kiryu’s knee brushes against Majima’s—Kiryu instinctively flinches, but after a moment, relaxes. A tiny point of contact, practically invisible, but it makes Kiryu entirely out of his depth. Majima presses back, disguising the motion with a lean over the table to get a better angle with his brush.
Haruka tilts her head. “What’s it like being a hostess?”
“Not as easy as it looks. Ya always gotta look yer best and put on a smile, even if ya feel like cryin’ on the inside. And ya always gotta keep the conversation goin’, no matter how hard the customer makes it.” Majima shakes his head. “Why, ya thinkin’ of workin’ at a club someday?”
Haruka hesitates. “I dunno. I guess I’d want to be someone who makes other people happy. Like a hostess or an idol.”
Majima barks out a laugh. “I was somethin’ of an idol myself. Didn’t have the looks, but I could bust a move.”
Haruka looks skeptical. “You? An idol?”
Majima glares at Kiryu. “Real polite kid ya got, Kiryu-chan. Can’t believe she doesn’t believe in Everyone’s Idol Goro.” Kiryu grimaces, still vividly remembering the shimmer of that jumpsuit as Majima did a headspin into a killer roundhouse.
“He’s real, alright,” Kiryu begrudgingly admits.
“Damn right!” Majima slaps Kiryu’s wrist, growling hold still under his breath.
“It looks fun, but the magic ends when the music stops. Bunch’a people-pleasers, idols.” He eyes a streaky patch on Kiryu’s pinky critically. “Lotta idols think bein’ popular will fix their problems, but it don’t work like that. When everyone sees ya as a star, then you’re really on yer own.” He sounds jaded, his tone the queasy yellow of an exposed nerve. Kiryu can’t help but want to touch it.
Perhaps sensing the sudden downturn in mood, Haruka says, “But what if I like it?”
“If ya like it?” He pauses. “Well, that’s a different story. It’s a fun gig, but ya gotta be happy to make people happy, ya feel? Ya gotta do what makes ya happy.”
“You can do whatever makes you happy, Haruka,” Kiryu says hurriedly. “I’ll support you no matter what.”
Majima feigns disgust. “Even joinin’ the yakuza?”
“...Except joining the yakuza,” Kiryu amends.
Haruka groans. “Believe me, I’ve had enough of the yakuza for a lifetime.”
Majima howls with laughter, slapping his knee.
By the time Majima and Haruka are finished, Kiryu can feel the long day settling into his bones, and it’s clearly starting on Haruka too. They’ve played together for longer than usual today, but Haruka protests not having had the opportunity to practice more even as she’s visibly nodding off. Kiryu himself has to stifle a yawn when he hustles her to bed, noting the late hour.
“Would you like to stay the night?” Kiryu asks, not really thinking about it. “It’s late.”
Majima’s smile freezes on his face. “Can’t,” he replies a bit too quickly. “Early start tomorrow.”
Kiryu doesn’t remember anything happening at the site that requires an even earlier start than usual, but he accepts Majima’s answer.
“It’s your place, you know,” Kiryu says. “You’re always welcome here.”
Majima hums noncommittally. “Maybe sometime,” he says. Then he’s out the door, into the dark night.
Kiryu closes the door and thinks about Majima’s bare apartment, empty like he’d just run away from home with nothing but the clothes on his back. He wonders if Majima even has a home. And if there was some way to bring a piece of it here.
It’s a slow day at Café Alps; watching the passersby outside the window reminds Kiryu of his first meeting as a real estate agent (among other things).
Eventually, the door chimes to herald the arrival of a new customer: a young woman in a dove-gray peacoat. Out of habit, Kiryu stands to greet her.
“Kiryu-san!” Rina chirps, waving. She looks him up and down, nose wrinkling. “You’re wearing that again?”
He’s always dressed like this, though. Does she know that underneath his shirt, he’s committed a fashion faux pas by pairing a gold binding with a purple lucky bracelet? Maybe the socks are a bit silly, but surely she can’t see Ebisu’s grinning face under his pants, can she? There’s no way, right?
…Right?
“No idea what you’re talking about,” Kiryu lies.
Rolling her eyes, she accepts the chair Kiryu pulls out for her, settling across from him at the tiny table. “How’s dating going for you?” Kiryu asks.
She picks up a menu, flipping through it idly. “It’s alright, I guess. There’s someone I’m interested in.” Her lips tilt with the excitement of a schoolgirl revealing a secret.
“Is that so?”
“Mm-hm.” Rina’s eyes take on a dreamy quality, her smile fond and infatuated. “The club just hired on this new girl, right? And she’s like, super cute. Really, really cute. And I’m helping train her, ‘cause I’m technically her senpai. But I don’t know if she likes girls.”
“Hm. That’s a difficult situation.” Kiryu furrows his brows. “How do you know? If someone leans that way.”
A waiter approaches their table to take their orders, momentarily interrupting the conversation. Rina orders a slice of cake with her tea, giving Kiryu a sweet look that says you’re paying, right?
She replies as soon as they’re done ordering. “Well, I don’t make it a secret to other people. If they wanna know, they’ll know, y’know? But if I’m trying to figure out someone else, I usually ask them if they’re dating anyone, or if they have any celebrity crushes.”
Kiryu nods thoughtfully. “Why not ask directly?” He asks.
Rina makes a face. “Kiryu-san, you can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
She sighs. “Well, you can, I guess, if she’s as open about it as me. But I like the shy types. Maybe they don’t know they like girls, or they keep it under wraps. I’d scare her away if I just asked.”
“I see,” he replies, even though he doesn’t really.
Perhaps sensing his confusion, Rina makes a long hmm. A long pause lingers before she continues. “It’s like—I gotta figure out if she’s open to the idea first. If I’m too aggressive about it, she might think I’m a creep, and that’s not a good feeling. But if I don’t do anything, she’ll think we’re just friends, and that’s not right ‘cause I don’t wanna be her friend, y’know?”
“I understand.” He does now. “Forming romantic relationships with other women does sound complicated.”
Their drinks arrive. The cup of tea Rina has ordered is fragrant and steeped to perfection, a warm amber. The waiter places her slice of shortcake in the center of the table, accompanied by two delicate dessert forks. Kiryu hasn’t even tried his coffee yet, but he can already tell from the smell that it’ll be fruity but not too acidic, just the way he likes it. Rina coos at the cake’s neat presentation and goes in for a bite, humming contentedly.
“But we’re not here to talk about me,” Rina says around a mouthful of strawberry. “You never call me out like this, Kiryu-san. So what’s up?”
“Ah. Right.” Kiryu looks down at his coffee, dark and inviting. “I wanted to get some relationship advice from you.”
Rina tilts her head. “Why me, though? I’m not exactly the best person to go to. Even if I am a hostess.”
“That’s the thing,” Kiryu replies, taking a sip of his (too hot!) coffee and fighting the urge to wince. “It’s not really something I can talk about with just anyone.”
The cheer abruptly disappears from Rina’s face, replaced by a knowing, sagely air. “Oh. I see how it is,” she says smugly. “Who’s the guy, then?” She nudges the plate of cake closer to him, inviting him to try it.
Sighing, Kiryu picks up the tiny fork and picks at it. “It’s complicated.” He shoves a bite in his mouth; it quickly disintegrates into sweet mush from the coffee’s overwhelming flavor. Or maybe his tongue is too scalded to taste it.
Huffing, Rina motions for him to continue. “Well, why don’t you start from the beginning? How did you meet?”
Kiryu shrugs. “I knew him through work for a long time, but didn’t get to know him personally until about ten years ago.”
“And how’d that happen?”
Kiryu snorts. “He challenged me to a fistfight and got angry when I said no. Said if I wouldn’t fight him, he swore he’d give me something to fight him over.”
Rina’s smile fades, replaced with bewildered unease. “Kiryu-san, should I be worried?”
“It’s not like that,” Kiryu protests. “He said that, but…things got in the way, and I didn’t see him until ten years later.”
Rina doesn’t look reassured, but she sips her tea in silence.
He takes another drink of his (slightly less hot) coffee. “When I came back to Kamurocho, it felt like everyone had moved on and forgotten all about me. He was the only one waiting for me to return.” Kiryu smiles. “Heh. Still remembered that promise he’d made even after all those years.”
“So he waited ten years just to fight you?” Rina looks aghast.
“W-well. When you put it that way…” Kiryu mumbles, shifting in his seat. “I guess so.”
“Did you end up fighting him?”
“Yes. On multiple occasions.”
Rina raises an eyebrow. “Even though you said you wouldn’t fight him without a reason?”
“He was very persistent,” Kiryu replies, suddenly feeling defensive. “He wouldn’t stop stalking me around the city until I fought him, and he kept tricking me into fights.”
Giggling, Rina puts a hand to her mouth. “And you kept falling for it?”
“You don’t know what he’s capable of,” Kiryu says helplessly. “He—he pretended to be a taxi driver and kidnapped me, he dressed up as a demon and chased me with a knife through West Park, he pretended to be a hostess at Club Shine…”
“I feel like I would remember that last one happening,” Rina muses. “What about now? He still bothering you?”
“Not really.” Kiryu swirls his cup, watching the coffee move around. “He helped me get steady work and a place to live, and I see him often. But I’m not sure what a dating relationship with him would be like.”
Rina sighs, looking exasperated. “No kidding.” She chases a crumb across the plate with her fork. “So what do you actually like about this guy? He sounds kinda like a pain the ass. To me,” she tacks on, not looking very apologetic.
Kiryu shrugs. “He makes me laugh.”
Rina looks genuinely surprised. “You, laughing? Kiryu-san, you laugh?”
“Of course I do,” he says grumpily. Rina giggles, voice bubbly like champagne.
“So what’s the problem, Kiryu-san? Sounds like you’ve got the perfect guy. Are you having trouble asking him out?”
Kiryu cringes, the vivid memory of Majima’s steel-toed shoe connecting with his temple yesterday (“Should’a been wearin’ yer PPE, Kiryu-chan!”) still imprinted on his bruised skull. “No? I mean, I like him and he likes me back.” He can feel his ears turning red. “I just don’t know if it’s something that will last, though. I want it to, but he’s…” he trails off.
“Wild?” Rina suggests.
“Something like that,” he allows. “But I don’t know if he’d want to settle down. It’s been a long time since I’ve dated. My priorities are different now.”
“I see.” She steeples her fingers in thought. “So you’re hoping for something long-term, but aren’t sure if it’s mutual?”
“That’s the long and short of it.” He hesitates. “I could see myself being with him for a long time, but I don’t know if that’s something he’d be happy with.”
Rina hums. Licking a smudge of cream from the corner of her mouth, her expression grows uncharacteristically serious. “Kiryu-san, what do you think of me?” She asks evenly.
“Huh?”
“Do you think I’m the settling-down type?” she clarifies. “Or am I more of a party girl to you?”
Kiryu thinks on it for a moment. “I suppose I see you as a carefree person. Which is a good quality in a hostess. You know how to have fun.”
Rina rolls her eyes. “How diplomatic,” she replies sarcastically.
He frowns. “Did I say something wrong?”
She shakes her head. “No, you’re not wrong,” she sighs. “But I told you before that I wanted to get married someday, didn’t I?”
Kiryu nods.
She slouches in her chair, absentmindedly playing with her hair. “Y’know, girls have a lot of pressure to get married, settle down, have kids, stay at home. But I didn’t wanna do that, so I got a job as a hostess so I could be around pretty girls every day.”
Kiryu smiles, remembering his initial confusion at her candidness. “It was surprising to hear that at first, but I admired how honest you were about it.”
She shrugs. “I guess part of me didn’t think that kind of life was meant for…people like us,” she says, gesturing between them. “But living in Kamurocho taught me that there are people living happily in situations I’d never imagined. You don’t have to be ‘normal’ to be happy. You told me that being true to yourself is more important than fitting into society’s expectations.”
He’s not entirely convinced that’s what his message was, but it sounds close enough. Well, as long as she learned something.
“I know what I look like,” she says. “I know how people see me. But I’d like to have a family someday, too. That doesn’t mean I can’t have fun while I’m waiting for it to happen.”
Kiryu agrees. “Of course.”
Rina lets out a dramatic breath, stuffing as chunk of shortcake into her cheek like a squirrel. “I guess what I’m saying is that you don’t really know someone’s true feelings just by looking at them. It might take time to get to know them, or they might change their mind by being around you.” That’s…unexpectedly wise—not that Kiryu doubted her capability for introspection.
Kiryu finishes off his drink. Sets down his mug. “What if that takes a long time? What if I’m not able to move as fast as he wants?”
She drums her fingers on the table. “Like, intimacy-wise? If it were me, I’d at least be direct with my words if I couldn’t take action. I’d say something like: ‘I like when we hold hands, or kiss, or cuddle, and I want to do more of that.’” She rests an elbow on the table, propping up her chin. “Sometimes I feel like I’m too pushy with my dates. It’d make me feel better knowing it was appreciated, y’know?”
“You’d be that direct about it?”
“Why not?” Rina finishes her tea, knocking it back with significantly less grace than a few minutes ago. “Life’s too short to sit around and wait for that kind of thing to come up on its own.”
Kiryu nods, lost in thought. It’s a good idea. He can always figure out how to overcome the butterflies later, but there’s no point if their relationship stalls before it even begins. “You make a good point. You’ve grown a lot, Rina-chan.”
Rina pats his hand sympathetically. “No one’s expecting you to be good at it right away. And if it doesn’t work out, you can always come back to the club and hang with me!”
“But you don’t even like men…”
She sticks out her tongue. “Yeah, but you’re alright. For a guy, I mean.” She picks up her fork again and scrapes the last bite of cake off the plate. “Here, saved the last bite for you.” Holding it up to his face, she prompts him to eat it off her fork.
He can’t help but pout a bit at the childish display, but he obliges. After having finished his coffee, the richness of the sponge and cream comes through much stronger this time. It’s almost too much at once, but the tartness of the slightly-unripe strawberry cuts through it effortlessly with a pop of bright flavor.
Interesting, Kiryu thinks. Fresh fruit or vegetables can add much-needed lightness to heavier foods. Perhaps I should try this technique in my cooking.
“Good, right?” Rina says.
Kiryu has to agree.
Notes:
I don't really have notes for this chapter. If you made it through, thanks and congrats.
-Bamboo shoots and wasabina (wasabi mustard greens) are spring favorites in Japan. I had fun researching the seasonality of vegetables.
-Thanks @goopy on discord for giving me the tickle time idea
-The ghost of Miss Ma'am continues to haunt the narrative
-Kiryu goes to Cafe Alps wearing the Lucky Binding, Beads of Good Fortune, and Ebisu Socks. He's a fashion disaster
-I <3 wlw/mlm solidarity
-Feel free to imagine Kiryu learning new cooking techniques like Revelations
Chapter 8: Kamurocho Lullaby, Part 1 [M]
Summary:
Kiryu’s lungs are burning and he’s smiling so wide it hurts, and for a moment he’s fifteen again and sneaking out after dark with Nishiki at his side, twenty and dancing his heart out at the discotheque, thirty-seven-and-a-half and catching a knife centimeters from his throat and thinking: this is where I belong.
Chapter Text
Kiryu’s head is swimming. Whether that’s from the booze or this incessant wanting, though, is still up for debate.
They’re in a dim hole-in-the-wall joint in the Champion District, tucked so deeply into its packed alleyways Kiryu’s suprised anyone can find it at all. It’s quiet, intimate, and completely unexpected for someone like Majima, but when they’d walked in the bartender had nodded at Majima like he was a frequent visitor, so that had to mean something. As Kiryu nurses his whiskey and takes in the murmured conversations around them, he thinks that this might be the exact type of place Majima would be drawn to. Even though the bar is barely large enough to accommodate the pool table, nobody approaches them, nobody even looks in their direction. That kind of anonymity is comforting, in its own way.
Majima’s never struck Kiryu as a particularly avid pool fan, so when he’d challenged him to a game of eight-ball over the well-worn table, Kiryu couldn’t help feeling just a bit suspicious. The purpose of this particular exercise, however, becomes clearer once Majima’s racking the balls, bent at an improbable angle over the baize. A slight arch of the back, thighs tucking into the cushion, and—oh, Kiryu understands.
He’s never paid close attention to Majima’s ass before—lingering too long on any one part of Majima’s body is a mistake one rarely makes more than once—but he sees the appeal. Majima is all muscle and sinew, and his backside is no exception, but his legs are undeniably toned from their daily romps, leather pants clinging like a second skin. When he bends in half, the bones of his pelvis arch high, gluteals rounding out the sharp edges of the ischial tuberosities. The hanging light casts reflections on the leather, accentuating the curves that are there and obscuring the ones that are not. His belt strains at the odd angle, pulling his trousers taut around his nipped-in waist. A trio of vermilion flowers peeks over the scant fat of his right hip. Even in such a vulnerable position, Majima radiates power—and from the little smirk he throws in Kiryu’s direction, he knows it.
One look—and Kiryu gets it.
He’ll never criticize Majima’s fashion choices ever again.
Majima breaks with ease, sending the balls rolling in all directions. He plays without the usual gloating, the usual posturing, the usual heckling, preferring to slink around with a heavy-lidded eye and knowing grin. Kiryu tries not to let the silence get to him. Tries not to jump at the lightest brush of their shoulders as Majima takes the long way around the table, squeezing past him like they’re playing in a room half the size. Mouth dry, he sips his drink and hopes that the Hibiki’s smooth finish will likewise take the edge off his nerves.
Majima lines up another shot with a leg slung completely over the cushion, the other just barely staying in contact with the floor. He arches his back, showing off the long line of lithe legs meeting outstretched spine. He takes the shot; a stripe sinks into the side pocket, and he takes his time deciding on his next target with a nearly-imperceptible sway of his hips.
Well, two can play at that game. When it’s Kiryu’s turn, he chooses a highly impractical shot that requires him to brace one knee on the table leg and bend halfway across the baize. Kiryu deliberately pushes his hips out, unable to suppress the silly smile on his face.
He strikes; with a clunk, the cue ball sinks neatly into a corner pocket.
Majima cackles and slaps him on the back painfully as Kiryu hangs his head. His cheeks sting with embarrassment, but it’s not enough to stop his wandering eyes from catching a glimpse of the Hannya’s teeth between the open vent of Majima’s jacket as he fishes out the lost cue.
While Kiryu manages to wrest a win in the second round, he’s no match for Majima’s underhanded tactics. Every time he threatens to turn the game around, Majima is there to crawl all over the table, run his pool cue up along Kiryu’s leg while he’s trying to pull off a carom shot, pin him in place with a stare that says he’s thinking less of his next play and more about bending Kiryu over the green and having his way with him. And by the third round, several drinks deep and feeling pleasantly tipsy, Kiryu might just let him. What a dangerous thought.
It’s for the best that nothing untoward happens in the bar, really, but it doesn’t stop the small twinge of disappointment as they finish their last game and close their tab. Majima shoves them out the door with a high-pitched giggle; Kiryu’s at that point in the evening where it sounds endearing to him rather than grating.
“Let’s go back to mine,” he whispers in Kiryu’s ear, sending a shudder down his spine. Scraping his last few brain cells together, Kiryu grunts in agreement.
They only make it half a block down the street before an aggressive “Hey, you!” from behind stops Kiryu in his tracks with a sigh. Majima gets a few steps ahead before stopping, hands in his pockets and head tilted casually over his shoulder: the picture of boredom.
Kiryu doesn’t recognize any of the punks approaching them, but from their white jerseys and sweatshirts, he can hazard a guess. He raises an eyebrow, taking one last drag of his cigarette. “Can I help you?”
Their leader sneers. “Remember us?” No, of course not is Kiryu’s instinctive reply—even if he cared to remember the (many) faces of the people he’s pummeled, there’s usually nothing left to remember by the time he’s done with them.
“Y’know these clowns, Kiryu-chan?” Majima asks, face splitting into a leer.
“No,” Kiryu replies. “Never seen them in my life.”
The lead punk puffs out his chest, nostrils flaring. “You got balls showing your face on White Edge turf, old man.” He cracks his neck menacingly. “Or were you here for a rematch?”
Kiryu raises an eyebrow. “I think that would imply it was a fair fight last time.” If it were, he’d probably remember it.
Majima cackles, squeezing Kiryu’s shoulder. “Ya think they need a reminder?”
“We’ll fuck you up!” One of them pipes up; on cue, the others fan out in a loose pincer around them. With a shriek of laughter, Majima launches himself at the nearest gangster as Kiryu scrambles to follow up.
In a crowd Majima’s Breaker style might as well be C-4, so half of Kiryu’s attention is funneled just toward avoiding a friendly kick to the face. Hefting an unfortunate opponent over his head, he tosses a body into the crowd and scatters the punks like ninepins. A stocky thug attempts to club Kiryu in the ribs with a baseball bat; Kiryu dodges and counters with a roundhouse kick while Majima goes low for a leg-sweep, and together they clothesline the guy and lay him flat on his face.
Majima runs and leaps at Kiryu, screeching, “Spin me, Kiryu-chan!” Awkwardly letting Majima climb him like a tree and lock his arms around his neck, Kiryu swings Majima around by the torso in a wide circle and lets his long legs smack everyone in a meter-wide radius. Abruptly, Kiryu lets go and launches Majima, hysterically laughing, into the clump of stragglers still standing.
With the White Edge members laid out and groaning around them, Kiryu reaches out to help Majima to his feet. A sharp whistle startles them out of the post-battle exhilaration—police officers, no doubt arriving fashionably late to break up the fight.
“Let’s split,” Majima says, seizing Kiryu by the wrist and pulling him, breathless with exertion and laughter, away from the scene. His gloved hand is warm and strong and Kiryu feels alive for the first time in forever as Majima weaves them through the Champion District’s labyrinth of alleyways and passages. They vault over garbage bins and squeeze between buildings, finally popping out in a tiny clearing wedged deep away from prying eyes. Kiryu’s lungs are burning and he’s smiling so wide it hurts, and for a moment he’s fifteen again and sneaking out after dark with Nishiki at his side, twenty and dancing his heart out at the discotheque, thirty-seven-and-a-half and catching a knife centimeters from his throat and thinking: this is where I belong.
And, meeting Majima’s arresting eye, it’s just the way it used to be—except, as Majima shoves Kiryu into a wall and his tongue into Kiryu’s mouth, it’s completely different. Kiryu fists his hands in Majima’s jacket and pulls him closer, licks into that warm mouth. Majima tastes like whiskey and cigarettes and it goes straight to Kiryu’s head. He’s unabashedly feeling Kiryu up, hands going everywhere, lighting fires everywhere they touch. Shuddering and unsure of where to put his hands, Kiryu gasps and melts into the wall. He’s painfully aroused, and as Majima grinds his pelvis into Kiryu’s hip, he can feel an answering hardness pressing against his leg. Kiryu almost chokes when Majima grabs the bulge in his slacks, palming it and smiling into his mouth.
As Majima plays with the buckle of his belt, Kiryu becomes very aware of where they are and what they’re doing—he’d anticipated this sequence of events, but not in this order. His body seems content to go with the flow, but his mind screams not here, not now, I’m not prepared for this. He needs to tap the brakes. “Wait,” Kiryu gasps, reaching for Majima’s wrist.
Majima tears himself away as if burned, eye wide and apologetic. Kiryu swallows past the lump in his throat, suddenly feeling very cold.
“Kiryu-chan,” Majima croaks, looking confused. “Did I—?”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Kiryu interrupts, slumping against the dirty concrete and willing his breaths to calm down. “It’s just…” Terrifying. “A lot.” His heart is hammering in his chest in a way that feels more nervous than excited.
Majima takes a step back. “Sorry.” He balls up a hand and presses it to his good eye. “I—I shouldn’t have pushed ya like that.”
Kiryu’s mouth works, wanting to say sorry, forget I said anything, let’s pick up where we left off, but unwilling to tell a lie. A spike of shame rattles his bones—what is he, a virgin? A girl? Too pussy to let the person he likes jerk him off in some shitty back alley? What had happened to all his courage?
“I wanted to be gentle with ya.” Majima tightens his jaw, embarrassed. “I know this is new for ya, but I should’ve asked if ya even wanted to fuck. Didn’t even ask if ya wanted to be—like that, with me.”
Kiryu frowns, but he thinks he understands. The hand-holding, the invitations, the unusual consideration Majima’s given him, despite last year showing Kiryu exactly what he’s capable of doing without it. “Did you think I wasn’t physically attracted to you?”
Majima splutters. “Well, ya always looked like ya were boutta pass out when I kissed ya. Makes a guy wonder, y’know.”
“Oh.” A pang of guilt goes through Kiryu. “I’m sorry.”
“Ya didn’t know,” Majima simply replies. He drops his hands, sagging. “Look, ya don’t owe me shit. Ya don’t gotta keep up with me if ya don’t wanna.”
“But…” Kiryu bites his lip, trailing off.
“But what?”
“I want to.” He slowly inches forward to close the gap, deliberately scuffing his shoes on the pavement to make his approach known. “Majima,” Kiryu says gently. “Can I touch you?”
Majima says nothing, but he doesn’t shy away when Kiryu settles one arm against his waist while the other wraps featherlight fingers around his jaw. Majima leans into the touch, cracking his eye just enough to reveal the inky glint of his iris.
“I…” he says, steadying his voice and struggling to remember what Rina had said to him. “I like it when we spend time together. I like it when you kiss me. I’d…like to do more of that.” He’s grateful that the dark disguises his red face.
A small smile blooms from Majima’s lips. “That so?”
Majima backs Kiryu into the wall and boxes him in with his arms. Their faces are suddenly much closer than before. He leans in, breath ghosting Kiryu’s face. “More can mean a lot of things, though. Do ya want me to give ya more pecks on the cheek…or do ya wanna make out in my office after hours?” His body is so close to Kiryu’s that he can practically feel the heat radiating from him. Not touching—but just barely. “Do ya want me to hold yer hand at the dinner table…or do ya want me to hold ya down when I bend ya over my desk and fuck you silly?”
Kiryu swallows hard. Be still, his beating heart. “All of it.”
Majima crades his cheek. “Good boy,” he whispers in Kiryu’s ear. “I like when my Kiryu-chan tells me what he wants.” Kiryu shivers.
“Just not all at once.”
“‘Course.” Majima licks at a patch of skin under his earlobe. “Take your time. But y’know, the longer I wait, the more pent-up I get. And there’s two ways to deal with that: fuck it out, or fight it out. You know what that means.”
Kiru smirks. “Bring it on.”
He kicks Majima in the gut, sending him flying.
Majima lands on his feet as easily as a cat. It doesn’t faze Kiryu; he wanted to put some distance between them, not knock him out. Charging forward, Kiryu feigns a punch and twists at the last movement, turning his inertia into a kick that catches Majima squarely in the neck. Majima folds like paper, momentarily stunned, but recovers quickly enough to retreat to a safe distance and roll to his feet. He smiles at Kiryu with red lips, teeth stained pink with blood. “That’s the good shit, Kiryu-chan.”
Kiryu just barely manages to escape the full brunt of Majima’s left hook to his solar plexus, twisting his body with the blow and turning what would’ve surely been a broken rib into merely a bruised one. He weaves out of reach from a leg sweep, deflecting Majima’s uppercut with a forearm so he can get close enough to land a few quick jabs to his face. Majima grunts but holds his ground; creeping around Kiryu’s back, he snaps Kiryu’s head forward with a sharp elbow before Kiryu can put up a defense. Vision going blurry at the edges, all his energy is channeled toward staying upright for as long as possible. Too late, Kiryu recognizes an arm snaking around his neck and tightening for a headlock. He knows exactly what he’s in for, should he allow Majima to continue.
Quickly, so that Majima hasn’t yet found his footing, Kiryu grabs Majima’s arm with both hands and heaves his shoulders forward in an attempt to throw Majima off. The muscles in his upper back strain with the effort, but the risky move pays off—Majima’s clearly not expecting Kiryu to pull forward, and flies ass-over-teakettle down Kiryu’s bent spine, landing on the pavement with a surprised oof. Unfortunately for Kiryu, the maneuver doesn’t loosen Majima’s grip like he’d hoped, and he follows Majima to the ground. A wrestling match it is, then.
Snarling, Majima tightens his grip around Kiryu’s neck; panic rips through Kiryu, suddenly aware that his state of consciousness now has a definite limit. In a last-ditch effort to escape, Kiryu grabs a fistful of Majima’s hair and tugs hard, forcing Majima to let go lest he be scalped on the spot. With his newfound freedom, Kiryu headbutts him, bouncing Majima’s head off the concrete. It buys enough time for Kiryu to reverse the roles: straddling Majima’s neck, he sits heavily on his chest and squeezes Majima’s head between his thighs. His crotch is dangerously close to Majima’s face—almost enough for Kiryu to reconsider the move—until, he realizes, that in this position, Majima’s head is going nowhere fast. Majima growls, each arm wrapped around Kiryu’s bent knees, and meets his challenging gaze for a few charged seconds before he yields, going limp.
“Okay, I give,” he wheezes, slapping Kiryu’s thigh. Kiryu scowls and loosens his hold minutely, but otherwise does not budge. It’s no longer enough pressure to cut off blood flow, but certainly enough to pin Majima down. A few fake surrenders too many have taught Kiryu to approach every downed opponent with suspicion, especially Majima. “I’m done, Kiryu-chan,” Majima coughs, struggling weakly. He raises a shaking pinky. “Promise.”
Kiryu scrutinizes him for signs of deception and finds none. (Not that he’s the best judge when it comes to dishonesty.) Finally, he sighs and hooks his pinky around Majima’s, lifting himself off Majima’s prone body. Majima gasps with relief, flopping like a dead fish. “Christ, Kiryu-chan. Give a guy some warnin’ before ya strangle ‘im with yer thunder thighs.”
Kiryu blushes, flustered. “I wasn’t really going to—”
Majima groans loudly. “Yer ruinin’ the fantasy, Kiryu-chan. At least pretend to indulge me when I ask ya to crush my head like a melon.”
He scowls. “You wish.”
Giggling, Majima pats Kiryu’s thigh. “With these quads, ya can’t blame a guy for dreamin’.”
Suddenly, Majima’s stomach rumbles. Loudly. Kiryu swears he can feel the vibrations through the seat of his trousers.
Kiryu snorts, smirking as he swings off Majima entirely and gets to his feet. He offers him a hand. “Ramen?”
Majima turns his head to the side, spitting a glob of congealed blood onto the pavement. “Ramen,” he agrees, taking Kiryu’s hand.
Notes:
-I'm sorry if I edged anybody TRUST ME I HAVE A VISION!!! JUST TRUST ME
-https://www.pixiv.net/en/artworks/88093529 the immaculate inspiration for pool table Majima scene
-You know I had to write the Yakuza movie pose into it somehow.
-This date is a two-parter ;)
Chapter 9: Kamurocho Lullaby, Part 2 [E]
Summary:
Maybe they’re both doing this wrong, Kiryu thinks. Maybe there’s a happy balance out there somewhere that they’ve yet to find.
Which means if Majima is willing to try, Kiryu will just have to meet him halfway. He’s not one to be outdone, after all.
Notes:
I'm back! Sorry for the long absence--I was a bit preoccupied with life shit. But you'd best believe that as soon as I got cut loose I was back on the writing horse, baby. I was hoping to make a special chapter for Majima's birthday, but it looks like it might take a while for the plot to catch up with that. So instead, I got this out for the birthday boy! It's still technically his birthday in my time zone.
In the meantime, I hope this chapter will tide you over. This is when the fic earns its E rating, so if you'd rather not read that you can end the chapter when Kiryu goes to sleep ;) Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When they stumble into Kyushu No. 1 Star, the night is still young. Most of the drunken revelers are still in the early stages of intoxication, more focused on lurching from one club to the next rather than indulging in post-party regret food. They arrive at a lull in the night shift, when there are few patrons to notice the state of their dishevelment and even fewer willing to point it out. The stern owner takes in the sight they must make: Kiryu, sporting the beginnings of a black eye, and Majima, dried blood clinging to his goatee, and deems them acceptably subdued to serve without a word. Settling down on a stool at the counter, Majima orders “the usual” and flashes a grin at the old man, which is returned by an eye-roll that Majima seems to find hilarious. The nicotine-yellow lights overhead disguise decades of cigarette smoke staining the walls—stains that Majima has no qualms adding to, as he offers Kiryu a Hi-Lite and sparks one up himself. Kiryu follows suit, requesting the pork belly tonkotsu that hasn’t changed at all since prison.
Part of Kiryu feels unnerved by the familiar surroundings. Until now, much of their excursion has been in places unknown to him, or at least those he’s spent so little time in that there are no memories to speak of. He can’t help but feel guilty wandering around Kamurocho like this. Like he’s trampling all over the fond memories of him and Nishiki feasting on ramen after a long week (beef tongue at Kanrai, if it was payday). Like Yumi’s ghost is watching in disapproval as he walks down the street with someone else on his arm. As long as he stays in this town, it’ll probably never go away. But, as Majima brays out a laugh at the owner’s grumbling, it’s different enough for Kiryu to pretend. Just for a little while.
Kiryu is ripped back into the present moment by a flash of black in his peripheral vision, which swoops in and snatches a slice of pork belly from his bowl. He turns just in time to see said pork disappear into Majima’s mouth, a shit-eating grin on his puffed cheeks. Kiryu hasn’t even touched his food yet.
He scowls. “Really?”
Majima just shrugs. “Should’a been payin’ attention, Kiryu-chan.” He digs into his noodles much more gracefully than Kiryu expects, with small bites and copious blowing to cool them off.
Snorting in amusement, Kiryu breaks open his chopsticks. “Never thought the Mad Dog would have a cat’s tongue.”
“Fuck off,” Majima laughs, mouth half-full of noodles. “I got a delicate constitution. Now eat yer fuckin’ ramen before I finish it for ya.”
Huffing, Kiryu slides his ramen closer to his body and shields the bowl with his arms, silently resigning to the soup stains he’ll inevitably catch on his sleeves.
The only familiar element that doesn’t grate on his nerves is the companionable silence that lingers between them as they scarf down their food. While the days are getting milder, the nights are as cold as ever, and the hot soup is a welcome remedy for the chill that’s settled in his bones. He nurses an ill-advised beer and his many wounds, already beginning to smart in a way that reminds him acutely of his age. Majima must be even more familiar with the aches and pains of time, but if he is, Kiryu can’t see it. If anything, time has made Majima more reckless, constantly seeking the last strike that puts him down for good.
When the noodles are consumed and the soup reduced to dregs of bone and blebs of oil, Majima stretches, satisfied. Kiryu studiously looks away, lest he be caught staring, pretending to sulk over the bills he pulls from his wallet. (“Loser’s punishment,” Majima had teased, and Kiryu had sighed as if he hadn’t planned to treat him all along.)
The night air returns in full force once they’re out on the street again, though thanks to the warm meal it’s been reduced from a bite to a nip. “Where to?” Kiryu asks, resisting the urge to stuff his hands into his pockets.
Majima hums and slings an arm around Kiryu’s shoulder, leading them out of Pink Alley. “Let’s take the party back to my place,” he suggests, leaning in a little too close to be entirely friendly. “Finish what we started back there, eh?”
He pats Kiryu’s bicep and lets go, abruptly enough that a lesser man would’ve been left swaying on his feet. Instead, Kiryu blinks and keeps walking, trying and failing to assign a name to the fluttering sensation in his chest.
“‘Course,” Majima continues, “Was also thinkin’ we could watch movies ‘n’ stay up late talkin’ about boys like I promised Haruka-chan.” His eye glows with mirth. “Can’t let the girls have all the fun.” A crow’s foot creases the corner of his eye, a matching smile line following the curve of his cheek. Cast in the lavender glow of the neon shop fronts, he looks so boyish and alive. Kiryu’s eyes linger just a bit too long.
Either way, the prospect of having a bit more privacy sounds appealing to Kiryu. Whether that actually involves physical contact of the non-violent kind, he doesn’t know. “Why not both?” Kiryu finally says, increasing his pace.
Majima lets out a bark of laughter. “That’s the spirit, Kiryu-chan!” He leans into Kiryu’s side, their hands brushing together.
Out of habit, Kiryu grabs it, not fully realizing what he’s done until he feels Majima freeze up. Kiryu loosens his fingers, stammering an apology. “Sorry—I’m just used to doing that with Haruka.” He pulls away.
Only for Majima to snatch his hand up again, lacing their fingers together tightly. “No take-backs,” Majima mutters. “Man up and commit to the bit, Kiryu-chan.” He looks redder than Kiryu’s ever seen him, but also like he’s about to eviscerate the next person who looks at him funny, so Kiryu politely averts his eyes and pretends for all the world like nothing’s wrong. Unfortunately, his best poker-face also happens to be his default face.
If anyone notices two grizzled, gore-spattered men holding hands in the red-light district, they both look angry enough about it for any sane person to look the other way.
Still, Kiryu can’t help but notice the way Majima’s fingers reluctantly loosen around his when they finally reach Majima’s apartment.
“Ya look like shit,” Majima declares as the door clicks open. “As yer generous host, you can have first dibs on the shower. I’ll find some clothes for ya.”
“Mm.” Stumbling in the dark and slipping off his shoes, Kiryu inhales the scent of Majima’s home—Majima everywhere. New laminate floors, stale tobacco, still air. Somewhere behind him Majima hits the lights, but it hardly matters; everything is spotless, the only sign of life present in the abandoned dishes on the kitchen counter. Except…
Kiryu spots a familiar red scarf draped over the back of a chair. He crosses the room and picks it up, feeling the soft knit under his fingers. As it unfolds, he can still faintly detect the trail of his own aftershave clinging to the fabric.
“Oh. Yeah, that.” Majima rubs the back of his neck. “I meant to wash it and give it back, but…”
If he’d really meant to do it, he’d have returned it a long time ago. Kiryu’s known Majima long enough to know Majima doesn’t just forget things. The comfortable scent of sandalwood and amber wafts up from the scarf. Kiryu smirks. “You were smelling it, weren’t you.”
Majima squawks, affronted. “Haw? What kinda pervert d’ya take me for?!”
Kiryu raises an eyebrow. “No? Well, I guess I’ll take it back, then.”
“Wait!” Majima yelps, looking panicked. “I—I ain’t washed it yet!”
“I’m perfectly capable of washing it myself, nii-san,” Kiryu replies mildly. “Don’t let me trouble you further.” Very slowly and deliberately, Kiryu starts to fold up the scarf, looking Majima directly in the eye.
Finally, Majima looks away and mutters something under his breath. Kiryu pauses. “Hm? What was that?”
Majima grumbles. “I said yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I was smelling it,” Majima grits out. He crosses his arms and hunches his shoulders. “Happy?”
Kiryu laughs, eyes crinkling and warmth settling into his chest. Majima softens minutely, pink blooming in his cheeks.
He finishes folding up the scarf, but instead of stuffing it into his jacket like he’d planned, he lays it back on the chair neatly. Majima makes a confused noise.
“Keep it.” Kiryu smiles. “It’s too warm out for scarves, anyway.”
Majima’s eye goes wide, the pink dusting threatening to boil over into a royal red flush. Clearing his throat, he whirls around and stalks toward the bathroom. “Just—get in the fuckin’ bath.”
Still sporting a grin, Kiryu follows.
Once Kiryu sees himself in the mirror of Majima’s opulent Western-style bathroom, even he has to admit that Majima’s claim that he “looks like shit” isn’t entirely inaccurate. The bruise around his eye is turning a rather fetching puce, and the other various aches and pains from his body indicate that he’ll be a mosaic of colors come morning. A black line of dried blood seals an aching split in his lip, with streaks of rust down his chin where he’d hastily swiped it away. All in a night’s work, he supposes. He just hopes it fades enough to look halfway presentable when he picks Haruka up tomorrow.
Stepping under the shower spray, the cold water is like an all-over ice pack, soothing the superficial wounds and dulling the edges of the more insistent ones. Kiryu squints at the array of products lined at the edge of the tub and chooses one that he’s pretty sure is supposed to be soap. To his disappointment, none of them remind him of Majima—but then again, it’s hard to pay attention to that kind of thing while trying to avoid being stabbed. He takes a few seconds to enjoy the strong water pressure and cool spray as he washes up.
Only to startle when Majima barges in without so much as a knock, bearing a bundle of clothing and towels. Kiryu glares at him through the glass door. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Majima replies, chipper. To his credit, he doesn’t shamelessly ogle Kiryu like he’d thought he would. “Gotcha some comfy pajamas.”
“Did you really have to deliver them now?”
Majima raises an eyebrow. “What, would ya rather I made ya come out and get them in the buff?”
Kiryu doesn’t deign to answer.
“Yeah, thought so,” says Majima. Kiryu grumbles, sticking his head under the shower head. “I’ll be takin’ that suit for washin’ too, unless ya wanted to traumatize all the kids.”
Kiryu closes his eyes and counts to three. “Thank you, nii-san,” he begrudgingly replies. “Now stop staring and get out.”
“Don’t worry, yer chastity’s still intact,” Majima teases, slipping out the door with a wave.
Kiryu takes a deep breath. He turns the shower a little colder and tilts his face into the spray.
He returns to the living room to find Majima squatting on the floor, surrounded by tapes and DVDs that spill from the cabinet under the television. The blue DVD menu casts shadows across his angular face in shades of indigo and cerulean. “Nii-san,” Kiryu says, trying to sound as calm as possible.
“Kiryu-chan.” He doesn’t look up from the mess.
“You did this on purpose, didn’t you.” Kiryu gestures to the black tee Majima had given him: a Pretty Cure T-shirt that fits a bit too snugly around the chest and barely meets the waist of Majima’s borrowed sweatpants, threatening to ride up with every movement.
Majima looks up from the pile—then does a double-take, looking Kiryu up and down and letting out a low whistle. “Damn, Kiryu-chan,” he says, “Try not to rip a hole in that shirt with that massive rack.”
Kiryu scowls and folds his arms across his chest in an attempt to hide said rack, only to realize that he’s making his cleavage even more obvious with the motion. He drops his arms, flushing with embarrassment as he realizes he can either give himself a push-up bra or leave Cure Black’s smiling face exposed to the world. “They’re not boobs,” he says.
“Uh-huh, sure,” Majima replies, unconvinced.
“Stop staring.”
With visible effort, Majima tears his eye away from the (admittedly magnificent) goods and gets up, joints unfolding with a pop.
“I’m, uh. Gonna wash up,” Majima finishes lamely, running a hand through his hair. “Just—pick a movie.” He gestures vaguely at the scattered collection and brushes past Kiryu, disappearing down the hall.
Taking Majima’s place on the floor, Kiryu peruses the disks and tapes and cassettes packed like sardines in the cabinet: idol concerts, action films, slashers, some interesting pornography, and an unsettling series of numbered tapes with Kiryu’s name written on the spines and nothing else. After some deliberation, Kiryu picks the disc with the flashiest cover, popping it into the player without even bothering to read the synopsis. (He still doesn’t really understand these DVD things. An entire movie that fits onto such a thin piece of plastic? Unbelievable.)
Majima emerges in time for the opening credits, wearing the same pink Bun-chan pajamas and white medical eyepatch that Kiryu had seen on him a few months ago. The gloves are off and the dark glittery polish on his nails catches the weak light, but not enough for Kiryu to make out the color.
“Yakuza Sunset 2, huh?” Majima says, pausing to read the title card. “Ya seen Yakuza Sunset, Kiryu-chan?”
“No,” he replies. “Should I have seen it?”
“Nah.” Majima gracelessly flops down beside him, shoving himself into Kiryu’s side with a huff. It reminds him of Pochitaro, who would shamelessly hop onto Reina’s leather couch, pace in a circle, and plant himself right next to Haruka’s tiny frame, where neither treats nor threats could convince him to move. Majima smells much nicer than Pochi, of course—like soap and clean skin and washing powder. The fuzzy material of his shirt rests comfortably against Kiryu’s bicep, and he fights the urge to pet the fabric. Majima draws his knees onto the couch, folding his long limbs into a tight ball. “Third movie’s a snoozefest, first one’s overrated.”
As the film unfolds, Majima launches into a passionate commentary on the director’s choices, drawing his attention to particularly flashy moves and stunts. Normally, Kiryu would watch in silence, but tonight Majima’s chattering is a welcome distraction from the plot points that hit just a little too close to home. He focuses on Majima’s solid presence, leaning into him.
The hero is stoic the entire time, even as he tears down the highway in a street race, clings to life after being shot full of holes, and cradles the lifeless body of his lover, whom he had cruelly abandoned out of concern for her budding career as an actress. All the stranger that the life-or-death brawls are interspersed with scenes straight from martial arts slapstick films. Majima seems to enjoy it, though, miming the hero’s signature counterhook and humming along to the soundtrack.
“Fun shit, ain’t it?” Majima mumbles.
“It is quite authentic,” Kiryu admits. The fights feel fluid, and the protagonist’s actor shows obvious athleticism as he plows effortlessly through crowds of chinpira. It’s entertaining, but Kiryu can’t make heads or tails of the plot, and the more it drags on, the more conscious he becomes of Majima dropping his head to rest on Kiryu’s shoulder and melting into him. It’s charming, really it is, but his shoulder starts to hurt after a few minutes as Majima’s sharp cheekbones and jaw dig into his shoulder blade. After a fierce internal debate, Kiryu sits up and tugs Majima the rest of the way down, pulling him sideways across his lap. Majima makes an indignant squawk, but soon quiets down and buries his temple in Kiryu’s thighs. Kiryu lays a hand on Majima’s shoulder and feels the fabric of his sweater. It is indeed soft and fluffy and Majima makes a pleased noise.
Majima glances up at him and cracks a smile. “Cute,” he mumbles, reaching up to flick Kiryu’s bangs. His hair is clean, free of pomade, and he stopped bothering to sweep it back hours ago, leaving it to fall floppily over his forehead. “Should leave it like that.”
“It gets in my eyes,” Kiryu replies, puffing his breath to brush a few strands aside. “And Haruka says I don’t look scary enough with it down.”
“She’s right,” Majima agrees. His grin grows wide and silly, crinkling the corner of his eye. “Ya look like a goddamn marshmallow. Y’ain’t allowed to show that to anyone else, ya hear?”
“What, this?” Kiryu gestures at the lame sight he must make—a man pushing forty, lounging in a Pretty Cure t-shirt and sweatpants with his damp hair strewn everywhere.
Majima stretches like an oversized cat, looking smug. The hem of his pink sweater slides back to reveal a wedge of skin over his hip, black edge of his tattoo meeting milky skin. Kiryu swallows.
“That’s right.” He smirks. His eye narrows to a flinty sliver. “For my eye only.”
Kiryu clears his throat and turns his attention back to the television, hoping that the darkness hides the color in his cheeks. “Maybe.”
Maybe Majima takes pity on him, or maybe the splatter of gore the protagonist draws from an unlucky goon is irresistible. In any case, his arresting eye alights elsewhere, sparing Kiryu the trouble of having to formulate a more clever response. The action on screen does little to sway Kiryu’s attention from the dense weight of muscle and bone sprawled across his lap, the power coursing through it. Everything about Majima is designed to convey this: everyone who’s ever seen him has fallen for it, and Kiryu is no exception. Every sharp corner and jagged edge is an invitation to test one’s mettle, and every time they fight there’s a crevice in Kiryu’s mind that aches to grasp them with an open hand to see if they can really cut as deep as they claim.
But coiled in repose, the only temptations Kiryu finds are in the proud hook of Majima’s nose, the short whiskers that line the edges of his goatee, a vein on his temple just barely thrown into relief by the weak light. It’s as much of a soft underbelly as men like them can show. Knowing that Majima could make good on his promise to kill Kiryu right now, but simply chooses not to, makes Kiryu feel endeared and madly possessive.
He probably shouldn’t be charmed by that, but Kiryu’s never been a particularly wise man.
By the end of the movie, Kiryu’s legs are asleep and the rest of his body is close behind. He’s warm and still pleasantly tipsy, and lying on the couch with another body in his lap has him ready to pass out right there. Future-Kiryu probably wouldn’t be too happy about that decision, though.
Majima fumbles for the remote and turns the television off, sitting up and taking away the warm spot he’d made across Kiryu’s thighs. “C’mon, Kiryu-chan,” he says.
Kiryu cracks an eye open. “Hm?”
“Bedtime, big guy.” Majima yawns and stands up, kicking aside the disorganized pile of discs on the floor. The only light in the room comes from Kamurocho itself, the cityscape peeking into the apartment through great glass windows. Majima tugs on Kiryu’s arm.
“I can sleep on the couch,” Kiryu mumbles.
“What?” Majima glares at him and tugs harder. “This ain’t some last-minute crash pad situation, ya idiot. Now get the fuck up and snuggle with me like a man.”
That gets a laugh out of Kiryu. “Well, when you put it like that…” He heaves himself to his feet, swaying slightly. “A bed does sound nice,” he agrees.
“Damn right.” Majima leads him to the bedroom, singing Yakuza Sunset 2’s credits theme under his breath.
Like the rest of the apartment, the bed is large and Western and extravagant, piled high with pillows that Majima carelessly tosses across the room to reveal the sheets underneath. He must be feeling the long night too, unceremoniously pulling his pajama shirt over his head and crawling under the covers topless without even bothering to make a show of it. Pressed face-first into the pillows, his dark hair pokes out and fans out in a halo around his head. Eyeing the thick comforter, Kiryu steps out of his sweatpants and slides under the sheets in his t-shirt and underwear. He burrows under the blankets, pleasantly surprised at the softness of the sheets. On the pillow, he can smell the generic floral of Majima’s laundry detergent, a hint of his cologne, and something underneath it all that smells warm and human. Adjusting position, Kiryu lays on his back and closes his eyes.
Majima rustles the covers. “Why are you sleepin’ like that?” He whispers, sounding aghast.
Kiryu cracks an eye open and turns his head. Majima is on his side, eye boring a hole into him. “Like what?”
“Like a fuckin’ corpse,” Majima jabs. “What the fuck is that? Ya missin’ yer coffin, Dracula?”
“I always sleep like this.” Kiryu doesn’t see what’s so wrong with it. Okay, so maybe he’s lying flat like a board with arms at his sides. It’s kind of hard not to, in a tiny prison cot. Or a bar banquette. Or a standard futon. Or—
Majima makes a disgusted noise. “Well, it’s too fuckin’ cold for this.” He scoots closer, closing the gap between them, until he’s right up against Kiryu’s side. “Quit hoggin’ the heat.”
Kiryu acquiesces, lifting his arm for Majima to worm his way under. His bare chest presses into Kiryu’s ribs, legs tangling with his and pressing his cold feet right into Kiryu’s calves. Kiryu’s hand settles somewhere between Majima’s shoulder blades, absently stroking the hannya’s furrowed brow. Majima tucks his head into the crook of Kiryu’s neck and sighs contentedly.
“Better?” Kiryu asks.
“Much.”
It’s been a long time since Kiryu’s shared a bed with someone. Even longer since he’s shared a bed with someone without immediate sexual intent. An eternity since he’s been close enough with someone to touch them like this. It’s not as jarring an experience as Kiryu is expecting. Majima’s pointy bits are a bit uncomfortable, digging into him like the world’s boniest blanket, but his breaths are quiet and even. Their bodies settle into each other, sharing heat like nesting animals.
For once, Majima is silent, content to bask in Kiryu’s warmth. It’s a far cry from the force of nature that Majima becomes during the day. Even when he’s staying still, it’s usually a prelude to an explosive attack, as Kiryu knows. It’s as if the Majima in this bed and the Majima he encountered on a daily basis last year are two different people. Stray dog, meet house pet. Is it too much for Kiryu to reconcile them?
Majima’s eyelid twitches minutely, restless even in sleep. Is this whole setup an attempt to humor Kiryu? Does he feel as ill-equipped for domesticity as Kiryu does? Is that why he seems so reluctant to become a more permanent fixture of their household? Is Kiryu doing something wrong?
Maybe they’re both doing this wrong, Kiryu thinks. Maybe there’s a happy balance out there somewhere that they’ve yet to find.
Which means if Majima is willing to try, Kiryu will just have to meet him halfway. He’s not one to be outdone, after all.
Kiryu drifts off to the rise and fall of Majima’s chest, breath tickling his cheek.
The morning is kind, returning him to wakefulness in calm waves. From the street below, the drone of cars and construction rousing Kiryu from his drowsy stupor. It’s almost unbearably warm under the covers. Kiryu raises an arm to throw the duvet aside, letting in a trickle of cool air. The motion dislodges Majima’s head from its spot under Kiryu’s arm and he grumbles at the disturbance. A knobbly knee digs into Kiryu’s thigh; stray strands of dark hair tickle his nose. Kiryu brushes them aside with his free hand, taking an extra moment to appreciate Majima’s glossy hair. Against his better judgment, he runs curious fingers along the neat lines of his part, feeling it glide against his fingertips like silk.
“Are you pettin’ me?” Majima mumbles.
Kiryu stops, caught. “Sorry,” he replies automatically.
Majima cracks his eye open and rubs his cheek against Kiryu’s pec, yawning. “Didn’t tell ya to stop.” The muscles in his back tense and relax slowly, like a cat stretching after a satisfying nap.
Returning his hand to Majima’s hair, Kiryu explores the close-cropped hairs at the back of his neck, marveling at the softness of the freshly shorn ends. Majima hums, burrowing closer to Kiryu despite the heat. “Sleep well?” He asks, voice still raspy with sleep.
“Mm.” Kiryu rubs slow circles over the knobs of Majima’s spine. Majima shifts, lazily grinding his hips into Kiryu’s side. His dick gives an interested twitch, arousal there but burning low, needing no tending to. Kiryu can feel an answering hardness in Majima’s pants—from the morning or the proximity, he doesn’t know. Majima’s knee slots into the crease of his thigh, dangerously close to kneeing him in the crotch.
Majima snickers, pressing his knee into Kiryu’s groin. “Heh, someone’s feelin’ good this morning.”
“I could say the same for you,” Kiryu grumbles, pointedly pressing the crest of his hip against Majima’s balls and snorting when it makes Majima suck in a breath.
Majima grins, all teeth, crawling up Kiryu’s body to whisper right into his ear. “Ya wanna do somethin’ about that, big guy?” His hand wanders the warm expanse of his chest, idly playing with the fabric of his shirt. The nails on his hand are painted a sparkling royal purple. The color of a 4-ball, or a deep bruise.
Kiryu shivers.
“‘Course, ya can say no,” Majima hurries to add.
But in this soft cocoon of blankets and bodies, Kiryu wants to know what he and Majima can do to each other away from prying eyes, away from the pride and violence. “Yeah.”
Majima grins. “Yeah?”
“Mm.”
Majima rolls on top of him, boxing in his head with both arms. The gold of his chains catch the morning light as they swing between them. Kiryu wonders what they would taste like between his teeth. Majima brushes their lips together, light and almost chaste, before unceremoniously dropping onto Kiryu’s chest (forcing out a surprised “oof!”) and freeing both arms to lean off the bed and root through the nightstand. His squirming body adds some much-needed friction to Kiryu’s dick, now fully invested in the action. Kiryu runs an experimental hand up Majima’s leg and cups his groin, earning him a pleased moan.
“Nii-san’s gonna take good care of ya,” Majima purrs, coming up with a bottle of lube and pushing himself up on all fours, knees around Kiryu’s hips. “Gonna give ya my signature Mad Dog-style handy.”
“Uh, just a regular handjob please,” Kiryu replies, nervous. Majima throws back his head and shrieks like a hyena. Kiryu pulls him in by the back of the neck and shuts him up with a kiss. Deft hands peel back Kiryu’s briefs; Majima breaks away and brazenly inspects the goods as Kiryu covers his face in embarrassment.
Majima clicks his tongue. “‘Course yer hung.” Kiryu growls at him. “Ah, don’t be like that,” he laughs, slicking up Kiryu’s cock with lubed fingers. He presses into Kiryu’s side in a long, hot line from thigh to shoulder, licking into Kiryu’s ear. Kiryu shudders, breath coming in fits and starts. “Lemme see ya,” Majima wheedles.
“Nii-san,” Kiryu whines, but tears his hand away from his eyes. Majima’s eye is half-lidded, a flush high on his cheekbones and chest. He pushes his still-clothed cock into Kiryu’s hip as he strokes Kiryu with one hand, the other cradling his balls and rolling them between his fingers. He strokes him from root to tip, swirling his thumb around the head in a movement that punches Kiryu’s breath out and makes him leak precum all over Majima’s hands.
Kiryu’s not a stranger to sex, despite his hesitation. He’s had encounters like these in club bathrooms, in love hotels, in massage parlors that Nishiki dragged him to. He might even call them nice, in the few moments where he let go of his hypervigilance and forgot to be worried about who saw or heard him. The women he’s been with have all been skilled, albeit in the detached way that most service workers are. They were gentle, exploratory, soft.
They were certainly not gripping his cock within an inch of its life, in hands well-calloused from years of swinging a baseball bat, and caressing it like a brawler digging his nails into a fresh wound. They were not Majima, who knows Kiryu’s body better than Kiryu himself. Majima, who presses into him like Kiryu’s the only body he’s ever bothered to map.
It’s everything he’s ever wanted.
Kiryu hisses out some choice expletives as he shoves back against Majima. He pulls him in by the hair and crushes their lips together; Kiryu smiles as their noses bump and shifts his thigh to give Majima something more to ride on. Majima sighs, whispering his name reverently.
Majima works agonizingly slow, never missing an opportunity to pull Kiryu closer and closer to that edge only to swipe around his urethra, his frenulum, parts that not even Kiryu knows about, parts that make him want to jump out of his skin. He’s a master at reading the minute changes in expression that Kiryu tries so hard to suppress, pressing mercilessly when he hits upon something that makes Kiryu’s breath hitch in his throat or his eyelids flutter. Kiryu can feel the spark of arousal in his gut blooming into a fire, the sensation of reaching a ledge without bottom in sight. He forces his eyes open.
“Majima—let me,” he pants, taking Majima by the shoulders and rolling them onto their sides. He runs a hand up Majima’s flank, marveling at the pleased ripple that passes through the muscle. “I want to touch you,” Kiryu says.
It earns him a smug smile and a firm grind against Kiryu’s leg. “Be my guest, Kiryu-chan.” Majima tosses the lube over and starts wriggling out of his pants as Kiryu slicks his hand.
Kiryu turns his attention back to Majima and cracks a smile when he sees the skimpy violet T-back sitting snug around his hips and barely holding him in. Majima stretches seductively, showing off the trail of soft hair that runs beneath his navel and disappears under the scrap of cloth that leaves nothing to the imagination. Kiryu slides a finger under the waistband and snaps it against Majima’s hip. “Nice underwear.”
Majima grins. “Thought ya might like it. Color-coordinated and everythin’.” He waggles his purple nails demonstratively. Kiryu laughs.
“Did you wear this just for me? I’m honored.”
Majima huffs. “I don’t do nothin’ for a man. I match my undies and manicure for myself. You ain’t special, Kiryu-chan.” He still lets Kiryu peel the panties from his hips, allowing his hard cock to spring free and revealing the neatly-trimmed hair beneath.
“Are you saying you regularly show this to other people?” Kiryu teases, glancing down at the pretty cock that Majima’s deigned to show him.
“I’m offended by what yer implyin’—shit,” he hisses, abruptly cut off when Kiryu cups his balls in his hand just as Majima had done for him. Rocking into the gentle pressure, Majima hooks his arms over Kiryu’s shoulders. Kiryu slots his thigh between Majima’s legs.
They fit together like hand in fist, flesh and bone rendered brittle by time but still pliant enough to give way for one another. Majima’s dick bobs and leaves a wet smear on Kiryu’s hip, and for a moment, Kiryu is terrified—that he won’t be any good at this, that he isn’t actually into guys after all, that Majima is displaying far more vulnerability than he deserves. But more than anything, Kiryu just wants to make him feel good. He lines his cock up against Majima’s and wraps a hand around them both, pressing the undersides together. Majima sighs into his cheek. “Ah, that’s it,” he sighs.
His hand isn’t quite large enough to completely encircle the both of them, but Majima brings his own hand back into the fold. He covers the exposed skin that Kiryu can’t reach and brushes his fingertips against Kiryu’s wrist, gently guiding his motions. Kiryu feels the heave of Majima’s chest against his, the puff of breath in the shared space between their lips, and presses back, trying to get that much closer. With his free hand, Majima reels him in by the back of the neck and slips his tongue into his mouth, wetting Kiryu’s lips with kitten licks as his breath speeds up. Always a quick study, Kiryu does his best to keep up with the kiss while trying to replicate the slow, deliberate strokes that Majima had treated him to. Majima lets him know how much he enjoys the little flick of the wrist Kiryu adds with a high moan. “Fuck, keep goin’ like that.”
“Nii-san.” The slippery glide of their foreskins together makes something coil up and twist pleasantly inside his stomach. Majima matches him stroke-for-stroke, and for a few lovely minutes, they move perfectly in sync.
“Kiryu-chan,” Majima growls. “Wanna have ya like this all the time.” He breaks away from Kiryu’s lips to mouth at his neck, running his teeth over the tendons straining in pleasure.
Kiryu shivers, letting out a desperate whine. “Majima, I’m gonna cum.”
In response, the hand touching his tightens and speeds up, relentlessly dragging him to the finish line. “Cum, then,” he replies. When Kiryu’s muscles seize up, Majima sinks his teeth into Kiryu’s collarbone, sending a white-hot shock of endorphins right through him. Kiryu makes the most pathetic moan he’s heard from himself in a long time, tensing and sending spurts of cum on Majima’s belly, Majima’s sheets, Majima’s hands.
“So pretty,” Majima coos, cradling Kiryu’s jaw. He’s too out of it to muster anything more than a content hum.
Kiryu makes a valiant attempt to continue jerking Majima off, riding along for as long as he stand before the stimulation ceases to be pleasant but reluctant to let the moment end. Majima takes pity on him and lets Kiryu soften in his hand. “Good boy,” he murmurs; it turns Kiryu on more than he’d like to admit. “Ya just sit back and look pretty for me, yeah?”
Kiryu shakes his head. “That’s not my style and you know it.” He wraps his free hand around Majima’s hip, fingers digging into the round of his ass as he tugs their hips flush together. Majima makes a surprised squeak that breaks off into a moan when Kiryu reaches down and plays with his balls the same way Majima had done for him, running the soft and delicate skin through his fingers.
“Oh, fuck.” Majima squirms in his grip, letting out a string of ah, ah, ahs gradually increasing in pitch as he jerks himself. Kiryu can feel the moment Majima cums, his balls drawing up and cock pulsing against his belly, if it wasn’t already abundantly clear by the wail he makes. Kiryu holds him through the shudders, the rhythmic tightening, the ebb of euphoria that would normally hit him like a truck if he were getting himself off in his bed alone.
Breaths evening out, Majima ducks his head into the crook of Kiryu’s neck, forehead resting right on the ring of bite marks he’d left there. “You’re not half-bad, Kiryu-chan,” he mumbles, patting Kiryu’s cheek.
Kiryu moves his hand up higher to settle in the dip of Majima’s spine, feeling the dimples in his back and the bumps of scarred skin, broken and healed over in a different shape. He smiles and lets his fingertips graze the downy hairs at the small of Majima’s back. “Did I meet your expectations?” He asks.
Majima hums noncommittally. Eyeing their shared mess curiously, he gives his cum-covered fingers an experimental lick and laughs when Kiryu makes a face at him. “Ya got potential, for sure,” he admits. “Maybe I could teach ya a thing or two about the Mad Dog style.”
Kiryu snorts. “Not sure I’m honored to hear that.”
“Majima-sensei doesn’t take on students so easily,” Majima says haughtily. “Consider yerself lucky I’m even offerin’.”
“It wasn’t a no,” Kiryu replies easily. “Maybe you could show me a thing or two about the Mad Dog style.”
Majima cackles. “I’ll start drawin’ up lesson plans, then.” Carefully extricating himself from Kiryu’s arms, he rolls over and snatches up his cell phone from the opposite side of the bed. He props himself up on an elbow and squints at the tiny screen; the sheet drapes low over his hips and he looks like some beautiful, tattooed courtesan from a woodblock print. “Shouldn’t ya be pickin’ up Haruka soon?” Majima shoves the phone into Kiryu’s face, giggling when Kiryu’s eyes widen and he throws aside the covers. He’s supposed to be picking Haruka up from her friend’s house in ten minutes. Majima nods at the laundry closet in the hall.
Kiryu scrambles for his rumpled suit, pulling his clothes on while cursing under his breath. He glances over to find Majima reclining lazily against the pillows, smoking a cigarette and looking utterly debauched with his red lips and fingerprints on his ass.
“See ya soon, then?” Majima sounds casual, but Kiryu can’t help but pick up on the slight edge of hopefulness in his voice. Fully dressed, Kiryu spares a few precious seconds to throw himself on the bed and crawl towards Majima, planting a kiss on those cherry lips.
“Soon,” Kiryu agrees. “I’ll text you.”
“You’d better.” Majima shoves him off, shooing him away. “Now go be a dad, Kiryu-chan.”
Kiryu only barely manages to wipe the dopey grin off his face as he heads out the door.
If Haruka’s friend’s mother is at all perturbed by Kiryu showing up at their door disheveled, out of breath, and bruised, she is at least polite enough not to comment. Her eye lingers just a little too long on the suspicious ring-shaped mark peeking out from his collar. Kiryu, embarrassed, adjusts his shirt as soon as her back is turned, hoping it’s enough to cover it.
Luckily, he can always count on Haruka to keep a nonchalant attitude, acting for all the world like Kiryu’s battered, rumpled appearance is a normal occurrence. Which, unfortunately for her, it is. But she always hugs him like he’s her favorite person in the whole world, and his heart melts for it every time. Her hand is so small and delicate in his as they say their thanks and goodbyes to the hostess and her family.
As soon as they’re on the street, Haruka asks sternly: “Did you get in a fight again, oji-san?”
Kiryu rubs the back of his neck. “Something like that,” he admits sheepishly.
“Was it Majima-san?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought he said there’d be no fighting!” Haruka frowns, putting a hand on her hip. “That’s not what sleepovers are for, Uncle Kaz.”
“It wasn’t serious,” Kiryu says half-heartedly.
“And he bit you!” She points accusingly at the purple collarette framing his clavicle. “Why did he bite you?!”
Kiryu cringes, silently cursing Majima and his oral fixation. “He got a bit excited, that’s all,” he hedges, buttoning his shirt up and hiding the mark for good. It’s not technically a lie. “You know how he is.”
Haruka huffs. “Well, you should tell Majima-san that I’ll be really mad at him if he bites you again.”
“I will,” he agrees, hoping the conversation will end if he pacifies her quickly.
“I’m serious, oji-san! A kid at school got bitten in a fight and he had to get a bunch of shots. He wasn’t allowed to come back to school for a week!”
Kiryu stifles a laugh. “I’ll make sure Majima-san is up to date on his shots.”
Once they get home, Kiryu sends a text message: Haruka is mad at you for biting me.
Majima’s reply comes a few minutes later. Guess I’ll try and keep it below the collar next time. <3
Notes:
-"Having a cat's tongue" means someone is sensitive to temperature and spice. Mad Dog with a cat's tongue, get it?
-Majima stalked Kiryu and then prowled Kotobuki Drugs until he found an exact match for Kiryu's aftershave and bought a bottle of it. He kept spraying the scarf with it.
-The Pretty Cure shirt is a nod to the original Way of the Househusband series, but I'm not scared of copyright infringement so I'm not bothering to make an off-brand version. The original Pretty Cure came out in 2005, so Majima's a hardcore fan.
-The tapes are all footage of Kiryu from the Florist's records. What Majima does with those tapes is up for interpretation.
-Yakuza Sunset 2 is a reference to the substory in YK2. As for the plot, well...this is an AU, so good thing none of that would ever happen for real, right?
-Majima color-coordinated underwear is real now
-Majima got his tetanus booster it's ok :)
Chapter 10: Hanami
Summary:
“I’m not good with emotions,” Kiryu admits. “But I know what love looks like. Don’t lie to me and tell me you don’t feel it.”
Chapter Text
Haruka’s favorite dish is oyakodon—a fact that Kiryu shamelessly exploits when he decides to break the news that Majima Goro will be a fixture of their life for the foreseeable future. It’s a strategy that’s worked on him an embarrassing number of times, so why not give it a go on a nine-year-old?
If he were in her situation, he’d be up in arms at the very idea of his parental figure having a love life. He’d be utterly in shock if his parent brought home a romantic partner. And he’d go ballistic if Haruka came home with a partner that even remotely resembled Majima in appearance or demeanor. It’s true that Haruka is much more even-tempered than Kiryu was at her age, but one never knows with pre-teens. He hopes that the blatant display of culinary bribery will put her into an agreeable mood, or at least won’t cause her to completely lose her appetite. He’s been trying to get more protein into her diet.
Naturally, Haruka’s favorite food had been one of the first dishes Kiryu learned, and the familiar ritual is soothing and unhurried, unlike his thoughts. Majima-san and I are boyfriends, he tries, while slicing the chicken, cringing at how silly it sounds and immediately discarding it. He brings the dashi to a boil. We’re in a relationship goes out the window soon after—too vague, too formal. He pokes the semi-cooked eggs with a little more force than necessary. You remember that guy who kidnapped you that one time and almost killed me on multiple occasions? Yeah, that one. So, I sucked face with him and it meant something to me. He doesn’t even entertain that one.
Based on the general trajectory of his thoughts, Kiryu somehow doubts he’ll be able to come up with anything good by the time he sits Haruka down for dinner. Majima would know how to wing it, but Kiryu is decidedly lacking in the improvisation department. Maybe he should’ve invited Majima to this conversation after all.
He supposes that his one saving grace is that Haruka knows and trusts Majima, however tenuous that bond might be. Whether that trust extends to letting Majima abscond with her guardian’s heart, though, is up for debate. If it does, Majima gets promoted to family pet and dubiously trustworthy babysitter. If it doesn’t…it would hurt, but he’s responsible for prioritizing Haruka’s happiness above all else. Even above his own. (Especially above your own, he chides.)
Suffice to say, he’s rather anxious for this one to work out.
He waits until she’s taken a few bites of her meal, watching her enjoy the fluffy rice and soft-cooked eggs with a melty-gooey feeling in his heart, before deciding to broach the topic. “Haruka, what do you think of Majima-san?”
She looks surprised at the sudden change in subject, but seems to understand what Kiryu’s trying to get at. “Majima-san?” She purses her lips. “He’s a bit…weird. At first, I didn’t know why you were friends with a guy like him. But I think I get it now.”
“Hm,” he says thoughtfully. “What do you mean?”
She chews on a sliver of onion. “He’s weird, but he’s not scary—well, not anymore. He’s a bit silly, and he acts like a big baby sometimes, but he’s easy to talk to. He’s fun. And he’s nice, when he wants to be.”
“I see.” Kiryu internally heaves a sigh of relief. “Would you mind seeing him around more often?”
She shrugs. “Sure. Why?”
He turns the words over in his head, deciding it’s probably best to be straightforward. “Because Majima-san and I are…” He winces. “Dating.”
Haruka tilts her head. “Dating who?”
“Each other,” he clarifies.
“Like…boyfriend and girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
She hums noncommittally, picking at her rice. “I didn’t know you could do that,” she replies.
“Me neither,” Kiryu sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But here we are.”
“You like him that way, Uncle Kaz? Not as a friend?” She eyes him with curiosity.
He scrubs his face. “We’re still friends,” he replies weakly. “But yes, I guess I do like him that way.”
Haruka giggles. “You don’t sound very sure about that.”
“It’s still new. I think I’m allowed to be a little unsure.” He tries not to sound too petulant about it.
Haruka sees right through it. She pats his hand comfortingly. “It’s okay, oji-san. I know you’re not good with these things.”
Kiryu glares at her, but inoculated as she is against intimidation tactics in general, Haruka looks utterly unfazed. She stuffs a piece of chicken into her mouth and hums in pleasure.
“Are you alright with that?” Kiryu asks.
“You and Majima-san being together?” She scrunches her face. “Dunno. I think he’s a good friend, but I don’t know if he’d be a good boyfriend for you, oji-san.”
“Fair enough,” he allows. “Your judgment is important to me, Haruka. If you don’t feel happy with it, you can tell me.”
She makes a thoughtful face that he’s beginning to recognize as vaguely sinister. It’s gone as quickly as he registers it; he chalks it up to a trick of the light. “Do I have to call him ‘Uncle’ now?” She asks apprehensively.
He hides a smile behind his hand. “Not if you don’t want to.”
And that’s the end of it—or so Kiryu thinks. It gives him cautious optimism that the next time Majima visits won’t turn into a soap opera, but if there’s anything Kiryu knows, it’s that things rarely pan out the way he hopes. Kiryu had briefed Majima on his and Haruka’s conversation beforehand, but there’s no guarantee that the news will go over well with Majima in the mix. Stirring the pot is his specialty, after all.
It’s a reminder that doesn’t reach him until a few days later, when Majima comes back to visit. Kiryu is hunched over the stove, blanching green beans, when he hears the knock at their door.
“I’ll get it!” Haruka calls, hurrying toward the genkan before Kiryu can stop her. He hastily wipes his hands on his apron and follows a few steps behind.
“Majima-san,” Haruka greets, utterly unruffled by the long, lean shadow that darkens their doorstep.
Majima grins crookedly. “Hey, kid.”
She smiles sunnily up at him, and they hold their gazes for an uncomfortably long time, pleasant expressions frozen on their faces.
Kiryu clears his throat, forcing a smile. “Won’t you come in, nii-san?”
As if breaking a spell, both their heads swivel in his direction, postures relaxing. Haruka chirps “Please come in!” and backs away from the door, not breaking eye contact for even a second.
Majima bows theatrically. “Don’t mind if I do.” He’s the first to break their strange stand-off, glancing away to toe off his shoes and give Kiryu a quick peck on the cheek—gone as soon as he registers it. “Kiryu-chan,” he purrs. Haruka’s nose wrinkles.
“Nii-san,” Kiryu repeats dumbly, swaying on his feet. “Dinner is almost ready.” He feels like a stranger in his own home, a conversation in a different language playing out around him. He can’t decide which is more disconcerting—that Majima is playing at normalcy, or that Haruka is too.
The man wearing Majima’s face politely listens as Haruka regales them with tales of her day, chortling at her jokes and expressing genuine interest in her inane observations. It’d warm Kiryu’s heart if he didn’t have the sneaking suspicion that something else is afoot.
Kiryu should have known Yumi’s daughter wouldn’t leave well enough alone.
“I want to go see the cherry blossoms,” says Haruka, breaking a lull in the conversation.
Kiryu’s eyebrows rise. Haruka rarely ever admits to wanting anything—she and Majima have that in common—and it’s been a struggle for Kiryu to get her to express anything beyond her basic needs. “You mean hanami?” He asks, recalling the spring celebrations he’d witnessed during his youth. For children who had neither money nor families, hanami was simply another indulgence that was out of their reach.
Haruka shrinks, looking shy. “If that’s okay.” There it is again: the hesitation that always breaks Kiryu’s heart. “I’ve never gone before.” He’d be a monster to deny her.
“Of course.” Kiryu tries to look reassuring. “I’d be happy to take you.”
“Would you like to join us, Majima-san?” Haruka blurts, surprising both of them.
Majima raises his hands good-naturedly. “Ya don’t gotta do that, Haruka-chan. Don’t let me interrupt yer valuable father-daughter bonding time.”
“I don’t mind,” Haruka insists, shooting a pointed look at Kiryu. “And I don’t think oji-san would mind either.”
Kiryu is having a hard time keeping up with the turn in conversation, but he doesn’t have to think hard to reply: “Of course not.”
“I want to get to know Majima-san a bit better,” Haruka declares, gaining confidence. “And you can spend more time with Uncle Kaz.” She gives him a hard, meaningful stare. Majima meets it with his own, narrowing his eye in scrutiny.
The two of them stare at each other in silence for several moments, long enough for Kiryu to wonder if they’re playing some kind of mind game that he’s not privy to.
Finally, Majima relaxes. “Sure, why not?” He throws an arm around Kiryu, pulling him close and patting his cheek. “I’m always up for some quality Kiryu-chan time.”
“Nii-san…” Kiryu growls, eyes flickering to Haruka in a way he hopes is enough to quash any untoward behavior fomenting behind Majima’s cheeky grin.
Majima releases his grip, leaving Kiryu feeling strangely cold. “I’ll be on my best behavior,” he purrs; it’s unclear exactly whom he’s addressing. “Promise.”
He and Haruka stare each other down in challenge. Kiryu feels like he’s been designated a participant in a competition he never signed up for.
But he shoves aside his misgivings, focusing on the spectacle he’s been tasked to create. This is Haruka’s first hanami, and he’s determined to make it special in the only way he knows how: by creating a delicious meal. On Saturday morning, he assembles the dishes for a traditional hanami feast, packing them together in a picnic tote that can easily be transported to the park Kiryu has in mind. If he wasn’t so antsy, he’d be genuinely excited for Haruka’s reaction.
Because not only is this his second date with Majima, it’s also the first date with Haruka tagging along. Majima is unpredictable even at the best of times, and while Kiryu’s not necessarily opposed to public displays of affection, he’d rather not scar Haruka for life or teach her that fistfighting is a marker of a functional relationship. Majima had been oddly agreeable to Kiryu’s terms this week (no violence, no acts of tomfoolery, no property damage exceeding 10000￥), but Kiryu knows better than to take his promises at face value.
Kiryu does a double-take when he opens the door, because for once in his life, Majima has chosen today of all days to wear a shirt. A black fitted turtleneck, to be specific—one that hugs the elegant column of his neck and trim dip of his waist, tucked into a pair of fitted dove-gray slacks. He’s even forgone his steel-tipped shoes, instead opting for a set of modest loafers. Were it not for the eyepatch and air of general disrepute Majima wears like a crown, he’d look downright respectable. Kiryu suppresses his surprise and stammers out a greeting.
“Er…you look nice today, nii-san,” Kiryu tries, belatedly retreating to allow him inside.
Majima strikes a rakish pose, grinning. “Ya think so?” He toes off his shoes and promptly thrusts a bundle of flowers into Kiryu’s face. Flabbergasted, Kiryu takes the bouquet and holds onto it limply. Majima sidesteps him and approaches Haruka next, dangling a small paper bag in a gloved hand.
“For the li’l lady,” he says.
“Are you sure?” Haruka asks, already peeling aside the tissue and extracting a small box from its depths. “Thank you, Majima-san.”
Majima coughs. “Uh, ‘course.”
Shaking himself, Kiryu stumbles to the kitchen to find a suitable vase for Majima’s unexpected gift. After a few seconds of fruitlessly rooting through the cabinets, he gives up and evicts the wooden spatulas and spoons from their tall ceramic holder next to the stove and settles the bouquet in their place. The white lilies produce a cloying, powdery scent that fills the small room. Kiryu doesn’t recognize the rest of the flowers in the arrangement, but he can at least appreciate the delicate blue star-shaped blossoms and sprays of yellow buds that add small bursts of color (and a large dusting of pollen) to the bouquet. Majima never struck Kiryu as a romantic, and even if he were, wouldn’t he go for something more…flashy?
Or maybe, just maybe, Majima’s picked today of all days to fuck with him. Again.
“Oji-san!” Haruka calls from the living room. “What’s taking you so long?”
Right, the food. Kiryu hastily packs the dishes he’s prepared, throwing in utensils and napkins before he can forget. When he returns, Haruka’s practically vibrating with excitement.
“Uncle Kaz, Majima-san gave me a present!” She tilts her head this way and that, showing off Majima’s gift: a pair of gold barrettes shaped like sakura branches studded with pink enamel flowers, clipped on each temple.
Kiryu smiles indulgently. “They look very pretty on you, Haruka.” He glances in Majima’s direction. “Thank you, nii-san.” Majima shrugs, avoiding eye contact.
“Ready to go?” Kiryu asks Haruka. She takes his hand.
The great Shinjuku Gyoen, normally a hotbed for tourists and residents alike, is relatively quiet in the dreary Saturday morning. By mid-April, the peak cherry blossom season has already passed, with most of the early bloomers shedding their flowers by the thousand. Even still, the turf is immaculately cropped and the walkways bristle with verdant trees and manicured flowerbeds. While it may be too late to appreciate the bell-shaped kanhizakura or weeping shidarezakura, the many varieties on display provide plenty of other blooms.
He’d not visited the garden since he was a much younger man—a boy, really—and yet he can clearly picture Yumi leading their small group’s charge through the gates, aggressively clearing a path for Yuko’s wheelchair and her brother pushing it. Nishiki had huffed and complained about Yumi’s overzealousness but picked up the pace all the same as Yuko shrieked and demanded he slow down. Always the group’s designated beast of burden, Kiryu had stubbornly trudged on with their belongings slung over his shoulders, refusing to go any faster than required despite being more athletic than the rest of them combined. Some things never change, Kiryu notes, hefting their lunch supplies and half-heartedly responding to Haruka’s admonishment to keep up.
To his credit, Majima doesn’t join her in egging Kiryu on, electing to walk alongside him without comment. Almost as eerie as his sudden agreeable-ness is his change in appearance, from the nondescript clothes to the cut of his walk. Hands in his pockets, back straightened to reveal his full height, he looks every bit like a regular civilian. An unusually tall and sinister-looking civilian, but a civilian nonetheless. If this man followed Kiryu through the streets of Kamurocho, he’s not sure his inner Majima-radar would pick him up. With little difficulty, Kiryu takes his eyes off him and focuses on the promenade of sakura trees lining the path around the garden, always keeping Haruka in his line of sight.
Swaying gently in the breeze, the flower-laden branches waft their perfume through the crisp spring air, dropping petals like snow. The iconic yoshino sakura with its fat clusters of flowers stretch across the walkway in a horizontal canopy, forming a sea of pale pink stars overhead. Lush ichiyo trees, limbs sagging under the weight of papery snow-white puffballs, dangle their flowers enticingly close, while great blushing bunches of kanzan loom high out of reach.
“The flowers are so high up,” Haruka sighs. “They look so far away.”
“Want to get a closer look?” Kiryu asks, a mischievous look in his eyes. Without hesitation, he bends down and sweeps Haruka onto his back, draping her legs around his neck so she sits atop his shoulders. Haruka shrieks, half-delighted and half-surprised. Quick on the uptake, Majima snatches Kiryu’s bag out of his hand, freeing up Kiryu’s arms to support the new weight.
She clings to Kiryu’s hair like a startled koala, giggling. “Oji-san!”
“Don’t worry, Haruka-chan! If he drops ya, I’ll make him pay,” Majima jokes.
“You’re not going to catch me?!”
He grins, all teeth. “Naw, but I’ll make sure Kiryu-chan is sorry.”
She glares at him. “Majima-san!”
“Hey, look how close the flowers are now,” Kiryu interrupts, pointing at the blossoms hanging above them. Haruka drops her indignant expression, entranced by the sakura with their notched petals and delicate stamens. A few hardy shidarezakura dangle long switches of fluted flowers and oblong buds close enough to touch, and Haruka gently sweeps them away as they pass under their eaves.
“Wow,” she breathes.
Kiryu sneaks a glance at Majima, whose eyes are fixed not on the trees, but on Kiryu’s face. Upon catching his eye, Majima looks away, cheeks red. Kiryu smiles.
“You’ve got some petals in your hair,” Kiryu points out, nodding at the tiny dots of pink stuck on Majima’s head. He reaches over to brush them away, but Majima dances out of his reach effortlessly, shaking his head like a dog to dislodge them himself. The petals scatter, leaving Majima clean but significantly more ruffled for the effort.
“Better?” Majima pastes an impish grin on. Kiryu nods and averts his eyes, fighting a pang of disappointment at missing Majima’s flustered expression. Still, it’s the first time all day that Majima has actually acted like—well, himself, and not the oddly courteous stranger wearing his face.
Fortunately, Haruka’s stomach chooses that moment to let out a loud growl right next to Kiryu’s ear. Haruka blushes, embarrassed, and Kiryu laughs.
“Ready for lunch?” He asks.
Completing a loop around the park, Haruka directs them to a secluded area of the lawn surrounded by shedding trees and green late-blooming ukonzakura that provide a comfortable area of shade. Assisted by Majima, she spreads out the picnic blanket at the foot of a large yoshino tree while Kiryu unpacks the bento he’d prepared a few hours earlier.
Haruka marvels at the lunch selection, cooing at the delicate rice balls speckled with white sesame seeds and adorned with a pickled cherry blossom. Neatly wedged into each box lengthwise are three halves of mixed sando, bread flecked with black sesame seeds. A dish of pickles occupies the remainder—a mix of seasonal bamboo shoots, udo, and kogomi.
From the bottom of the bag, Kiryu procures an insulated plastic container and pops it open to reveal a simple but eye-catching spread of chirashi: atop a bed of vinegared rice, slices of pale pink cod peek through a layer of shredded tamago. Chips of lotus root and boiled prawns form a top layer, with halved snow peas strewn about like sliced bamboo. Coin-sized pieces of carrot cut to resemble sakura flowers complete the hanami theme. Haruka practically has stars in her eyes at the sight, and even Majima looks impressed with his effort. Kiryu tries not to look too pleased with himself.
“Ya really went all-out, Kiryu-chan,” Majima quips.
“It’s so pretty, Uncle Kaz,” Haruka adds.
Kiryu glances sidelong at Majima, replying: “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
Haruka pouts. “No fair, oji-san. You never make me lunch.”
He reaches over and ruffles her hair, eliciting an indignant squeak. “When you’re old enough to bring your own food to school,” Kiryu says, “I’ll make a bento for you, too.”
After a quick itadakimasu in unison, they tuck into their meals with gusto. The crisp, juicy pickles add a refreshing burst of flavor between bites of sandwich, the selection including tamago, tuna and mayo, and ham and swiss. The onigiri provide a sweet finish, the cherry blossom garnish adding a salty edge and the sesame offering texture to the soft rice. Between the bento and scoops of chirashi, they put a sizable dent in the food. Even Majima works through his vegetables obediently.
In truth, the most cooking Kiryu had had to do was quick-boil some cod and steam a pot of rice. But today, he doesn’t feel the need to point that out. His ego is more than happy to bask in the praise. Eating a delicious meal amidst the sakura on a mild spring day, he admits, is quite nice.
Once the food is devoured and their appetites sated, Kiryu leans against the tree trunk and watches the petals fall. Surrounded as they are by greenery, the sounds of the city fade to white noise. In the garden, all that can be heard are the rustle of wind stirring the leaves and the delighted shrieks of children at play. Nothing to fear, nothing to fight. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be this relaxed.
Majima must feel similarly—under the tree, he begins to droop. He puts up a heroic effort to stay awake, swaying back and forth and occasionally jolting upright. Haruka gives Kiryu a look, drawing his attention toward his drowsy companion. He takes the hint and wraps an arm around Majima’s shoulders, dragging him down to rest his head on Kiryu’s lap.
“Sleep,” Kiryu says.
Majima makes a noise of protest, struggling weakly to pull himself upright. “Mmh? M’fine.”
“You’re tired.” Kiryu smooths a hand over Majima’s hair. “Rest for a while.”
Majima yawns, brow furrowed, but reluctantly settles back down. “I’ll be up in jus’ a minute,” he mumbles. Sighing and burrowing into Kiryu’s thigh, Majima’s eye drifts shut.
A strange feeling wells up inside Kiryu when he realizes: this is the first time Majima’s ever shown such vulnerability with him in public, uncaring of the eyes that may or may not be on them. There’s no small amount of trust in such a seemingly-innocent gesture: Majima, head pillowed in Kiryu’s lap, showing his soft underbelly and trusting that Kiryu won’t stab him in the gut—or allow anyone else to do it, for that matter.
Kiryu’s hand rests on Majima’s hip, absently rubbing the crest of bone below the skin. Something crinkles in Majima’s pocket as Kiryu adjusts his hand. An empty wrapper, maybe? Kiryu reaches inside it before he can think to stop himself, habitually seeking potentially useful items wherever he can. And pulls out…a foil blister pack of pills, almost completely empty. He catches a glimpse of the text on the back: restamin, 10 miligrams.
Has Majima been taking allergy medicine all day? No wonder he’s sleepy.
Kiryu thinks guiltily about the cherry blossoms, the bouquet of flowers, the trees dropping layers of pollen everywhere. Not once had Majima complained.
Haruka gives him a disapproving look. “You shouldn’t go through other people’s pockets, oji-san.”
Kiryu jumps, shoving the pills back inside Majima’s slacks. “Force of habit,” he explains sheepishly. Haruka frowns but says no more, clearly reluctant to push the matter further when Majima is sleeping so soundly.
“He’s really been on his best behavior today,” Haruka murmurs, looking conflicted.
“He has,” agrees Kiryu. They lapse into a comfortable silence, watching the sakura petals dance around them.
“...I’m a little tired, too,” Haruka admits, rubbing her eyes.
Kiryu chuckles, pulling her close to rest her head against Kiryu’s shoulder. “Sleep, then,” he says. “I’ll watch over you.”
Shuffling closer and huddling into Kiryu’s warmth, Haruka drops her chin and lets her eyes close. Arms wrapped protectively around his two charges, Kiryu lets out a contented sigh and watches the pink flower-laden branches sway in the breeze.
He’s not sure how long they stay there, but it feels all too short. Even now, peace and quiet are rare commodities in Kiryu’s life. Their break comes to an abrupt end when a stray sakura petal, tossed by the wind, lands under Majima’s nose, eliciting an ear-splitting sneeze that jolts Haruka awake and nearly sends Kiryu leaping to his feet in a fighting stance. Haruka rubs her eyes blearily, tightening her grip on Kiryu’s jacket.
Kiryu scowls at Majima, who is hard at work expelling everything in his respiratory system, and pretends not to notice as Majima discreetly slips another restamin tablet in his mouth.
“Want to make another round through the park before we head back?” Kiryu asks Haruka, who enthusiastically nods. He feels a little sorry for making Majima walk a bit more in his state—but not that sorry, he amends, getting to his feet and massaging the numb spot on his thigh where Majima had laid his head. Majima’s brows crease in dissatisfaction, but he sits up and lets him go.
Kiryu offers his hand to Majima, amused by his disgruntled expression. Majima’s eye flicks to Kiryu’s hand, then Kiryu’s face, searching him sleepily. He slides a warm gloved hand into Kiryu’s and allows himself to be pulled to his feet, reluctantly parting with it after a moment too long.
Sighing like an old dog, Majima stretches his arms overhead and arches his back. When he relaxes, the oddly-pleasant mask settles back into place. He grins at Haruka. “We better get a move on.” He chirps, heading back to the path with Haruka gamely following.
Kiryu stuffs the remaining detritus into his bag and hurries after them, brushing aside a twinge of disappointment.
Halfway through the walk home, Haruka demands another break at a small children’s park, shooing Kiryu off to the nearest Poppo to buy drinks (“after all that walking,” she claims). As if to emphasize her command, she settles down at the swingset and drags Majima into the seat next to her, staring at Kiryu until he gives in and leaves them alone. He’s not sure why he needs to be out of the picture for this conversation, but he is a bit thirsty and couldn’t deny Haruka anything if he tried.
Still, his curiosity gets the best of him. As soon as he’s out of sight, he bursts into a sprint for the konbini, scaring the cashier half to death when he hurtles through the sliding doors like a bull in a china shop. He selects items indiscriminately, dropping them on the checkout counter and sprinting out the door as soon as the employee finishes ringing him up. He circles the block, hugging the buildings as he approaches the park. From this direction, neither Majima nor Haruka would be able to see Kiryu until he passes the building directly neighboring the park. He sidles as close to the corner as he dares, straining to hear whatever Haruka has deemed so important.
For a minute, he wonders if he’s gone deaf. He crouches low to the ground, creeping closer until he can see the two of them through the branches of a shrub. Haruka is holding onto swing’s chains, studying the ground. Next to her, Majima has stretched his legs out and slumped forward in his seat, looking weary but alert.
“I don’t understand you, Majima-san,” Haruka says, shaking her head.
“Eh?” Majima perks up.
“You’re just—you’ve been acting so…nice today. You’re never this nice.”
Majima sputters. “Excuse me? You were the one sayin’ I should clean up my act, so I did. And now you’re upset that I gave ya what ya wanted! What gives?”
“That’s the problem! After seeing you act like this, it’s obvious you could’ve been treating Uncle Kaz this way the entire time. But you haven’t!”
“Kiryu-chan likes me the way I am,” Majima retorts, but there’s an ever-so-slight quiver in his voice. “I don’t gotta prove myself to you.”
Kiryu thinks about today: the sentimental gifts, the polished look, the quiet obedience. How much Majima usually goes out of his way to avoid all of those things. And yet, he’d acted the part of “perfect boyfriend.”
For as long as Kiryu’s known him, Majima has never tried proving himself to anyone, least of all a nine-year-old girl—and yet, he had. What changed?
A long, angry pause hovers between them. A swing creaks; shoes scuff in the dirt. Haruka stares at her feet, drawing lines in the dust with her shoes.
“To be honest, I don’t know if you’d be good for oji-san,” Haruka says softly. “Uncle Kaz is a kind person. Maybe a little too kind.” She gives Majima a pointed look with much more sting than any nine-year-old should be capable of.
Majima smiles wanly. “Ain’t disagreein’ with ya there.” He leans back on the swing, stretching his legs out. “Kiryu-chan’s the biggest softie I know.”
“I think he deserves someone who is also kind. Someone who will take care of him when he won’t take care of himself.”
“Preachin’ to the choir, sister.” Majima’s eye furtively darts around the street, as if searching for an escape. Or for Kiryu to come back and put an end to this harrowing conversation. Kiryu retreats behind the wall and flattens his body, hoping futilely that Majima hasn’t noticed him.
“Why were you so hard on him?” Haruka suddenly asks. “Last year. You were always following him around, looking for a fight.”
“Ah. Yeah, that.” Another sigh. “Well, s’like I said to Kiryu-chan. Long time ago, I told him he was too soft, that it’d come back to bite him in the ass if he wouldn’t stand up for himself.”
“Why?”
“Why? Well, ‘cause bein’ nice ain’t exactly a good look in our line of work.” Kiryu sneaks a peek around the corner and catches the weary line of Majima’s mouth. “Nothin’ good ever comes from bein’ kind. All it does is get the people ya care about killed.”
Haruka’s tiny hands tense minutely. “But you cared about oji-san.”
“Now hold on a moment,” Majima protests, raising a finger. “I cared about my favorite sparring buddy not gettin’ his ass smoked as soon as he walked from prison.”
“You could’ve just kept chasing him after…you know. Everything. But you didn’t,” Haruka shoots back. “You stuck around and helped Uncle Kaz out, even though you didn’t have to. If you wanted him to toughen up, you didn’t do a good job of it.”
“Look,” Majima’s voice hardens, “That was when Kiryu-chan was still in the game. Now that he’s out, he can be as soft as he wants.”
Haruka snaps. “But you can’t?”
Majima falls silent. “...Guess ya got me there.”
Haruka’s shoulders slump, looking contrite. They sit in tense silence.
“I know you care about oji-san, even though you pretend you don’t,” Haruka eventually says. “But I want him to be happy. He likes you, and I don’t want him to give his heart to someone who acts like he doesn’t want it.”
Majima tilts his head back, defeated. “...I hear ya.”
She turns and glares at him. “And if you hurt him, I’ll kill you.”
At that, Majima lets out a bark of laughter. “Now that’s scary, Haruka-chan,” he guffaws.
Kiryu chooses that moment to emerge from his hiding spot, scuffing his shoes a little louder than usual as he pretends to round the corner. Though he keeps his expression casual, Haruka stiffens in her seat and silently accepts the bottle of lemon squash Kiryu offers her. Majima looks serene, lounging on the swing like he’s always belonged there.
“Kiryu-chan,” he coos. “Took ya long enough.” Their hands brush as Kiryu passes him a bottle of C.C. Lemon, lingering a little too long to to be entirely casual. Kiryu clears his throat, cracking open the remaining lemon-lime soda.
“...Oji-san,” Haruka says, “Why did you buy all lemon drinks?”
The remaining journey is oddly silent, and for once neither Haruka nor Majima seem inclined to break it. Holding Kiryu’s hand, Haruka keeps her eyes fixed on their surroundings, while Majima sways on his feet with disinterest in his half-lidded eye. To anyone else, Majima looks lost in thought. However, Kiryu recognizes sleepiness when he sees it.
When they get through the apartment door, Haruka takes the basket from Kiryu’s hand and scurries for the kitchen to unload it without being prompted. Kiryu wraps an arm around Majima’s waist, which he doesn’t even seem to notice.
“You’re tired, nii-san,” he says firmly. “Get some rest before you go.”
Majima grumbles in protest, but Kiryu’s tone brooks no room for argument, practically shoving him down the hallway and into his room. He pulls back the blanket on his futon and sits Majima down.
Majima giggles. “Feels like we’ve been here before.”
Kiryu snorts. “Wonder why.”
“Gonna tuck me in, Kiryu-chan?”
“If you’ll let me.” He places a hand in the center of Majima’s chest and pushes, laying him back. “You could’ve just said you were allergic to pollen instead of drugging yourself for the whole day.”
Majima waves a hand lazily. “Haruka don’t need to know that.”
Kiryu tucks the covers around Majima, stretching himself out on the tatami next to the futon. He fumbles for Majima’s hand and laces their fingers together.
“I’m sorry about today,” Kiryu says. “I didn’t realize Haruka was putting you through a test…if I’d known, I’d have stopped her.”
Majima makes a dismissive noise. “It wasn’t so bad, gettin’ to be your boyfriend for a day.”
“Still…” Kiryu hesitates. “I like you the way you are, nii-san. You don’t have to put on an act for me. I know you care.”
“How do you know?” Majima says, suddenly sharp. “Can ya really blame Haruka for thinkin’ I’m a bastard who’ll ruin ya without a second thought?”
Kiryu rolls onto his side, giving Majima’s blind side a plaintive gaze. “Majima. You know I don’t believe that.”
“Well maybe ya should,” Majima snaps.
Kiryu frowns. “Would a man who doesn’t care buy me flowers he’s allergic to?” He tightens his hand. “Would a man who doesn’t care give us a roof over our heads when we had nowhere to go?” He lets go and allows his hand to wander up Majima’s body, settling on his belly to feel the roped line of a scar beneath his thin shirt.
“I’m not good with emotions,” Kiryu admits. “But I know what love looks like. Don’t lie to me and tell me you don’t feel it.”
Majima squirms, letting out a wounded sound. He presses the back of his fist to his good eye, curling his lip. “Kiryu-chaaaaan,” he whines.
Finally, he turns his head to look Kiryu in the eyes. His face is long-suffering but undeniably affectionate. “Yer a fuckin’ goober, y’know that?”
Kiryu smiles. “You tell me every day.”
He emerges from the bedroom once Majima drifts off, arriving in time to see Haruka washing the last of the dishes. Kiryu steels his expression into something stern.
“Haruka, could we talk?”
She looks up. “Sure.” She wipes her hands on a dish towel. “What’s up?”
Kiryu takes a deep breath. “I appreciate you looking out for me, but I told you about Majima-san because you deserved to know about us, not because I wanted you to make him jump through hoops. It wasn’t fair of you to put that pressure on him.”
To her credit, Haruka looks adequately chagrined, not even attempting to wriggle off the hook. “Oh. You heard that?”
Kiryu nods. “I did.”
“Like…all of it?”
“Enough of it to find out what you were up to.”
“Ah.” Averting her eyes, she picks at a loose thread on the couch. “Sorry, oji-san.”
“You should save that for Majima-san,” Kiryu replies mildly. “He was worried, you know. You had him trying his best today, and that’s not easy for him.”
Haruka makes a face. “Maybe he should do it more often.”
Kiryu frowns deeper. “Haruka, that’s not a very kind thing to say.”
She holds his stare defiantly for a few seconds. Finally, she droops. “Yeah..I know.”
“I’m not mad at you. But I don’t appreciate you creating this scheme behind my back instead of telling me your concerns at the start.”
She opens her mouth as if to defend herself, but thinks better of it. “I trust you, oji-san,” she says in a small voice. “I really do. I just…didn’t want to see you get hurt.”
Kiryu smiles sadly. “I get it. But I knew from the start that being with Majima-san might lead to me getting hurt. That’s just what it means to love someone.”
She tilts her head. “Uncle Kaz, do you love him?”
A flush blooms in his cheeks. “Well—I just meant—it’s a bit early for—”
Haruka giggles. “I’m just teasing. I know he makes you happy.”
Kiryu sighs. “He does. Most of the time.”
With a pat to Haruka’s head, he heads for the refrigerator to survey its contents. “I’d better get started on dinner.”
“Okay.”
He turns and gives her one last stern look. “You should say sorry to Majima-san when he wakes up, though.”
She lowers her head. “I will.”
Kiryu is almost done with dinner by the time Majima reappears and swaggers into the kitchen, looking refreshed. “So, Haruka-chan? Do I pass the test?” He asks, leaning on the counter and watching Haruka set the table without lifting a finger to help.
Haruka purses her lips. “Yes,” she admits.
Majima lets out a long sigh of relief, visibly deflating. “Thank fuck. Ya got no business makin’ me sweat like that, girlie.”
Kiryu raises an eyebrow at Haruka. “Sorry about that, by the way,” she mumbles.
Majima gives her a lopsided grin. “S’all good, Haruka-chan. Yer heart was in the right place.” He ruffles her hair, and for once Haruka doesn’t pull away. “Carin’ for this big lug is a full-time job,” he adds, elbowing Kiryu in the side and cackling when he frowns.
She nods sagely. “I’m glad you understand.”
Majima kneels down to eye-level, fixing her with a piercing stare. “Listen, Haruka-chan. I ain’t tryna take yer place or nothin’. I just wanna see him happy, and if I break his heart, ya get to kill me personally. Fair enough?”
Haruka giggles. “Deal.”
“Ya got my word,” Majima replies. He extends a hand to her.
She takes it, shaking it firmly. “He’s in your care,” she says seriously.
“I’m right here, you know,” complains Kiryu.
Notes:
-A list of dishes featured in this chapter: oyakodon, mixed sando, sakura onigiri, pickled bamboo shoots, udo, and kogomi, chirashi. Extremely small cameo of nikujaga (Kiryu blanching the peas), which I was supposed to expand on but forgot about.
-Majima gives Kiryu a bouquet of white lilies, forget-me-nots, and ambrosia. For those interested in flower meanings, white lily = purity, chastity; forget-me-not = true love; ambrosia = piety, faithfulness. Ambrosia is also known as ragweed, which is highly allergenic. Does he actually mean those things, or is it part of the act? Feel free to decide for yourself.
-Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden apparently boasts 68 varieties of sakura, so there are trees in different stages of bloom throughout the hanami season.
-Udo is also called mountain asparagus or Japanese spikenard. It's a large leafy plant native to East Asia which produces edible shoots in spring. Supposedly has a resin-like taste.
-Kogomi are the furled shoots of young fern, also called fiddleheads. Another spring specialty.
-Like most video game protagonists, Kiryu is lowkey a kleptomaniac and I love him for it.
-Restamin is an allergy medicine. Westerners may recognize it as diphenhydramine or Benadryl. Thankfully Majima didn't take enough to see the hatman, but he did get very sleepy!
-Bonus points if you spotted the movie reference in Majima and Haruka's conversation.
-The lemon drinks are all vending machine items from Yakuza 6.
Chapter 11: Private Escort [E]
Summary:
“I wanna get on my knees for you.”
Notes:
I went insane and had to write about best girl and soft dom/service top Goromi. I have a (SFW and stand-alone) companion piece to this chapter that will be published in Side Dishes!
This chapter is pure porn, so if you're not into that I suggest skipping the whole thing. Real plot will continue in the next chapter!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
While it’s certainly not easy for Kiryu to balance their budding relationship with Haruka to think about, he and Majima are quickly mastering the art of the quick date. When they’re not spending time in Haruka’s presence, they’re stealing as many moments alone as possible. Like Majima’s ambushes, they are spontaneous and often poorly thought-out, but just as Kiryu had been unable to resist playing along with Majima Everywhere, he takes up Majima’s newer, hornier version with similar enthusiasm.
The point is, Kiryu has developed something of a Pavlovian response to Majima’s texts, which pop up at odd hours of the day to summon him for “dates.” Sure, most of their meet-ups tend to be frantic frotting sessions in the privacy of Majima’s office, but it’s the thought that counts. On a Friday night such as this one, it’s a welcome reprieve from the monotony of the week. Thankfully, Haruka now being in the loop means that Kiryu can leave the apartment to her for a few hours at a time with minimal guilt, the only downside being her smug looks and well-meaning wishes to “have a nice time” when he heads out the door.
To be honest, Kiryu isn’t sure if it’s a date that Majima really has in store. More than one of these outings have just been a pretext to ambush him in an unusual venue. He doesn’t mind those either, but they could fight anywhere. Finding a suitable place to fuck, however, tends to be trickier. When Majima had sent him a cryptic text consisting only of an address and a time, Kiryu had drawn his own conclusions and prepared with some extra Staminans in his pockets.
And if there’s a spare lube packet tucked among them, that’s nobody’s business but his own.
He becomes increasingly convinced of its necessity by the time he reaches the address: a building nestled a few blocks off Kamurocho proper whose bland, windowless façade immediately registers as a love hotel. Still, he wouldn’t put it past Majima to stage a fight in a location like this (the image of Majima in tight leather gyrating his hips in front of a stripper pole is still burned into his retinas). He surreptitiously scans the perimeter, looking for goons in disguise or abnormally large traffic cones. Finding none, he steels himself and steps inside. The halls are eerily quiet in the typical love hotel fashion, every patron hidden from view and their noises stifled behind soundproofed walls. Plush, expensive carpet muffles every footstep.
When he knocks at the door, he hears the telltale click of heels on a wood floor before it flies open. The cloying scent of perfume slaps him in the face and the peek of sparkly pink toenails through a vertiginous stiletto graces his view of the ground. He tears away his gaze and rakes it up the long, lean figure at the threshold. It roves over a familiar figure in a shiny bubblegum-pink bodycon slip with a plunging neckline and scandalously short skirt, a slit up the side revealing the lace band of a shimmery nylon stocking. A long necklace with a peculiar rod-shaped pendant hangs suspended between a pair of full pectorals adorned with feathered black tattoos.
“Oi, the eye’s up here, pal,” a brusque voice interrupts, snapping Kiryu’s eyes upward. Its owner, however, looks more amused than annoyed. A smile pulls at her magenta lips, framed by a manicured goatee. Her sharp, darkly-lined eye crinkles with humor.
Kiryu scrambles to pick up his jaw from the floor and snaps into a stiff bow. “Goromi-san,” he blurts out. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.”
She leans against the door and raises a defined eyebrow. “That a problem?”
“Of course not!” He flushes. “I’m…just surprised, that’s all.”
Goromi smiles, obviously pleased, and Kiryu’s heart skips a beat. Or seven. He’s not sure his heart has restarted since she opened the door, in fact. He might be lying on the sidewalk in cardiac arrest right now, and this is his dying dream.
She turns on her heel with a swish of her blonde ponytail, retreating with a beckoning hand. Kiryu’s momentarily struck dumb by the back of her dress, which is criss-crossed with spaghetti straps and exposes the hannya tattoo creeping down her skirt. He hurries inside and all but slams the door behind him.
“I thought maybe I’d run into you at a club, like last time,” he starts, following her into the suite and taking a seat next to her on the sofa. On the coffee table sits a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice, accompanied by two empty flutes. Warm lighting and gauzy curtains lend a comforting atmosphere to the room, with Goromi its star of the night.
Goromi sighs. “I wanted to do this in a club. But seein’ as I don’t own a club anymore, I can’t just say the word and clear one out for the night, y’know?” She delicately extracts the champagne from its bath and pops the cork with a hoot, pouring two measures into the flutes. They clink glasses with a tinkle of crystal.
“But then I thought,” she continues, “There’s perks to bein’ outta the club.” Kiryu drinks deeply from his glass—bubbly, tart wine that would probably cost a fortune in a club and make a lucky hostess very, very happy. He almost chokes when he feels a hand snaking over his leg to rest on the inner curve of his thigh. He coughs, setting his drink down before he can spill it everywhere. “...Like touchin’ the girls as much as ya please. You’d like that, wouldn’t ya, Kiryu-chan?”
He frowns, a little insulted by her implication. “I wouldn’t do that to a woman.” He sits stock-still, allowing Goromi to map his body with her hands but refraining from reciprocation. Goromi grins, and for the first time it occurs to Kiryu that Majima would look great in lipstick.
“Aw, but ya’d look, wouldn’t ya?” She teases. He opens his mouth to defend himself, but she cuts him off. “Don’t lie to me, I saw ya sneakin’ peeks under my skirt at Club Shine.” She slides closer, setting down her glass and wrapping an arm around Kiryu’s shoulders.
Kiryu turns away, face reddening. “It was kind of hard not to,” he mumbles, thinking about the glimpse of skimpy underwear he caught between her legs before being floored by her high kick.
Goromi gasps, mock-offended. “Ya sayin’ I’m immodest?” She spreads her legs, revealing a flash of pink panties that Kiryu notices and immediately tears his gaze from in shame. “I ain’t that easy, ya horndog.”
Face beet-red, Kiryu wriggles out of her hold just enough to lean over her lap and bring her knees together with his hands, hiding the indecent sight. “It’s not that,” he says hurriedly. “It’s just…” He trails off, mouth suddenly going dry.
Goromi scowls and gestures impatiently.
Kiryu swallows. “It’s hard not to look at such a beautiful woman.”
For a moment, Goromi goggles at him, false lashes spread wide with surprise. Finally, she groans and slumps into the couch, eye screwed tightly in pain. “Ya can’t just say that shit, Kiryu-chan.”
He furrows his brows. “I meant it,” he replies.
She lifts her head and glares at him. “I know ya meant it,” she growls, “that’s the fuckin’ problem.”
“Huh?”
She swings both legs onto the couch and crawls onto his lap on her hands and knees; once balanced on Kiryu’s thigh, she raises a clawed hand and jabs a pointy finger into his forehead. “I dunno if I should kick the shit outta ya until ya change yer mind or treat’cha like the li’l puppy-dog ya are.”
He gulps, hands instinctively flying to Goromi’s waist to steady her. The slippery material of her dress barely conceals the hard muscle underneath and he thumbs the border between fabric and skin absently. Both options seem equally appealing until he glances at her feet and considers the sharp heels they’re sporting. “The second one, please.”
Goromi sighs theatrically as she throws a leg over Kiryu’s hip and straddles his lap. The curious pendant on her necklace swings close enough to brush the open collar of Kiryu’s shirt. “Fine,” she grumbles. She ducks her head and whispers in his ear. “But only ‘cause ya been such a good customer.” A few wispy strands of blonde hair tickle his neck; Kiryu shudders.
With an iron-strong hand, she grabs his jaw and practically wrenches it open to slide her tongue inside his mouth. Kiryu faintly registers the oily, floral taste of lipstick on his teeth and opens wide, letting her devour him completely. She moans lowly, sending shivers down Kiryu’s spine. He pants and closes his lips around her tongue, undoubtedly getting drool everywhere, but she doesn’t seem to care. One last nip and she pulls away, planting kisses along the angles of his jaw and down his neck. She sticks a pink lip-print in the hollow of his clavicles and pulls his collar aside to mouth at a patch of collarbone just covered by his clothes. She’s none too gentle marking him with her teeth; Kiryu winces as she bites down, worrying the bone between her incisors. The crescent of her half-lidded eye entrances him like a siren song.
Kiryu desperately wants to be hers.
“Goromi,” he gasps, pulling his face away.
“What is it, baby?” She coos, coming up and knocking their foreheads together.
“I wanna get on my knees for you.”
Her mouth makes a tiny “o” in surprise, but she covers the high blush in her cheeks with a demure hand and a girlish giggle. “So forward, Kiryu-chan!” She grabs his chin with the V of her thumb and index finger, shaking him like a puppy. Her talons dig into his face painfully. “Could’a bought me dinner first, ya dog.”
Kiryu’s voice comes out pinched. “Is that a no?” He croaks.
She grins, all teeth. A pink smear of lipstick stains a sharp canine. “Naw,” she purrs. “Give it to me good, baby boy.” She releases him and plants a firm hand into his chest, shoving him back. Kiryu takes the hint, clambering off her lap and falling to his knees.
“Ya ever done this before?” She scoots forward a bit, letting Kiryu stroke the soft material of her stockings.
He shakes his head. “I’ve had it done to me, but that’s it.”
She clicks her tongue. “Ain’t the same thing. Cock-suckin’ is an art, Kiryu-chan.”
He flushes. “I’ll give it my best effort,” he says.
Throwing her head back, she cackles and pats his head roughly. “As if you’ve ever half-assed anythin’ in your life! Fuck, yer killin’ me here with the good-guy act.”
Kiryu scowls and tries not to pout, recognizing that she’s teasing him but feeling slighted nonetheless. “It’s not an act,” he grumbles.
“Yeah, yeah,” she sighs. She spreads her legs slightly, caging him in with a heel at each hip. Snatching up Kiryu’s forgotten champagne flute and knocking it back like bottom-shelf swill, she gestures vaguely at her crotch and leers at him. “Have at it, champ.”
Kiryu swallows, eyeing the sizeable package under her tiny skirt. It’s a position he’s not entirely unfamiliar with, but it’s definitely one of the older memories in his short series of sexual escapades. Carefully, so as not to startle her, he slides his hands up her thighs, mesmerized by the transition of slippery nylon to soft skin. He can’t help snapping the band of her garter under his finger, eliciting a snort of laughter from Goromi. She lifts her hips when he peels back her skirt and admires the lacy baby-pink panties that are barely holding her in—and she’s not even fully hard. Like he’s unwrapping a delicate present, he pulls them down slowly. She seems content to let him continue at his own pace, waiting for his next move.
Her cock lies heavy on her thigh; not quite at full mast, but could be persuaded there with a bit of play. Remembering the slick heat of their last encounter, Kiryu decides to quit dithering and get his mouth on her before he can lose his nerve (and she can lose her erection, which would be incredibly humiliating for all parties involved). Still soft and pliable in his hands, it’s easy to open up and take her nearly to the base. Experimentally, he pushes himself all the way down, until his nose brushes the silky hairs at her groin and the soft skin of her scrotum tickles his beard. Goromi hisses, fisting a hand in his hair and bucking slightly into his throat. His eyes water, but he steadies himself and manages not to choke on her growing cock. He can feel the flesh turn firm under his tongue, foreskin tightening enough for him to feel the vein running along the shaft.
More for his own curiosity, he explores Goromi’s cock with his lips and throat and teeth—applying pressure here, suction there. He doesn’t even cotton onto how much she’s enjoying it until her nails scratch at his scalp a little too hard to be pleasurable. She’s looking down at him with pure admiration in her eye and he wonders what picture he must make: a grown man burying his head between a woman’s thighs, stuffing his face with her cock and enjoying every second of it. His own cock presses painfully against the zipper of his slacks. As if reading his mind, Goromi shifts an ankle to grind the toe of her shoe into the tent in his trousers. Kiryu gasps, throat involuntarily contracting; Goromi throws her head back, letting out a breathy moan.
He begins to work her in earnest, bobbing his head up and down the shaft while twisting his fingers around what he isn’t able to swallow. She lets out a loud string of curses, encouraging him with a hand carding through his hair to guide him here, no a little more—AH FUCK Kiryu-chan that’s it—good boy, such a good boy. Her cries grow louder and higher-pitched as he hits his stride, swallowing her cock down until she hits his soft palate, and doing it again, and again, and a little more for good measure. He toys idly with her balls, rolling them between his fingers. It’s the first place that draws up tight when he brings her to orgasm, squirming with a shaky Kiryu-chan on her candy-pink lips. Cum blooms salty and bitter on his tongue as she shoots her load down his throat, and he does choke then, pulling off so he can cough loose the semen stuck to his uvula. He swallows with a wince and a shake of the head like he’s downing a particularly nasty shot of liquor.
Still, he goes back to lick her softening cock clean with a puppy-soft tongue, her thighs twitching around his ears. Her eye is glassy and dilated and her chest heaves like she’s the one who’d been teetering on the edge of asphyxiation for several minutes straight. Throat feeling raw and sore, Kiryu swipes the back of his hand over the line of drool running down his chin and absently presses a hand to his still-aching cock, unconsciously seeking the pressure Goromi had generously given it. He lets his head drop, squishing his cheek into her well-muscled thigh. Her calf is pressed flush against his back, which is already protesting the awkward position into which he had forced it.
“How did I do?” Kiryu asks innocently, feeling smug enough to be bold.
She hmms in thought, scratching his scalp comfortingly. “Ya got talent,” she begrudgingly replies. “But yer technique needs refinement.”
“Oh?”
Goromi’s smile turns predatory. “That’s right. Ya want a demonstration, darlin’?”
Kiryu visibly perks up, nodding eagerly. She giggles and pats her thigh invitingly. “Get up here, then.”
He crawls back into her lap with a wince as his sore knees unfold. She kicks off her shoes unceremoniously and plants her heels, grabbing the meat of his ass and kneading greedily. She grabs Kiryu by the back of the neck and reels him in for a kiss that he returns enthusiastically.
Pulling back, she fixes him with her hypnotic gaze. “Ya ever had yer ass played with, Kiryu-chan?” She grins.
He shakes his head, face warm.
“Wanna give it a try?” Her fingers stroke the crease of his ass and Kiryu shudders.
“Okay,” he breathes, eyeing her sharp press-ons apprehensively. Goromi snickers and digs said press-ons into his glutes for emphasis.
“You’ll see,” she teases, giving him a pat on the butt. “Now up.” She grabs him by the hips and tugs, forcing him upright on his knees so that his groin sits at eye-level with Goromi. She makes deft work of his trousers, stripping him down until his cock springs out and nearly slaps her in the face. Kiryu goes weak in the knees when she grasps him by the root, bracing his hands on the back of the couch and brushing his belly against her polyester hair.
“Lemme show ya how it’s done,” she whispers, pumping him in her fist. Like a seasoned free-diver, she takes a deep breath and promptly deepthroats him to the base—he watches the remnants of her lipstick stamp a hot pink circle around his cock and almost loses it right then and there. She laughs cruelly and he can feel the rumble of her voice through his dick; he chokes out her name, half praise, half plea for mercy. She doesn’t give it to him.
Instead, she scrapes her teeth against him just to make him jump, runs her tongue under the foreskin just to feel him squirm. She drops her nose and falls into a rhythm, feeling him out and toying with him until she lands on the exact combination that makes him squeak like a girl and call her name. She’s mean in exactly the ways he needs: coaxing him to the edge only to deny him for the fun of it, sweetening the deal just enough that he keeps coming back for more. She hollows her cheeks like a veteran whore, batting her fake eyelashes coquettishly, and Kiryu has never been more in love.
She pulls back and lets his hard length slide out of her mouth. Kiryu whines pathetically, canting his hips and silently begging her to return and finish the job. Goromi is unperturbed; she throws her head back and pulls her necklace over her head, waving the rod-shaped pendant like a magic wand. She grabs him by the collar and yanks him down, holding it in front of his face.
“Suck it,” she orders, shoving it into his mouth without waiting for an answer. He lets out a garbled, confused noise but obeys, coating it thoroughly in his spit. Thus satisfied, she pulls it out by the chain and pinches the end between two clawed fingers.
They lock eyes as Goromi slips Kiryu’s cock through her lips, thoroughly distracting him from the brief interruption when she falls back into rhythm. He sighs happily and winds a hand through her soft ponytail, careful not to tug.
He startles when he feels something cold and metallic brush against his asshole. Goromi lowers her eye, encouraging him to relax, and against his better judgment, Kiryu does. She works the thin rod easily through the tight ring of muscle—it’s about the thickness of a pencil, enough to feel odd but not uncomfortable. If anything, he’s more bothered by the cold than the intrusion. Though it’s quite nice to have attention being lavished on him like this, he can’t say it’s doing a whole lot for him at the moment.
Then she turns it on.
Kiryu jolts like he’s been electrocuted, letting out a yelp. For such a small thing, it packs quite the punch, vibrating up a storm that he feels all the way in his balls. He can feel it rumbling inside him, stirring up places he didn’t even know could feel pleasure.
“Good, huh?” Goromi mumbles, cheek bulging with cock. He nods, bucking his hips and causing her to grunt. She holds him lazily in her mouth, moving the vibrator this way and that to gauge his responses. Crooking it forward and thrusting it in, she unexpectedly nails something that makes Kiryu choke on his own spit and moan. It feels undeniably good, but not enough to get him off by itself.
Of course, he should have known better than to underestimate Goromi.
She does it again, pushing the toy in and out to prod at his prostate while she goes to town on his dick, bobbing her head to the same rhythm with which she mercilessly fucks him. It feels so much better than he thought possible, and he tells her as much in punched-out gasps next to her ear. Goromi hums in response and works him sweetly, tightening her throat around the weeping head of his cock. Kiryu clamps down and shudders as he comes, orgasm crashing over him like a tidal wave and leaving him wrung-out. Goromi sucks him dry, milking the cum from his shaft and fucking him until he whimpers with overstimulation. He can feel her smile around his cock in smug satisfaction. She holds him close without complaint as he sinks bonelessly into her lap and drops his chin on her shoulder.
“That was good,” Kiryu sighs.
She pinches his cheek and gives it a tug. “You were good. Didn’t think you’d be such a big fan of Goromi, though.”
Kiryu smiles, dopey with affection. “You’re an amazing woman, Goromi. How could I not be a fan?”
Her voice drops low and dangerous; the effect is somewhat undercut by the furious blush on her cheeks. “And what’m I, chopped liver?”
With a shower of hairpins, she tugs her wig off and tosses it over her shoulder, giving him a very Goro-esque glare. “Can’t believe you’d two-time me like that, Kiryu-chan,” Majima growls, poking him in the chest accusingly.
Kiryu laughs. He dips down and pecks Majima on the nose. “I like you, too, nii-san,” he replies, smoothing Majima’s squashed undercut into a more recognizable shape. “I wouldn’t mind going on an after-hours date with you, either.”
Majima splutters, momentarily dumbfounded. Kiryu sits up and begins to tuck himself back into his pants nonchalantly. “Remind me to hold ya to that,” he finally says.
“Could we do this again sometime?” Kiryu blurts out, surprised by his own forwardness.
“Haw?” Majima scratches the back of his neck. “Which part? The part where I put on lipstick before suckin’ ya dry like a jelly pouch, or the part where ya get yer dick sucked?”
Kiryu plays with the spaghetti strap of Majima’s dress, embarrassed. “Both, I guess.”
Majima snorts. “Well shit, Kiryu-chan, that’s all ya had to say!”
He yanks Kiryu in by the collar until his lips meet his ear. “And next time, you can wear the dress,” he teases.
Kiryu flushes to the tips of his ears. “...Maybe,” he relents.
Notes:
-Necklace vibrators are generally NOT intended for assplay. That said, there's a chain on it, so what's the harm?
-Old woman yuri time is approaching
Chapter 12: Majima's Birthday, Part 1
Summary:
He can name a dozen things that Majima Goro likes on a surface level: booze, brawls, billiards. They all feel too trite for a man nicknamed The Mad Dog. Simple diversions—good for a moment, but not much more.
Notes:
I'm back!! sorry for the delay! This chapter was a bitch and a half to organize and I spent a lot of time wrestling it into something I was happy with. I hope it isn't incoherent. I hope it coheres?
Anyway, I made it to Majima's birthday! And I was only 3 months late. Great timing by my standards. I hope to get the next chapter out soon-ish. It will make more sense than this one for sure.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
On the gentle winds of May comes the first taste of summer, begging to be savored before the rainy season washes it all away and the heat becomes too much to bear.
Which makes it all the more insulting that their limited time is dedicated to laboring instead, and the Majima Construction crew says as much with their restlessness. It’s business as usual on a Monday morning.
After many bruises and blown-out eardrums, the builders have finally hit their stride and work like a well-oiled machine, not even needing Majima’s wrath as an incentive. As foreman, Kiryu commands respect even from their rowdiest men and spending his days developing battle strategies. It feels good to be useful again after so many years rotting in a cell.
When Nishida approaches Kiryu while he’s surveying the site, a few short hours into work, Kiryu doesn’t think much of it.
“Kiryu-san.” Nishida bows respectfully.
“Nishida,” Kiryu replies. He takes his eyes off the last few punks retreating from the site. “Something the matter?”
“Actually, I had a request for you.” Nishida fiddles with the buckle of his helmet.
Lovely. “Okay.”
“So, the boss’ birthday is this month, and—”
“Wait, Majima’s?” Kiryu frowns. Majima had never told him his birthday. If anything, he’d expected Majima to let him know at least half a year in advance.
Nishida nods. “The fourteenth. We usually have an office party for him. He likes his birthday to be a surprise.”
Smoothing out his expression, Kiryu sets aside his curiosity for the moment. “I see. What did you need my help with, then?”
Nishida hesitates, looking slightly sweaty. “Yeah…about that. The thing is, the boss wanted to shoot some promotional materials for the company. Advertisements, branding, that kind of thing.”
“Mm. I heard about that.” It wasn’t a secret; the way Majima practically vibrated with excitement was obvious to anyone who spent longer than a minute in his presence.
“And…” Nishida tugs at his helmet strap one last time before letting it go. “The boss was thinking of doing something like a calendar. Pictures of the employees at work.”
Doing actual work? There’s no way in hell. Kiryu raises an eyebrow. “This isn’t going to be a normal calendar, is it.”
Nishida grimaces.
Sighing, Kiryu pinches his temples. “That’s a no, then.”
“And for oyaji’s birthday, we thought maybe he’d appreciate a, uh…special edition. So to speak.” A thin sheen of sweat beads at Nishida’s forehead.
“Nishida, just say it.”
“We wanted you to model for a pin-up calendar,” Nishida blurts.
“No.”
“Please, Kiryu-san!” Nishida bows again. “It’d make oyaji really happy.”
“I am not taking nudes for Majima-san’s birthday.” And even if I were, I’d do it myself, he barely stops himself from adding.
Nishida helpfully replies “You don’t have to be naked!” as if that makes the situation any better. A worker hurrying past gives them an odd look. At Kiryu’s glare, he whips his head away and speed-walks in the other direction.
Still undeterred, Nishida tries again. “Oyaji can be a bit…demanding, but he works hard. He’s not good at letting people do nice things for him.”
Well, Kiryu can’t argue with that. When he’d asked Majima for his favorite dishes so he could incorporate them into their dinner routine, Majima had made a face like he’d just sucked on a lemon and gruffly waved Kiryu off, claiming I’ll eat anythin’. Which was clearly a lie, given that Kiryu constantly has to guilt him into eating his vegetables. “Yeah, I can tell.”
Sensing a weak spot, Nishida digs his heels in. “We all wanted to pitch in and make something he’d like, so you’d really be helping us out.”
“How am I helping out all the other employees if it’s just photos of me?”
Nishida perks up. “Right! We figured the boss would appreciate scenes of you in action, so we’ll be your props and extras for those.”
Kiryu tilts his head. “You’re really willing to let me beat you up for this?”
“Well,” Nishida rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Please try to go easy on us.”
Snorting, Kiryu cracks a tiny smile. “Hm. No promises.”
“Will you be helping us then, Kiryu-san?”
Kiryu sighs. Contemplates for a few seconds. Begins to deeply regret his life choices. “Fine.”
Nishida sags, looking relieved. “Thank you so much, Kiryu-san!”
“But if I see any of those photos circulating around town, I will kill you.”
Nishida gulps, nodding. “Yes, sir.”
✻ ✻ ✻
The walk home that day is troubled.
Of course it rankles him that Majima wouldn’t have told them about his birthday unprompted (Kiryu reluctantly admits that he probably would have done the same, for very different reasons), but it’s papered over with something more discomfiting—because times like these expose Kiryu’s one major flaw.
He has no fucking clue how to give gifts.
The last time he’d given a birthday gift was…well, ten years ago. And even then, it’d only been because of Nishiki’s reminder and Reina’s suggestion. He thinks of Yumi’s ring, tucked inside Haruka’s tiny jewelry box for safekeeping: trendy, expensive, and none of his idea. A decade later, his heart is still heavy with guilt. He banishes the memory and quickens his pace, determined not to work himself into a self-loathing froth. At least until Haruka is fed.
Perhaps Haruka might have some ideas to offer. Kiryu is determined not to mess up this time, and if that means consulting a nine-year-old on a birthday gift for his middle-aged boyfriend, he’ll take it. It’s easy enough to ask her over dinner that evening.
“Haruka,” Kiryu begins, watching her dig through her bowl of fried rice to pick out pieces of egg. “Majima-san’s birthday is coming up soon. I’m not sure what to give him. Do you have any ideas?”
To her credit, Haruka doesn’t make any joke guesses. She considers the question carefully before replying with what, in retrospect, should have been Kiryu’s first thought. “Well, oji-san, what does Majima-san like?”
Kiryu flounders. Shouldn’t that be an easy question, now that they’ve spent nearly half a year together?
He can name a dozen things that Majima Goro likes on a surface level: booze, brawls, billiards. They all feel too trite for a man nicknamed The Mad Dog. Simple diversions—good for a moment, but not much more.
Forget making Majima have fun in the moment. What actually makes him feel cared for? Understood? Loved?
Suddenly, all potential ideas have fled Kiryu’s mind, only to leave a gaping void that asks: What does Majima Goro like?
Kiryu sighs through his nose, slumping in his chair. “That’s a good question.”
Haruka makes a sympathetic noise and pats his hand. “Well, maybe you can think about it and see if something comes to you. You have time, right?”
“I guess so.”
“I believe in you, oji-san,” Haruka says, and she sounds so earnest that he almost believes in himself, too.
The pleasant weather becomes decidedly less pleasant by the next day, plunging the city into a fetid, muggy soup. A drop of sweat from Kiryu’s brow trickles into his eye, stinging. He blinks hard, overheated and irritable. The steel beam slung over his shoulder weighs heavy on his shoulder blade, obstructing half his vision as he struggles to carry it from one side of the site to the other. He shoots an annoyed glance at Majima, perched on a stack of pallets outside his office trailer and looking on with lazy appreciation.
“Majima,” Kiryu huffs. “Is this really necessary?” He makes an attempt to gesture at the throng of workers around him also hauling equipment without any particular purpose, grimacing when he nearly clocks a passerby in the head with the end of the girder.
Majima cocks his head, smirking. “Dunno what you’re talkin’ about, Kiryu-chan.” His eye follows a bead of sweat down Kiryu’s chest, where it disappears under the V of his shirt collar.
Kiryu scowls. “Carrying things back and forth like this.” The steel slung over his shoulder sags and he stubbornly shrugs it back into its spot. “Is this really the best use of our time?”
“Of course it is!” Majima exclaims, affronted. “The photographers gotta get some action shots of our boys, hard at work!” He waves a hand at the crouching camera men circling the site like flies.
Kiryu scoffs. “Is this work worth doing?”
Majima’s eye narrows and he scoots to the edge of his seat to leer at him like a striking snake. “Now listen here, Foreman Kiryu,” he growls, “if ya only joined up to sit around and look pretty, you can get the hell out.” He points to the bathroom door imperiously.
It takes several seconds for Kiryu to register the compliment. “...You think I’m pretty?”
Majima clenches his jaw, a pinched expression overtaking his narrow face. He closes his eyes and hisses through his teeth. “Just move the fuckin’ beams, Kiryu-chan.”
Kiryu hefts the fifty-kilogram weight currently straining his upper back, reconsidering his commitment to the Majima Construction promotional campaign. And then, considering how hard he’d have to swing it to smack Majima in the face.
A startled shriek snaps his attention to the west end of the site, where a small scuffle has broken out. A harried-looking Nishida scurries into view, waving frantically to attract their attention. “We got intruders, Boss!” He ducks, narrowly dodging a flying cinder block as punks in shiny tracksuits and tiny tank-tops begin pouring into the field.
“Look alive, Kiryu-chan!” Majima barks, pushing himself off his perch and landing lightly. He disappears in a blur of gold, charging headfirst into the fray and leaving Kiryu behind. The photographers retreat from the danger zone, still furiously clicking their shutters to document the ensuing violence. Sighing, Kiryu trudges dutifully toward the commotion and contemplates the impromptu weapons now discarded at his feet.
That day, the photography crew thoroughly documents Kiryu’s one-of-a-kind construction combat style, featuring previously unheard-of uses for steel beams.
✻ ✻ ✻
“He likes a good fight,” Kiryu admits, wincing as he bends too far forward and presses his bruised elbow to the table.
Haruka taps her spoon on her lips, a stray grain of rice clinging to her chin. “Hmm…why don’t you fight him, then? He’d like that.”
Kiryu reaches out with a napkin to swipe at her mouth, smirking when she screws up her eyes like a displeased toddler. “We could fight any time, though. I don’t know if that’s special enough.”
“Why don’t you make it special?”
“What does that even mean?” he asks.
Haruka grumbles. “I dunno,” she replies testily. “Wouldn’t you know that best?”
Kiryu sighs again. “I guess so.”
On Wednesday, Kiryu comes to work to find a centimeter of water flooding the build site and Majima holding a very large water hose.
“Quit yer bellyachin’, Nishida,” Majima snaps, waving the hose around. He’s stripped off his jacket to leave the hannya on display, and the loose buckles of his construction helmet dangling around his ears suggest he was in the process of disrobing further before being rudely interrupted by a voice of reason. “I said we had the sump pump installed! Besides, a li’l water in the basement ain’t gonna hurt nothin’.”
Majima sheds his helmet and discards it, shaking out his flattened hair and muttering to himself. “Nobody else here’s got a single creative bone in their body, I swear.”
He glances up, finally catching onto Kiryu’s presence. As if a switch had been flipped, he breaks into a grin and spreads his arms wide, brandishing the hose like a conductor’s baton. “Well, if it ain’t Foreman Kiryu! Check out the new digs!”
Kiryu casts an appraising eye over the scene: aside from the rapidly-growing puddle encroaching upon the bathroom entrance, several sandbags have been haphazardly emptied onto the ground to make a pile of sand that vaguely resembles an island. Several Majima Construction employees, all in various states of undress and dryness, lounge on the beach, sculpting tiny sand castles with comically large tools. Some photographers on the periphery have set up light screens and tripods. Nishida stands carefully out of the water’s borders, looking a few seconds away from a migraine.
Kiryu decides that the best approach is to remain neutral. “What’s going on?”
Majima gestures impatiently. “Beach day,” he replies, as if that explains everything.
Kiryu blinks. “Beach day?”
Majima rolls his eyes at him theatrically. “I don’t see any buses takin’ the crew to the beach, so I brought the beach here! I ain’t waitin’ for July to roll around to take some beach bunny photos.”
“Beach bunny? Like gravure?” Kiryu looks around, unimpressed. “I don’t see any girls here, nii-san.”
“Haw? I guess you’ll have to stand in for ‘em, then,” Majima jeers. Nishida sends him a pleading look from across the pavement—one that Kiryu has begun to recognize as his just humor him for a bit, Kiryu-san face.
Majima raises the hose above his head and turns it on himself, slicking his hair back until Kiryu sees the clean boundary between shaved undercut and sharp bangs. Sunlight reflects off the droplets, decorating Majima’s tattooed chest like diamonds. Streaks of water carve trails along his rippling obliques, disappearing under his leather belt. Majima smirks and tilts his head flirtatiously, fully aware of his allure and basking in the attention.
Standing sopping wet in front of the world’s shittiest oasis, the sight is more attractive than it has any right to be.
“Now strip, Kiryu-chan,” Majima challenges.
Despite his momentary distraction, Kiryu recoils at the thought of being soaked to the bone, clothes and all. “I’m good, thanks.”
Majima’s flirty smile veers into decidedly-sinister territory. “C’mon, Kiryu-chan. It’s beach day! Lighten up a bit.”
Kiryu slowly begins to back away. “I don’t really feel like getting wet, Maji—augh!” He splutters like a drowned cat as Majima turns the hose on him, splashing him full in the face. Majima lowers the hose to reveal a shit-eating grin. Kiryu glares at the large wet stain now covering his front, then at Majima.
“That’s it. Give me the hose.” Kiryu demands, stalking towards Majima.
Majima sticks out his tongue, cackling. “Make me!” He punctuates the declaration with another spray, soaking Kiryu’s slacks at the crotch.
Kiryu growls and charges, lunging to tackle Majima as soon as he gets close enough. Majima shrieks gleefully, thrashing when Kiryu wrestles him to the ground and thoroughly soaking them both in the process. They tumble into the meager “beach,” crushing several unfortunate sand castles.
Nishida looks on, watching them roll around in the dirt and water with a long-suffering sigh. At least they’re both too preoccupied to notice the cameras flashing.
✻ ✻ ✻
“He likes the beach,” Kiryu grumbles, remembering the itch of sand in every orifice that he’d been forced to tolerate for the rest of that work day.
“A beach vacation!” Haruka beams. “I think that’s a great idea. You should do that!”
“You’re just saying that because you want to come along,” Kiryu replies dryly. “It’s a long way to the beach from here. And Majima-san is busy, you know that.”
“So just make it a day trip,” says Haruka, unmoved.
Kiryu laughs. “You’re really set on this, huh?”
“Yes!” She pauses, as if surprised by her own boldness. “For Majima-san too.” she tacks on, looking sheepish.
He reaches out to pat her head, careful not to muss her neatly-parted hair. “Well, it’s a bit too cold to go to the beach yet, but I’ll take you there in the summer when it’s warmer.”
Haruka deflates. “Oh. Right.”
Smiling to himself, Kiryu tucks that idea away for later.
A frantic last-minute search for Haruka’s missing workbook has Kiryu arriving to work a bit later than usual, sweating and panting from the swift walk. He bursts through the bathroom door, a breathless apology on his lips—and stops short, because something feels off.
Men still clad in construction helmets move strangely across the site, stilted, shambling, and sluggish. One turns his face just enough for Kiryu to catch a glimpse of his ghastly pallor and bloodshot eyes, and when he listens closer, he can hear them emitting some kind of guttural moaning. Kiryu freezes in his tracks, wondering if there’s a bug going around.
A familiar blue shirt shuffles into his vision, and Kiryu breathes a sigh of relief. “Nishida,” he starts, but the rest dies in his throat once he sees the state of him: grayish skin, milky-white eyes, a crooked rigidity to his posture.
He tries again. “Nishida…?”
No response—just a blank stare.
A garbled cry instinctively snags Kiryu’s attention: “Kiryu-chaa-an…!”
Kiryu’s eyes alight on the distinctive yellow jacket and helmet before faltering. Majima staggers toward him, eyes red and unfocused. A trickle of blood runs out of his mouth, and his pale complexion has taken on the sickly cast that seems to be affecting everyone else. His cheeks are sunken and gaunt.
“Majima, what’s going on?” Kiryu demands.
Unsurprisingly, this does nothing to snap Majima out of his trance. Instead, he drags himself closer, close enough for Kiryu to catch the faint scent of his aftershave. It’s enough of a distraction that he fails to notice Majima closing the gap and curling his fingers into Kiryu’s jacket.
Kiryu seizes Majima’s wrist. “What are you doing?” he hisses.
With a low grunt, Majima lunges for his throat. A spike of panic stabs through Kiryu as Majima’s teeth scrape his windpipe, and he barely manages to throw him off before they close around it. Majima stumbles briefly before launching himself at Kiryu again, but this time Kiryu repels him with a bit more force. Majima’s crude movements remind Kiryu of his encounter with Zombie Majima—but he wouldn’t use the same trick twice, would he?
Would he?
Majima lets out a bone-chilling shriek that sends animal fear zipping down Kiryu’s spine, and as Kiryu sidesteps his leg sweep, he notices the other workers creeping closer, undoubtedly attracted by their squabble. He grits his teeth in frustration and searches his surroundings for something—anything—that could help him. If he has to worry about the zombie apocalypse, he has to find Haruka, and he can’t do that if he’s reduced to a red smear on the pavement. Snatching up an abandoned piece of rebar, he knocks down the first attackers and uses their fallen bodies as projectiles, scattering the following wave. Majima leads the charge, weaving in and out as inconveniently as possible and forcing Kiryu to divert his attention to swat him down again and again.
He can feel himself slowly but surely tiring. Every enemy he bats away is swiftly replaced by three more, and even those he lays flat stubbornly stagger to their feet to rejoin the fight. Kiryu uses every potential weapon within reach: cinder blocks, trowels, and plywood lie in pieces at his feet, sacrificed for the cause. Only when he personally finishes them off with a quick stomp to the face do the assailants fall permanently, and once he figures that out, he goes to town evening out the numbers.
Eventually, even the mob is mowed down, and it’s just him and Majima left. Kiryu can feel his heart beating in his ears, the thrill of a real fight putting a second wind in his sails. He takes advantage of Majima’s awkward stance to force him on the back foot, landing punches one after another until a final kick sends Majima sprawling. With a roar, Kiryu hefts a trash bin and brings it down on Majima’s head, putting a definititive end to the battle.
As soon as Kiryu realizes he’s alone again, he sinks to his knees, breathing hard. He looks over at Majima’s splayed body and comes to a horrifying dilemma: is he actually prepared to stop Zombie Majima for good? Kiryu can’t imagine Majima enjoying his new undead state, especially if Kiryu isn’t there with him. He couldn’t, in good conscience, allow Majima to run around and potentially infect others.
He knows what he has to do, but it doesn’t make the pill any easier to swallow.
Majima makes a deep gurgling sound, startling Kiryu out of his emotional crisis. Kiryu scrambles to his feet, putting up his fists. To his confusion, Majima’s choking begins sounding less like a death rattle, and more like…laughter?
Majima draws his knees up and cackles, clutching his ribs and rolling on the ground. Between agonized gasps for air, Majima opens his eye and fixes its scarlet iris on Kiryu’s, freeing up a hand to point at him.
“Yer—yer face!” Majima shrieks, kicking his feet. “I can’t believe ya fell for it a second time! Fuckin’ priceless!” Genuine tears run down his face, only intensifying when Kiryu’s frown deepens.
“Are you done?” Kiryu asks, scowling. By way of reply, Majima starfishes out on the concrete, chest heaving and giggles still bubbling in his throat.
“That was fun,” Majima says dreamily. “We haven’t had a fight that good in a while.”
Some of the fallen zombies start clawing their way upright, no longer groaning for brains but moaning in pain. Out of the corner of his eye, Kiryu spots a few dark-clad photographers emerging from the bushes. Nishida staggers his way over, looking a little chagrined and a lot battered. “Sorry, Kiryu-san. We wanted you to be in on it too, but—”
“But ya showed up late, so I thought we’d pull a little prank on ya as punishment,” adds Majima, still sprawled on the ground. “Pretty good, huh?”
Kiryu lets out a shaky breath, shaking his head. “That wasn’t funny, nii-san. I really thought you’d…” He scrubs his face with his hands and grits his teeth.
“Oi, oi, what’s with that face?” Majima asks, sounding genuinely concerned. “Awright, maybe I should’a said somethin’ about the plan ahead of time. But I’m fine! Nishida’s fine! The boys are fine!” he pauses. Met with silence, he makes an annoyed tch.
“Right?” Majima growls, eliciting a weak chorus of yeses from the downed zombies.
Kiryu struggles to lift his head, trying his best to let go of his nerves.
“Kiryu-chan, look at me,” Majima says. Kiryu obeys, meeting Majima’s eye. He actually looks chastised. Uncomfortable, even. “I’m sorry I scared ya like that.” His gaze flickers, sheepishly avoiding eye contact.
Briefly, Kiryu considers letting him squirm for a little while longer. He decides to be merciful.
“...Those were some good special effects,” he admits.
Majima laughs softly. “Fuckin’ expensive, too.”
Kiryu snorts. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”
An awkward silence stretches between them.
Finally, Majima raises a gloved hand. “Help me up, would ya?” he asks. “Ya really did a number on me.”
Smiling, Kiryu grasps it and hauls Majima to his feet. To his surprise, Majima doesn’t let go of it. “C’mere, big guy,” he mumbles, pulling Kiryu close and slinging an arm around his neck.
Stunned, it takes Kiryu a few seconds to register the gesture for what it is: a hug. He wraps his arms around Majima’s middle and squeezes gently. Majima presses back, solid and warm.
Majima mumbles in his ear. “We good?”
Kiryu hums contentedly. “Yeah. We’re good.”
✻ ✻ ✻
“He likes dressing up in costumes.” Kiryu feels a bit foolish stating something so obvious, but in his defense, he’d been a bit too busy to read further into today’s stunt.
Haruka brightens. “What about a new costume, then?”
He must be making a face, because she quickly revises her proposal. “Or a costume party! You could dress up with him.”
Kiryu doesn’t really want to think about what embarrassing outfit Majima would force him into, but if it’s for his birthday, he supposes he could suck it up. Just this once.
Would he have the logistical skill to plan a whole day around it? Probably not, and it’d be up to Majima to make his own birthday entertainment. He constantly complains about Kiryu’s uptight, boring attitude, and while Kiryu’s not too proud to let Majima lead him around by the nose every now and then, he’s definitely too proud to play clown for the day.
Kiryu doesn’t bother concealing his skepticism. “You think I’d be able to play along with Majima-san for a whole day?”
Haruka sizes him up, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips, and finds him rather lacking.
She sighs. “I don’t think I want to see that, oji-san.”
Kiryu immediately recognizes Everyone’s Idol Goro by the blinding light his jumpsuit reflects directly into his eyes when he arrives at work. As if it weren’t obvious enough, his signature falsetto makes his presence known from several blocks away.
At the moment, his dulcet voice is pointed at the unprotected ears of Majima’s subordinates, who cower and wince at its beauty. Several of them stand in a loose line before Majima, shambling through a dance like the world’s saddest marionettes.
“No, no, no!” Majima growls, brandishing a folded-up feather fan like a knife. “Where’s the passion? The enthusiasm? If ya keep shamblin’ around like I’m payin’ ya ¥700 an hour, I’ll cut it down to match!”
He catches sight of Kiryu—and his silver suit catches Kiryu’s eyes, momentarily whiting out his vision. “Kiryu-chan!” Majima chirps sweetly. He’s wearing roller skates, and when he twirls theatrically, Kiryu conjures the image of a large, screechy disco ball. Evidently, Majima has started on the Friday night festivities early. Kiryu recoils, blinking away spots. “Help me out, would ya?”
Kiryu shields his eyes with a hand and eyes the dancers sympathetically. “Do I have to?”
Majima clicks his tongue. “Don’t be like that. Help me whip these morons into shape.”
“For what?”
Majima rolls his eyes. “Backup dancers! Ya think they just grow from trees? Pop out from the bushes when you’re tearin’ it up at Karaokekan?”
Kiryu doesn’t remember backup dancers in any of his karaoke fantasies, but this is Majima, after all. Knowing him, he probably had pyrotechnics and a stage, too.
“And what makes you think I would be any help?”
Majima scoffs. “Footwork like that? Please. I’d be more surprised if ya weren’t a dancin’ man. Besides, I know your ass was a regular at Maharaja back in the day.”
Kiryu squints. “What? How did you know that?”
Majima waves a hand impatiently. “Nevermind that. Ya gonna help me demonstrate or not?”
“I haven’t danced since the eighties, nii-san.”
“So? S’like ridin’ a bike, ain’t it?”
Kiryu refrains from pointing out that he doesn’t actually know how to ride a bike. “Maybe. But we’re doing disco.”
“Fine by me.” Majima whistles, and the men begin to gather around the two of them, forming a loose circle: an impromptu dance floor. He bows deeply, offering a hand to Kiryu. Kiryu rolls his eyes but takes it anyway, almost stumbling to the ground when Majima gleefully pulls him forward.
“Awright Kiryu-chan, let’s show ‘em how it’s done!” Majima crows.
Kiryu can’t hide his smile. “Don’t blame me if I’m rusty.”
“Guess ya’d better not be, then!” Majima glances sidelong at Nishida at the stereo. “Hit it, Nishida!”
With a click, the speakers burst to life, pumping out pulsing synth as the artificial trumpets of Koi no Disco Queen blare. Majima gasps. “Ooh, I love this song!” He tugs on Kiryu’s arm and diva-walks toward the center of their makeshift dance floor, encouraging him to join.
Kiryu hasn’t heard this song in over twenty years. Unable to perform his customary slide on the rough concrete, he settles for a running lunge on one knee, pointing at Majima with a flourish. Majima pretends to swoon, offering his hand like a noblewoman would a knight. Kiryu pushes himself to his feet and pointedly ignores the protests of his knees, extending his arm and counterbalancing Majima as he bends backwards into a gravity-defying dip.
At first, all of Kiryu’s concentration is devoted simply to keeping up with Majima’s steps, longer than his and made even more so with roller skates. He plants his feet firmly, forming the axis around which Majima becomes a luminous satellite. Though his position technically gives him the lead, Kiryu’s more than happy to defer to Majima’s expertise as he whirls around on wheels.
Mirroring Majima, they fall into a seamless push-and-pull: Kiryu grasps both Majima’s hands and spins him in a semi-circle, one hand on Majima’s back to steady him before whipping Majima away like a slingshot. Majima’s insistent pull on Kiryu’s fingers coaxes him to redirect their path a few steps at a time, and when Majima holds his arm high and gives Kiryu a challenging smile, he meets it with his own and performs a dizzying, if slightly clumsy, underarm turn. While they occasionally separate, they never stay apart for long—their hands always instinctively reach for each other, seeking an anchor. Holding onto Majima feels like leading a tornado by a leash; every twist, spin, and shuffle that Kiryu adds is carefully calculated to counter Majima’s momentum and stop himself from being thrown off like a tube in a centrifuge.
If Majima’s outfit was glaring before, it’s downright blinding now that he’s catching every ray of sunlight in the creases of his jumpsuit. The song nears its last chorus, leaving space for a grand finale. Kiryu rushes forward when he notices Majima winding up for a jump, holding his breath as Majima executes a beautiful double flip on his skates and lands lightly as a bird.
Instead, Kiryu is the one who finds himself off-balance—he lets out a yelp as Majima firmly pushes their joined hands over Kiryu’s head and bends him backwards over Majima’s knee into a dip, forcing Kiryu to lift one foot off the ground as the final cadence rings out.
For a tense, sweaty moment, they stay frozen: Majima’s thigh visibly quivering with Kiryu’s weight, and Kiryu suspended upside-down, every muscle rigid. Then, Majima’s skate ever-so-slightly slips, sending them both crashing to the ground in an undignified heap. Majima sprawls atop him, face buried in Kiryu’s tits and Kiryu’s knee almost squashing Majima’s dick.
Once the shock wears off, Majima cackles with his face still smashed into Kiryu’s cleavage. “Kiryu-chan,” he purrs, muffled, “if ya wanted to get your hands on me, ya just had to ask.”
“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that?” Kiryu huffs. He winces as Majima’s nose digs into his sternum. “Can you get off me, please?”
Majima giggles. “Oho, I could get ya off anytime, stud”—Kiryu grabs him by the face, cutting him off—“mmf.”
✻ ✻ ✻
Burying his head in his hands, Kiryu starts with another obvious thread in hopes that it might lead him toward something more meaningful. “He likes to dance,” he says, defeated.
“Why not take him out dancing, then?”
Given Majima’s track record, Kiryu somehow doubts he’d conduct himself normally at a dancing venue—or any club, for that matter. That much was obvious at Asia. And Debolah. He’d probably never go for a fancier place, and neither would Kiryu. That’s never been their style.
“I’m not sure I see it,” says Kiryu helplessly.
Haruka sighs. “Right.”
“We’re thinking too small.” Kiryu pauses. “Just dancing alone wouldn’t be special enough for his birthday. Majima does this kind of thing even on regular days.”
What would even cut it for a guy who hires a team of makeup artists for a single prank? What would even surprise a guy who is unpredictable even on the best of days? Nothing Kiryu could ever come up with, certainly. Majima rarely indulges other people’s ideas, preferring to be in the driver’s seat. What would satisfy his need for spontaneity without disrupting Kiryu and Haruka’s tight schedule?
“What if,” Haruka proposes, “you just gave him all those things? Would that be enough of a present?”
It’s a good idea, but Kiryu is unsure of the execution. “How?”
Haruka just grins. “I think I have an idea.”
Notes:
-This is the first time I've ever used fancy breaks between sections! Did you know it's called a dinkus? I had a good chortle when I learned that. Feel free to picture them as a smash cut or eyecatch or commercial break or whatever dumb scene transition you'd like
-Beach episode inspired by that stupid sexy Majima RGGO card. You know the one
-Blink-and-you-miss-it reference to Dead Souls
-I had the most fun writing the dancing scene! This was inspired by the Majima Everywhere encounter and 24 Hour Cinderella. They are doing the hustle!
-Yes I know jumps and dips are not standard repertoire for the hustle, I took some artistic liberties
-If you saw me use the "trip and fall into someone's boobs" trope before, no you didn't
Chapter 13: Majima's Birthday, Part 2 [E]
Summary:
The weak light from the city outside casts Majima’s angular face in shades of black and blue. The room is cold without the warm line of Majima’s body pressing into his own. He wants to ask him to stay, but he doesn’t know how.
Notes:
Welcome back to another episode of Everybody Loves Majima, part 2
Stop reading before the last scene if you'd prefer not to see the smut. I'll be going through and giving the chapters proper titles and marking which ones are explicit, so anyone who isn't into that (or maybe sickos) are aware. Also for skipping-around purposes!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Oji-san, we’re going to be late,” Haruka calls, fidgeting in the genkan and already in her shoes.
In the kitchen, sweat beads at Kiryu’s brow. “I’m almost done,” Kiryu replies tersely. It’s equal parts desperate self-reassurance and an attempt to stall for time. The morning sun peeks through the blinds, silently mocking his efforts as he tries in vain to put together the perfect bento. His hands tremble minutely as he traces characters in ketchup, laying strips of nori just so.
Haruka rolls her eyes, kicks off her shoes, and stalks towards him. “Stop worrying so much, oji-san. He won’t care if it’s not perfect.”
“But I care,” he says helplessly.
She swats his fussing hands away from the bento and leans over the counter to peer inside. Kiryu almost runs a hand through his hair before remembering that it’s currently covered in sticky rice. He wonders how long it would take to sweep everything into the trash and swing by Poppo instead. Every small imperfection seems magnified by his big, clumsy hands, piling up into a comedy of errors. It was naive of him to think he could pull off a bento this elaborate with his rudimentary skills. For Majima’s birthday, no less.
Kiryu sighs. “See? I’m just trying to fix it up.”
An uncomfortable beat of silence stretches between them. He feels small under Haruka’s appraising gaze, critical in a way only a young girl’s can be.
“...Oji-san, it’s so cute.” Haruka beams, looking genuinely enamored with Kiryu’s sloppy handiwork. She pats him on the back. “Majima-san will love it. And if he doesn’t, I’ll beat him up myself.”
Kiryu laughs weakly. “I appreciate the offer.” It does make him feel a little better. Haruka might be polite to most people, but she certainly doesn’t mince words with him. It’s an admirable trait, but it’s also the bane of his existence as a struggling househusband-in-training who requires constant positive reinforcement to continue stumbling along.
“Now can we please get going?” Haruka pleads. “You’re starting to make me nervous.” She reaches across the counter to snatch up the furoshiki wraps herself, as if she doesn’t trust him to package them without dawdling further.
Reluctantly, Kiryu closes the lid on the bento and sweeps the dirty dishes into the sink. “I’ve just never made a kyaraben before,” he admits. “I don’t know if it’s any good.”
“It’s a great bento,” Haruka firmly says. “You’d better not throw it away, Uncle Kaz. If you do, I’ll know.”
Kiryu grumbles, embarrassed at having been read so thoroughly. “I won’t.”
“Good!” She herds him out of the kitchen, bullying him towards the door. “Now come on. Majima-san won’t appreciate you being late again.”
The site buzzes with the hopeful energy of a Friday morning, the eagerness in the air almost palpable. He drops the offending bento off at Majima’s desk as nonchalantly as possible, and for a few hours, he forgets about it. After all, there’s always work to do, and always an idiot or five to fuck it up. Today is a day like any other, and if it weren’t for the looming promise of after-work drinks to celebrate the occasion, he’d almost believe it.
For the little surprise party Nishida had planned, though, Kiryu’d had to put his foot down. He’d made it very clear that he was not to be in the vicinity when Majima’s gift was to be presented, and if Nishida knew what was good for him he’d hold his damn horses. Watching Nishida quiver and solemnly swear to uphold his promise felt pretty good. Kiryu could understand why Majima enjoyed tormenting him so much.
Feeling more than a bit foolish for his display of weakness he’d shown that morning, eventually Kiryu drags himself away from his work and peels Majima away from his papers for break time. It’s almost charming how seriously Majima takes his responsibilities. Even if it means that sometimes Kiryu walks into Majima’s office to find him face-down in a stack of papers and snoring away.
They sink down against the wall, now furnished with a stack of pallets that feel luxurious compared to the cold concrete; Majima sighs, scrubbing at his face with a gloved hand.
“Ah, thank fuck. Some peace and quiet,” he grumbles. “Hope those morons don’t take up my lunch break with their little party.”
“Can you blame them?” Kiryu replies, amused. “They just want to make you feel appreciated.”
Majima scoffs. “Well, they can start by leavin’ me alone during my Kiryu-chan time.”
A sliver of Nishida’s head peeks around the corner to Majima’s left, trying to snag Kiryu’s attention. Kiryu catches Nishida’s eye and shakes his head very slowly, staring him down. Nishida pops out of sight as soon as Majima looks up.
“What’cha lookin’ at?” Majima interrupts, eyeing Kiryu curiously.
Kiryu looks down, unwrapping his bento. “Nothing.” Majima pouts. “Eat your bento, nii-san.”
Majima snorts, clearly unconvinced, but obeys. Kiryu busies himself with his chopsticks and furoshiki until he hears a soft haw? beside him. Unable to resist, Kiryu sneaks a peek at Majima’s reaction.
He is always prepared for Majima’s teasing. He is not prepared for the unguarded, genuine look of surprise on Majima’s face.
Majima gapes. “It’s…”
“Ugly, I know,” Kiryu admits, fiddling with his chopsticks. Even carrying it as carefully as possible, parts of it had jostled and shifted out of place during the commute to work. The rice-ball head of an eyepatched bear sleeping under a tamagoyaki blanket sits slightly askew, the candle planted in the manjū nestled in the corner listing to the side. At least the ketchup art on the omurice had held fast—he didn’t need the wobbly kana spelling out omedetou to become even less legible.
Majima puts a hand on his own chest as if he’s in pain, eye screwed shut. “It’s so fuckin’ cute it hurts, Kiryu-chan.” He slaps Kiryu on the back, hard. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack on my own birthday, and it’s gonna be all your fault.”
Kiryu pouts. “You don’t have to make fun of me, y’know—”
“I ain’t!” Majima leans in close. “I love it, Kiryu-chan. No one’s ever done somethin’ this nice for me. You’re so adorable it drives me crazy.” He plants a kiss on Kiryu’s cheek, loud and sloppy like he does when he’s trying to suppress a real emotion.
Kiryu straightens, face reddening. The tenderness in Majima’s eyes is so earnest he could die. “Happy birthday, nii-san.”
Unfortunately, Nishida and the employees choose that moment to emerge from their hiding place, storming out and cheering: “Happy birthday, Boss!” Nishida himself bears a small cake with a candle, while a gaggle of men follow close behind.
Majima startles, throwing them a glare. He points at Nishida accusingly. “Don’t ya morons have any sense of timing? I was enjoyin’ a special moment with my Kiryu-chan!” He shooes them away. “Fuck off and don’t come back ‘til I’ve finished my lunch!”
The party abruptly falls silent and retreats behind the corner. The shuffle of feet and the swish of clothing make it obvious that they’re still in the area, but Majima pays them no mind, chirping Itadakimasu! and digging into Kiryu’s lovingly-crafted bento. A little unnerved by the audience, Kiryu tentatively picks at his own lunch (mostly leftovers from last night) and lets Majima steal the tastier bits of it without complaint. He eats the food Kiryu made him, of course—Kiryu might be a novice at food presentation, but even he can make a decent omurice—but food-stealing is practically a sign of affection from Majima.
Kiryu uses his own cigarette lighter on the candle in the manjū, holding it up to Majima’s face as he blows it out and takes a bite from the pastry in Kiryu’s outstretched hand. He’s very aware of the several-dozen sets of eyes on them, but Majima seems to have no such qualms, nibbling indulgently as a king.
Once Majima’s done (he’d almost licked the crumbs from Kiryu’s fingers until he’d snatched his hand away, aghast) he sighs and claps twice. “Party time!” he demands. “Ya got”—he checks his phone—“fifteen minutes left of lunch, so hurry it up! No celebratin’ on company time!”
The men reemerge, announcing their presence with a second (less enthusiastic) cheer of Happy birthday! which Majima magnanimously allows. True to Nishida’s word, Majima’s birthday present does not feature in their impromptu celebration. With any luck, Kiryu will be tucked in bed and fast asleep by the time Majima receives it and inevitably bombards him with lewd texts and calls.
As soon as the bell rings to signal the end of lunch, Majima shooes the partygoers away like a flock of pigeons, the festivities over as quickly as they’d started. In an uncharacteristic show of laxity, Majima hangs back. Curious, Kiryu stays.
“You gonna come to the party after work?” Majima asks, waggling his eyebrows.
Kiryu snorts. “I can’t go home to Haruka smashed, nii-san.”
“Then have your detective friend watch over her!”
“If I’m too hungover to cook tomorrow, then who’s going to make dinner for you?” Kiryu smiles wryly.
A grin splits Majima’s face. “Kiryu-chan’s making more food for me? You tryna make me too fat to fight ya?”
“You’re too skinny.” He pokes Majima in the ribs; Majima puts his hand over the assaulted area, indignant. “It’s not a fair fight if I can snap you in half like a twig.”
“Kiryu-chan, how forward!” Majima fans himself. “I’d say buy me dinner first, but ya got that covered, don’tcha.”
Kiryu chuckles. “Guess so. Have fun tonight, then come over tomorrow. It’s a special party from me.”
“Izzat so?” Majima leans in so close his breath ghosts Kiryu’s face, sweet like adzuki bean. “Lookin’ forward to it, Kiryu-chan.”
Thanks to his early turn-in the night before, Kiryu wakes up bright and early on Saturday morning. Without any pressing matters requiring his attention, he lazes in bed, thinking about where Majima is and hoping he recovers in time to make it to dinner. He fumbles for his cell on the nightstand and squints at the tiny screen.
Kiryu had wisely silenced his phone before going to bed, and there’s a small satisfaction in the decision as he looks through his messages to find his inbox much more crowded than the day before. He thumbs through his texts like the morning paper, following Majima’s drunken adventure in chronological order.
[Friday 21:22] Kiryu-chan!!!!! I got your present!!!
[Friday 21:39] Kiryu-channnnnnnn (ง ˃ ³ ¯)ว ⁼³₌₃⁼³
[Friday 22:01] You look so sexy!! And handsome!!! And pretty!! Handsome too
[Friday 22:52] Kiryu-chan you did this on purpose didn’t you. You didn’t wanna see my reaction cuz you’d be soooooo embarrassed. Kiryu-chan is so cute (*´▽¯*)
[Friday 23:03] Well it didnt work cuz now everyone sees ya frm MY perspective HAHAHA. You look gud in that gray suit. Evn tho its ugly as fuck ( ≧ᗜー)
[Saturday 00:08] I see all tht trainin paid off. You cn thank me later (⸝⸝> ᴗ×⸝⸝)
[Saturday 01:20] Txt me baaaack Kryu-chan (๑•̀ ᴖ ×)૭
[Saturday 02:05] Fuck..,, gorjus. gonjus. goargis
He checks his call log. Five missed calls, all from Majima, but only one voicemail—as if he’d dialed only to hang up when it became clear that Kiryu intended to let it ring. Out of curiosity, he opens the voicemail.
A crunching noise emanates from the speaker. Kiryu-chaaaaaaaaaaaan, Majima’s voice drawls. Ya got some nerve…skippin’ out on my birthday party after lookin’ so…ngh. Sexy. On that fuckin’ calendar. The last sentence peters out amid a cacophony of other drunken voices in the background.
Thanks for that, by the way. I’m gonna be good on fap material for the rest of the year, nyeheheh! A burst of laughter rings out somewhere behind him. Kiryu pinches his temple.
I know ya gotta be a responsible dad, but make an exception for me! Tell Haruka I said—hic—hi. Kiryu considers the request, then discards it out of spite. Majima can say hello to Haruka in person like everyone else.
Anyway. I know it was Nishida’s idea—say hi to Kiryu-chan, Nishida! Majima snaps. There’s the sound of a smack and a yelp.
H-Hi, Kiryu-san, Nishida’s meek voice tins out, barely audible.
Majima continues, but yer a real doll for goin’ along with it. The bento ya made for me was so fuckin’ cute. Delicious too. Wanna wife ya up, fer real. Kiryu-chan? Kiryu-chaaaaaaaaaaan!
Kiryu wonders if Majima managed to drag himself home after the festivities, or if he’s still passed out in some grimy corner in the Champion District. He hopes it’s the former, but it wouldn’t be the first time Kiryu fished Majima out of the trash after a long night out.
Well, since y’ain’t pickin’ up, I’mma get goin’. They’re waitin’ on me to cut the cake. The clamor grows louder, as if Majima had turned the receiver away from himself. Love ya, Kiryu-chan! Majima makes an loud kissy noise. The voicemail beeps.
Although he is completely alone, Kiryu covers his mouth to conceal the dopey smile brewing on his face, tries his best to wipe away the silly flush blossoming on his cheeks. He tosses aside the covers aside, already excited for the day ahead.
“Haruka, could you get the door?” Kiryu asks, fumbling under the table to plug the grill’s cord into the outlet. She pauses in her arrangement of the dishes and starts for the door.
“Majima-san!” She chirps, moving aside.
Hunched over, Kiryu recognizes the long legs in the doorway. “Hey, princess,” Majima replies, patting her downy head.
Haruka looks him up and down. “Where’s my present?”
“Haw? Isn’t that my line?” Majima puts a hand on his hip. “Spoiled rotten. What kinda establishment is this?”
Kiryu tries to extract himself from the cramped space under the dining table without jostling the plates on top of it. He can hear the sound of Majima toeing off his shoes in the genkan. And then him whistling when he comes across his ass sticking out.
“Damn, Kiryu-chan!” Majima nudges Kiryu’s hip with his foot. “Ya givin’ me my present already?”
“Oi,” Kiryu barks. Haruka giggles.
Majima grins remorselessly, but pulls Kiryu to his feet all the same. “What’s for dinner, baby?”
Kiryu grimaces. “Don’t call me that.” He gestures at the half-set table: the tabletop grill and plates of thinly-sliced beef and pork sit lonely, waiting for their colorful vegetable companions. “Yakiniku.”
“Could’a taken me to Kanrai, cheapskate.”
“You’re really testing me here.”
“Majima-san,” Haruka says sternly, “You shouldn’t tease Uncle Kaz so much. It’s not good for his heart.”
Kiryu splutters; Majima guffaws. “Awright, li’l lady. Need any help settin’ the table?”
“Yes please!”
It almost looks as good as the spreads on Kanrai’s menu, if Kiryu squints and forgets about the mistakes he made. He’d made some uneven cuts with the pork belly, but it was fairly well-disguised through the stripes of fat and muscle and lent itself well to arrangement on a plate. Out of an abundance of caution he’d caved and bought pre-sliced kalbi, whose marbled appearance adds luxury to the homemade meal. Chunky slices of beef tongue share the same plate, contrasting the fattier cuts. A plate of painstakingly-cleaned shrimp arranged in a flower-like spiral rounds out the proteins. And, of course, Kiryu had prepared a feast of vegetables: sliced kabocha squash, onions, shiitake and enoki mushrooms, and green peppers await the grill while a salad of shungiku and cucumber make for a refreshing side dish. Haruka had been a big help throughout the entire process—he’d entrusted the yakiniku sauce and rice to her as he worked on cutting the raw ingredients. It had taken most of the day, but the amazed expression on Majima’s face was well worth the effort.
“Ya really went all-out, Kiryu-chan,” Majima manages.
Kiryu rubs the back of his neck. “Well. It’s your birthday, after all.”
“Can we eat now?” Haruka asks impatiently. Kiryu reaches over and ruffles her hair. Her hands fly to her mussed pigtails, indignant.
Majima barks out a laugh. “Better get on with it, then. I’m starvin’.”
The savory scent of seared meat fills the room as Kiryu places a few pieces of the best cuts on the hot grill. With the shrewd eye of a seasoned grill-master, he waits for the juices to bubble to the surface of the meat before flipping it with his chopsticks. They sit in tense silence as the beef cooks. Kiryu examines the browning edges of the kalbi, contemplating the perfect moment to flip it again for a thorough sear.
Only to be startled when Majima and Haruka simultaneously swoop in to snatch up the barely-done meat, fighting with their chopsticks for the best pieces. They stuff their faces and hum in contentment as Kiryu sits there in shock.
“S’better than Kanrai!” Majima declares.
“Definitely,” Haruka agrees.
Kiryu blinks. “It would’ve been better if you’d let it fully cook,” he interrupts, scandalized.
Majima shrugs. “Tastes pretty good to me.”
He gives Majima a disapproving frown but lets it go. With a pointed look at both of them, he crowds the grill with vegetables before relegating the remaining space to meat. He nudges the salad across the table, prompting them to have some while the new ingredients cook. He fights down a smile when they each serve themselves without complaint.
Haruka seizes upon the lull in conversation to discuss yakiniku with Majima, debating over the best cuts and grill method. Kiryu keeps his eyes on the table, snatching up cooked pieces and distributing them to his companions like a loving mother hen. As the grill heats further and ingredients cook faster, he grows more efficient, and soon the contented sounds of eating begin to replace the chatter. There’s a deep satisfaction in watching a meal come together—cooking the food to perfection, serving it to people he loves, seeing their happy faces.
Haruka and Majima share a cryptic look over the table and seem to come to a unified conclusion. When Kiryu drops another perfectly-browned slice of kalbi into Haruka’s bowl, they move in unison: Haruka snatches up the meat and sticks it into Kiryu’s bowl, while Majima slaps his chopsticks away from the grill and shoves hot pork belly and green pepper into Kiryu’s rice.
“Quit hogging the grill, Kiryu-chan,” Majima admonishes, dishing out more squash and beef tongue and vehemently refusing Kiryu’s attempts to assist.
Haruka nods enthusiastically, cheeks stuffed with rice. “You should try it, oji-san! It’s really good.”
A strange warmth blossoms in Kiryu’s chest—one that he’s come to recognize as affection, but which still feels foreign after years of its absence.
Instead of fighting them on it, he acquiesces and dips the crisp, fatty strip of kalbi into his dish of yakiniku sauce before biting into it. The astringent nip of garlic cuts through the marbled meat, blunting its richness so that it can head off the spicy edge of the gochujang. Savory soy sauce and sesame oil complement the beef, with sugar and sweet onion paving the way for a light finish. Kiryu hums in satisfaction.
His smile wobbles at the edges. “It is good,” Kiryu agrees.
To Kiryu’s relief, the vegetables had done their job in satiating Majima and Haruka’s voracious appetites. While the meat has been thoroughly demolished, they all eventually concede defeat with full stomachs. He still remembers the last time he’d taken Haruka to Kanrai. He didn’t even think it was possible for such a tiny girl to put away so much meat, and the last thing he wanted was a repeat of that (very expensive) episode.
However, she seems more energized than ever, practically vibrating in her seat. He has a feeling he knows why.
“Oji-san, can we get to the presents?” Haruka pleads.
Majima perks up. “Presents?” He looks to Kiryu, putting on a kicked-puppy expression of his own.
Well, far be it from Kiryu to stop her. “Go get it,” he replies indulgently. Haruka springs out of her chair and scrambles for her room. She returns brandishing a fat pink envelope covered in glitter stickers with Happy Birthday Majima-san written neatly on the front.
“Haw? Ya really got somethin’ for me?” Majima takes it from her, looking incredulous.
“Of course!” She says matter-of-factly, as if it hadn’t even occurred to her not to. “Me and Uncle Kaz spent a long time thinking about it.”
Majima carefully tears into the envelope. “Both of ya, huh?” He looks up and smirks at Kiryu. “But Kiryu-chan already got me somethin’ good—”
“Are you going to open it or not?” Kiryu cuts in.
Majima laughs, but trails off once he extracts the bundle of papers inside. It’s a small book with staples along the spine and colorful pages studded with stickers and doodles. He scans the front: Majima-san’s Birthday Coupons. “A coupon book?”
“It was Haruka’s idea,” says Kiryu, at the same time that Haruka blurts “It was my idea!” and tips her chin up proudly as Majima thumbs through the pages.
He snorts at the first voucher: One fight with Kiryu, no questions asked, accompanied by a crude drawing of Kiryu tiger-dropping Majima, whose good eye has been replaced by an x.
“We weren’t sure what to get you, so we decided to give you everything!” she explains, beaming. The next page, One day trip with Kiryu and Haruka, comes with a cheery sketch of the three of them at a beach.
“I’d really like to go to the beach this summer,” Haruka adds meaningfully. Kiryu gives her a stern look; she shrinks back sheepishly. “If you want to.”
Still silent, Majima flips through the next few pages: free trips to the bowling alley, arcade, batting center. He lets out a small haw? of surprise when he lands on: One costume night with Kiryu, paired with a doodle of Goromi holding hands with Kiryu in a dress. (“Did you really have to draw me like that?” Kiryu had sighed, Haruka utterly unapologetic.)
“Majima-san likes dressing up, so you can dress up with oji-san!” Haruka chirps. “He won’t even complain.” She shoots Kiryu a look that says right, oji-san? Kiryu grunts noncommittally.
Majima finally lets out a snicker as he reaches the last page: One date night with Kiryu, anywhere! in curly script on purple paper, pasted over with sparkly hearts and mascot stickers, practically dripping in glitter glue. Haruka, in her endless humor, has drawn a picture of Majima and Kiryu sitting across each other at a table decorated with rose petals and candles giving each other moony stares. Kiryu wonders when she’d gotten so damn sarcastic, but then again, Yumi had a very similar personality at her age. He can’t bring himself to even be mad about it.
“Do you like it?” She asks nervously.
Majima looks up, a strangely soft look on his face. He smiles crookedly at her. He reaches across the table and pats her on the head.
“It’s the best birthday gift I’ve ever gotten.”
The low roar of torrential rain grows louder as the dishes are cleared. From the sound of distant thunder and raindrops thumping on the roof, it seems unlikely to stop anytime soon.
“Why don’t you stay a little longer, nii-san?” Kiryu asks. “You’ll catch a cold going out in this weather.”
Haruka eyes Majima’s open jacket critically, silently concurring with Kiryu’s opinion. “You’ll get all soaked and soggy like a drowned rat.”
“Oi, ain’t anyone ever tell ya to respect your elders?”
“Nope!” Haruka chirps. “And I won’t until you have a sleepover with us.”
Majima gives Kiryu an amused look. “You’re raising a real bold one, Kiryu-chan.”
Kiryu shrugs. “She knows you deserve it.”
“So will you stay the night?” Haruka asks. “Uncle Kaz got me some new nail polish, and I think it would look good on you.”
Majima smiles crookedly. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to a free manicure.”
“Get ready for bed first, though,” Kiryu orders. “If you get nail polish on your uniform again, I’m not cleaning it for you.”
“Of course!” She replies, aghast. “What’s the point of a sleepover if you’re not in your pajamas?” Haruka darts off to her room, no doubt gathering her clothes for a bath.
Majima chuckles. “Looks like that one’s goin’ through her bratty preteen phase early.”
A smile tugs at Kiryu’s lips. “She doesn’t act like herself around people she doesn’t trust.”
With officially nothing else to do, Kiryu leads Majima to his bedroom and digs through his closet for something that might fit him.
“You really don’t have to stay the night if you don’t want to,” Kiryu says. He comes up with a soft t-shirt and a pair of drawstring sweatpants and hands them over.
Majima just shrugs. “I can always duck out after the kid’s asleep.” He unceremoniously wriggles out of his leather pants and tosses his jacket to the floor, hee-heeing as Kiryu turns away from his half-naked form. But looking upon Majima wearing his clothes, hanging loose on his lean frame, is almost worse. It reminds him of the first time he visited Majima’s place—how he’d opened the door in his Bun-chan pajamas and medical patch, looking so vulnerable. Almost soft, if someone who looked like Majima could ever be described that way.
Clearly it’s showing on Kiryu’s face, because Majima averts his eye and turns his back on him. “Your turn,” Majima calls, gesturing vaguely in Kiryu’s direction. Kiryu gets the hint and changes his clothes.
Kiryu settles down on the sofa and Majima follows, sliding in right next to Kiryu until they’re connected from thigh to shoulder. He gives Kiryu a cheeky grin; Kiryu drapes an arm over Majima’s shoulders. When Haruka returns from the bath bearing her manicure kit, he lets her flop down beside him, snatch up the remote, and flip through channels until she lands on a colorful anime show. The fluffy-haired girls onscreen look vaguely familiar, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.
“Eh? There’s a new PreCure series?” Majima straightens in his seat, sounding incredulous.
Haruka perks up. “You’ve seen PreCure?” She asks excitedly, looking in Majima’s direction.
Majima scoffs. “Girlie, I was there for the first episode!”
“You’d really like Splash Star, then! Cure Bright reminds me a lot of Goromi-neesan.”
“Is that so? Guess I’ll have to see for myself.”
Kiryu has no idea what they’re talking about, but he’s glad they’re getting along, at least. He just hopes Majima doesn’t mention the Cure Black incident to her. For now, they seem content to discuss their favorite moments from the first two seasons while Haruka paints Majima’s nails at the coffee table. It moves far too quickly for Kiryu’s brain to keep up, but it’s apparently no trouble for Majima, who has the characters and their catchphrases memorized by the second episode. Haruka and Majima recite their lines in sync like people possessed.
“Those who defied the Holy Fountains…” Haruka declares, pointing a finger at the television.
“...We’re here to stop your cruel behavior!” Majima crows, flashing his sparkly orange nails. Kiryu gives them an amused huff of laughter.
Despite her ambitious plans, Haruka tires quickly. After dragging both Majima and Kiryu down to have their nails painted in bright colors, she nestles into Kiryu’s side contentedly on the couch as the television switches over to a serene slice-of-life about a goddess disguised as a middle schooler. Kiryu can feel his shoulders starting to go numb with two people squishing him from either side, but he’d never dream of moving.
When a rather odd show about high school boys dressing up as princesses comes on, Kiryu makes the executive decision to call it a night despite Majima’s half-hearted protests of lemme watch, Kiryu-chan! This was made for me! He glances down at his side to break the news to Haruka, only to see her fast asleep against him, little chest rising and falling peacefully. He irritably shushes Majima and turns off the television, gesturing to his sleeping charge.
Carefully gathering her up in his arms, he stands and carries her off to her bedroom. He tucks her snugly into bed, smoothing her hair with a gentle hand. Sweet thing doesn’t even stir; like her uncle, she’s a heavy sleeper. He closes her bedroom door as quietly as he can.
Kiryu returns to the living room to Majima stretching his arms over his head, the hem of his borrowed shirt riding up his midriff. Majima looks comfortable and sleepy and happy. In that moment, Kiryu’s only thought is of how to keep him that way.
“Think the rain’s stopped,” Majima yawns, giving him a sideways glance. “Better be on my way, huh?”
The weak light from the city outside casts Majima’s angular face in shades of black and blue. The room is cold without the warm line of Majima’s body pressing into his own. He wants to ask him to stay, but he doesn’t know how.
“I—I have a special present for you,” Kiryu stammers instead.
Majima raises a brow. “Are ya propositionin’ me right now, Kiryu-chan? With yer kid in the other room?”
“She’s asleep,” replies Kiryu automatically. He grimaces. “I mean—don’t you want to find out for yourself?”
Majima hmms, his smile cat-like in the darkness. “S’pose I do.” He heaves himself off the couch and drapes himself across Kiryu’s back, following him to Kiryu’s room.
Majima flops onto Kiryu’s futon, starfished in the blankets. “So what’s my present, Kiryu-chan?” He turns over, stretching languidly; his shirt rides up ever so slightly to expose a strip of bare skin and the trail of hair that disappears below his waistband. “Gonna give me somethin’ special?”
Kiryu hesitates. ‘I…hadn’t thought that far.” He awkwardly kneels next to the futon. “Whatever you want, I guess.”
Majima laughs lowly. “That’s a dangerous offer, Kiryu-chan. Ya really mean anything?”
“Within reason.” Feeling bold, he slings a knee over Majima’s hips and hovers over his body.
Majima drapes his arms over Kiryu’s back, humming thoughtfully. Kiryu buries his nose in the crook of Majima’s neck and scrapes his stubble across his skin, just because he can. Majima wriggles under the touch, giggling.
“Y’know what I want?” Majima whispers. “I want ya to take the lead this time.”
Kiryu tilts his head. “Huh?”
“Kiryu-chan.” Majima tilts his head back to expose the long column of his neck. “Y’know I love the blushin’ virgin act, but if ya had your way we’d be sleepin’ ten centimeters apart facin’ opposite directions so no impure thoughts could disrupt yer beauty sleep.”
Kiryu scowls, hoping that the low light disguises the blush undoubtedly creeping up his neck. “I’m not a virgin.”
“Then prove it.” Arms up, he relaxes into the futon, shamelessly displaying his belly. Cute. “Do with me what ya will, Kiryu-chan.”
Heart beating in his ears, Kiryu fumbles with the drawstring of Majima’s sweats. His eyes flick up. “Is this okay?”
Majima waves a hand languidly. “I’ll tell ya if it ain’t.”
Kiryu swallows hard, the lump in his throat bobbing but refusing to pass. Majima lifts his hips, allowing Kiryu to work his pants down and expose his dick. Kiryu gives it a few experimental strokes, firm and assertive, the way Majima likes it—and feels his heart swell with pride when Majima arches into the touch. Majima lets out a quiet moan, little more than a rumble, but it’s enough to make Kiryu throb in his pants. It gives him a little courage to press further.
He starts deliberately teasing Majima, pulling back the foreskin to circle his thumb around the head and watch him twitch with the rough stimulation. It rips a delicious whine out of Majima which is quickly muffled by the back of his hand. Familiar now with Majima’s scent and anatomy, his cock slips into his mouth like it belongs there, dragging smoothly against his tongue and the soft walls of his throat. Majima gasps, unconsciously bucking his hips into Kiryu’s face; Kiryu settles his hands on Majima’s hipbones and holds him still, digging his fingertips into pale, unblemished skin. Majima’s fingers weave their way into Kiryu’s hair and tighten around the thick strands.
He dips his head down, tracing a vein with his tongue and gently scraping the delicate skin with his teeth. A huff from his nose stirs the coarse hairs at Majima’s groin, where his pelvis tries and fails to find purchase in Kiryu’s waiting mouth while pinned to the bed. Majima whines and Kiryu relents, finally bobbing his head in earnest and exchanging the heady taste of precum for thin saliva. It drips down his fingers, wrapped around the shaft and twisting clumsily. Despite his inexpert handling, Majima seems to like it well enough, if the tremble in his thighs are anything to go by. If the muffled gasps are anything to go by.
He can feel Majima struggling harder, desperately seeking the friction and pressure that Kiryu won’t give him. His bitten-off moans grow more and more frustrated, threatening to leak through the walls. Kiryu startles at a particularly high whine and pulls away. He slides his way up Majima’s reclined form, slapping a palm over his mouth with a stern “Quiet.”
A puff of air ghosts over the back of his hand. Majima narrows his eye dangerously—but instead of bucking Kiryu off like he’d expected, he relaxes and licks Kiryu’s hand, huffing as if to say: fine, but get on with it.
Sensing that Majima’s patience is growing shorter by the second, Kiryu obeys. He releases Majima and resumes his play, this time determined to make Majima cum, whether or not he’s prepared for Kiryu’s methods. A cold rivulet of drool carves its way down Kiryu’s chest, and he has a brilliant idea. With one fluid motion, he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside.
The genuine squeak Majima makes when he sees Kiryu grabbing both his tits with one hand and slotting Majima’s dick between them is priceless. It’s an awkward position, but Majima does most of the work himself, rutting desperately against Kiryu’s shallow but not insubstantial cleavage. It’s probably not as good as a pair of G-cups, but Majima doesn’t seem to mind, torn between feeling up Kiryu’s pecs himself and stifling the obscene noises he’s making.
It’s almost comical how quickly Majima cums after that, arching his back and painting Kiryu’s neck and chest with semen. Kiryu would laugh, but he’s more flattered than anything—in all his years, nobody has expressed quite as much appreciation for his chest as Majima. There’s a sweet satisfaction in hearing the sound of Majima’s breaths, gasping as he comes down.
Finally, Majima manages to find his words. “Come here,” he demands, eye hungry.
Careful not to stain Majima’s shirt with cum, Kiryu crawls his way forward until they’re face-to-face. Like the dog he is, Majima reels him in, cleaning his own ejaculate from Kiryu’s face with a puppy-soft tongue.
“Who the fuck taught ya how to give a titjob?” Majima laughs, swirling a tongue around Kiryu’s nipple before pulling off. “They deserve a medal.”
Kiryu blushes, looking away. “I saw it in a video once.”
“Yer one horny bastard, Kiryu-chan,” Majima teases. He cards a hand through Kiryu’s mussed hair, surprising him with the gentleness of the touch. It settles at the nape of Kiryu’s neck and pulls him close enough for Majima to whisper in his ear. “Gonna let me return the favor?”
Mouth suddenly dry, Kiryu nods.
“Ya got lube?”
Kiryu is silent.
Majima snorts, throwing his head back into the pillows. “Course ya don’t. Awright then.” He cups a hand beneath Kiryu’s mouth, looking at him expectantly. Kiryu blinks, confused.
“Spit,” he orders.
Kiryu wrinkles his nose. Rolling his eye, Majima prods him again. “C’mon, we’re gonna need some lube for this. Shouldn’t be hard to drool all over me like ya did with my dick.”
Embarrassed and still a little turned on, Kiryu dutifully spits into Majima’s palm, a thread of saliva trailing from his lips. “There ya go,” Majima coos.
Majima disentangles himself from Kiryu and rolls over, pulling down his sweatpants even further to reveal the inked swirls and petals covering the curve of his ass. He swipes a wet hand between his thighs, covering them in slick saliva, before pulling himself to his knees and presenting himself to Kiryu ass-up. Kiryu’s eyes widen, heart thundering in his chest. “Uh…”
Majima shakes his ass demonstratively. “What? Never heard of sumata before?”
“No, I haven’t.”
Smirking, Majima reaches around and grabs Kiryu by the cock, pulling him closer until his pelvis is flush with Majima’s muscular legs. “I’d offer to let ya fuck me, but seein’ as ya don’t have any lube and there’s a good chance I’d wake up the whole building with my racket”—Majima wiggles his eyebrows; Kiryu sighs—“I figured I’d give ya the next best thing.”
Kiryu can’t lie. It has its appeal. He’s spent many long nights simply dreaming about Majima’s long, lithe legs, the way they wrap tightly around his neck during fights. What his tattoo looks like under his leather pants. What he looks like getting taken from behind. Majima closes his thighs tightly, relaxed and inviting.
Kiryu rests his hands over Majima’s slim waist. “You sure about this?”
“I ain’t gettin’ any younger here.”
Reverently, he holds Majima still and slots his hard cock between his thighs, feeling the shiver that runs through Majima’s body. It feels nicer than he thought: the muscles of the inner thighs are firm but not tense, the scant fat atop them adding cushion to ease the glide. Majima is warm and pliant, having just gotten off, and it’s almost as soft as a pussy—only better, since Kiryu has the perfect view of Majima’s back, narrow hips cinching into a equally-lean waist, decorated with delicate flowers and demons and scars from battles won and lost.
It’s the best view Kiryu’s ever had.
Though Majima is still spent, his panting breaths and trembling legs are proof of the strong body beneath Kiryu, being offered up for his pleasure. Kiryu rocks his hips, his own precum making the motion easier the longer he fucks into Majima. The quiet slap of skin on skin is almost deafening, almost enough to overpower the blood roaring in Kiryu’s ears. Majima crosses his legs and squeezes Kiryu tightly; stars dance in his vision. He runs an adoring hand up Majima’s spine, rucking up his shirt to expose the hannya’s mournful face. Majima turns his head to the side, good eye half-lidded and dark. Kiryu’s hips stutter.
“Can I cum on your back?” Kiryu says breathlessly.
Majima sucks in a breath. “Do it,” he hisses.
Kiryu doesn’t need to be told twice. Hurriedly pulling out, he jerks himself to the siren call of Majima’s eye, the tattoo crawling over his skin, the muscles heaving under Kiryu’s hand. He paints the flowers white, leaving pearly streaks on the hannya. He silently apologizes for desecrating her image, not that Majima seems to mind—he collapses onto his stomach, tired and sated. Kiryu pulls on his underwear and guiltily hurries off to the bathroom to fetch a washcloth for the mess on Majima’s back.
When he returns, Majima’s stretched out on his futon like a cat, happy to let Kiryu do the work of wiping up the spit and cum on him. Once Kiryu’s done, he rolls over indulgently, in no hurry to move from Kiryu’s bed.
“Thanks for the birthday gift, Kiryu-chan,” he yawns, pulling up his sweatpants.
“Was it good?” Kiryu asks nervously. He busies himself with unrolling the spare futon.
Majima laughs softly. “Real good. Might even be able to sleep after this.”
Kiryu glances at him sideways. “You don’t sleep?”
“Nah.” Majima wriggles under the covers. “Only when Kiryu-chan’s around,” he admits, drowsy.
Kiryu slides into the spare bed, scooting closer. “Stay over more often, then,” Kiryu replies. “You’re always welcome here.”
He hums. “There’s somethin’ wrong with me, Kiryu-chan. Y’don’t want me stickin’ around.”
“That’s all I want, nii-san,” Kiryu says quietly. He throws an arm over Majima and pulls him close. Majima nuzzles against his neck, pressing against him. “Stay forever, if you want.”
“Forever’s a long time.” Majima yawns.
“I know.”
Notes:
-OK SO Majima Construction celebrates the boss' birthday on Friday, which is the last work day before his actual birthday on Sunday. Bento and work party on Friday -> dinner with Kiryu and Haruka on Saturday -> actual birthday Sunday. Is this important? No not really. I spent a long time deciding how I would clarify the timeline here until I realized that it doesn't matter!! Many such cases
-I debated on whether Majima would use special one-eyed kaomoji. I decided that probably not, you know how hard it is to set up a custom keyboard for that shit? I'm sure Nishida could do it. Also I didn't want to make them utterly unrecognizable by replacing the left eye of each one.
-Majima says "Kiryu-chan daisuki". It's not exactly a serious declaration of love, but the sentiment is there.
-They're watching Pretty Cure Splash Star. The second show is Kamichu! and the third is Princess Princess. They're all TV Asahi originals but I didn't have a schedule from May 13th, 2006, so if you were alive back then and watching TV Asahi and find it historically inaccurate please don't kill me
-Woo Majima backshots yayyy
-Old woman yuri is coming soon............. ;))))))
Chapter 14: Girls' Night Out [E]
Summary:
“Prettiest girl I ever did see,” he agrees. “...Kazumi.”
Notes:
I've been dying to write Kazumaji WLW Edition ever since starting this fic. Let me know if I got the vibes right! Or throw tomatoes at me if I didn't because that means I have disgraced the yuri warriors
The lovely genikrispies on Tumblr drew the girls <3 please check her blog out for more cute girls and beautiful women!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Kiryu knocks at Date’s door, hand-in-hand with Haruka, and silently prays that his friend doesn’t notice the new manicure Kiryu is sporting.
He probably should’ve known better than to expect a seasoned detective to miss a detail like that, because Date’s eyes snap to Kiryu’s nails before he’s even lowered his hand from the door. Date’s self-defense skills may be abysmal even by cop standards, but he can be damn observant, especially when it’s inconvenient for someone else.
“Your nails are red,” Date says dumbly, looking at Kiryu’s fresh manicure. And indeed they are: shimmery crimson and speckled with gold glitter, catching the light in a most fetching way.
Beside him, Haruka beams. “I did them!” She holds up Kiryu’s hand to give Date a good look. “Aren’t they pretty?”
Date reels slightly, no doubt intimately familiar with what happens when a hand lurches close to his face, and blinks, flabbergasted. “Y-yeah…” He stammers, rubbing the back of his neck. “They look…nice, Haruka-chan.”
“You should try it for yourself, Date-san,” Kiryu teases, noticing Date’s flustered expression. “Haruka is very good at painting nails.”
Haruka pats her backpack proudly. “I can do yours too, Date-san!”
“Ah, I don’t know about that…maybe Saya would be better for that sort of thing...”
Quick footsteps approach, and Saya herself pops her head over her father’s shoulder. “Haruka-chan!” She waves. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Date moves aside, letting his two guests step into the genkan. Haruka, still gripping Kiryu’s hand, brandishes it in front of Saya’s face for her to marvel at. “We were just talking about painting Date-san’s nails.”
Date balks. “Now hold on, I said Saya would help you out. She wants to be a hair stylist, right?” He gives her a helpless look.
“I’d love to,” Saya agrees. “I was just thinking of getting a manicure myself.”
Her father not-so-subtly sighs in relief, shuffling off somewhere deeper in the apartment.
“I’ll be back by ten tomorrow,” Kiryu calls after him.
Date gives him an exhausted wave, grumbling something that sounds suspiciously like “Spare me the details, please,” as if I’m sending my daughter to you for the evening so my boyfriend can put me in a dress is something Kiryu is just dying to tell him.
Saya turns her head, following Date’s retreating back with her eyes. She glances back at Haruka; the two of them share a menacing grin. Kiryu hides a smile behind a sparkly hand. “Don’t be too rough with him, okay?”
“Okay,” she replies automatically, still visibly scheming. She gives him a knowing look. “Have fun, oji-san.”
Kiryu snorts, but gives her a shimmery, red-tinted wave as he shuts the door. “I’ll try.”
It must be the telepathic connection, because when Kiryu finally gets to Majima’s place, Majima flings open the door before Kiryu’s even raised his hand to knock.
Whatever Kiryu is expecting, it isn’t Majima in a peach-colored wig cap and silk dressing gown. “Kiryu-chan!” Majima squeals. A surprisingly strong hand seizes Kiryu’s wrist and yanks him inside the apartment; the door slams shut behind them.
Kiryu stumbles over himself to keep up. “Nii-san—”
“I wanna show ya the dress I picked out for ya!” Majima interrupts, pulling Kiryu into his bedroom and dropping his hand to rummage through a deep walk-in closet. He disappears among the racks with a loud rustle of plastic wrap.
Majima emerges a few seconds later, brandishing a long cocktail dress, and holds it up for Kiryu’s inspection with a grin. “Ain’t it pretty?” Majima beams.
It’s a halter neck gown in a deep red, made of a light material that swishes with Majima’s every motion. The neckline plunges almost to the waist, nipped in to fit snugly around the wearer’s natural curves. A large slit runs up the side of the skirt. Majima turns it around to reveal—nothing, because it’s backless, exposing the wearer from nape to hip. It’s scandalous. It’s sexy. It’s…not something Kiryu ever pictured himself wearing. Absently, Kiryu reaches out to feel the thin fabric between his fingers. It’s cool to the touch.
Majima frowns at Kiryu’s silence. He tilts his head at him, looking uncharacteristically concerned. “You okay, Kiryu-chan?” Majima asks. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
Kiryu blinks, shaking himself. “But I do,” he replies, a little too loud.
Majima raises an eyebrow.
“I do,” Kiryu repeats, quieter. “Even if I don’t end up liking it, I want to find out. And I want to do it with you.”
Majima’s expression softens. “Kiryu-chan…”
“I’m nervous,” admits Kiryu, and for once, Majima doesn’t snort or roll his eyes or say yeah, I can tell. Instead, he just pats Kiryu’s hand with a sympathetic smile. “But I want to do this.”
“...Alright,” Majima concedes. “But if ya wanna make it a girls’ night in, just say the word. Now put this on, I wanna see how it fits.”
He helps Kiryu awkwardly squeeze into the gown, undoing a tiny zipper along the side and closing it around Kiryu’s hip. It feels odd to feel the tug of the dress against his neck, and the flimsy material is chilly against his skin, but it fits around his body much better than he’d expected. He is immediately aware of how cold the room feels against his uncovered back. He feels like a shot of whiskey should warm him right up. Majima coos, circling around Kiryu and admiring the fit. “Ya look so cute, Kiryu-chan!”
Majima has called him cute a few times before, but Kiryu still blushes at the compliment. “You better not be making fun of me,” he says.
“I’m dead serious!” Majima cries. “I knew you’d look smokin’ hot in this dress. Ain’t I a good stylist?” Majima ushers him towards a large standing mirror.
Kiryu looks at his reflection. It’s actually not so bad. The dress hugs his figure without feeling too restrictive, shows off his body without feeling too revealing. The low neckline covers more than he’d first envisioned—still not conservative by any means, but it doesn’t seem like he’d expose himself just by moving the wrong way. He might even be able to fight in it. He doesn’t feel pretty, exactly, but he does feel good in a way that wearing a suit never does for him.
“It looks…good,” he says finally.
Majima scoffs. “Good? You’ll put every hostess in Kamuro to shame!” He lays a proprietary hand on the small of Kiryu’s back, sending a shiver up his spine. “Lemme show ya what else I got.” Guiding Kiryu to the bed, Majima sits him down and returns to his closet to dig around.
Majima comes back with a long black wig in hand and several hairpins between his teeth. Kiryu eyes it doubtfully. “Don’t I need a…” he gestures at Majima’s wig cap.
“Nope!” Majima cheerfully mumbles, spitting hairpins all over the bed. He spreads the mess of hair in his hands to show it off: it’s a hairpiece, long strands of synthetic hair strung together in a large sheet. Sitting himself behind Kiryu on the bed, he folds some of Kiryu’s natural hair back with a comb and clips the edges of the wig behind Kiryu’s ears, creating the illusion of long, wavy hair cascading over Kiryu’s shoulders. He secures more hairpins at the nape of Kiryu’s neck and begins to weave small braids at both sides, joining them together into an elegant half-updo that covers the seam between real and fake hair.
“Knew that chunk of yer hair was gonna come in handy,” Majima mutters under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothin’,” he quickly replies, scooping up a hand mirror and holding it up to Kiryu’s face. “Whaddya think?”
The tickle of hair on his shoulders is a foreign sensation. “Feels itchy,” he says honestly.
Majima snatches it from him. “Ingrate.” He combs through Kiryu’s hair, fluffing it with his fingers. “Good color match. Now it’s your turn to gimme a hand.”
Kiryu helps Majima slip into his own dress, a strapless bodycon in gold leather with laces criss-crossed up the back. “You really have to be laced into this thing?” Kiryu grumbles, tightening the strings. Majima fusses with his wig in the mirror, a platinum-blonde affair with straight, wispy bangs and hair that comes down to his mid-back.
“Yes,” Majima snaps, twisting his hair into a bun and skewering it with two sharp-looking hair sticks that look more like deadly weapons than accessories. “Beauty is pain, Kiryu-chan.” He demands Kiryu pull the laces tighter and tighter until he begins to worry about his breathing. Kiryu can’t deny that it gives Majima a killer silhouette, though.
Once thoroughly laced into his dress, Majima bullies Kiryu onto the bed, pushing him down until he’s laying flat on a pillow. He straddles Kiryu’s hips with an eyeliner pencil in one hand and an eyeshadow palette in the other, leaning in so close Kiryu wonders if he can hear his heart racing.
Kiryu swallows. “You’re awfully close, nii-san.”
“Well, yeah. It’s detailed work,” he replies, breath ghosting across Kiryu’s face. This close, Kiryu can smell his perfume: sweet and flowery, almost sickly. He feels lightheaded. He wants so badly to run his fingertips over the smooth surface of Majima’s clean-shaven thigh, but he doesn’t.
“There we go,” Majima sighs, all too soon. “Ya clean up real nice, Kiryu-chan.” He straightens his back, stretching with a crackle of stiff joints.
Kiryu picks up the mirror. Thanks to his previous makeover, he’s not unfamiliar with seeing himself in makeup, but it feels different when it’s purely Majima’s handiwork. His eyes look twice their normal size, accentuated by mascara and red eyeliner that reminds him of Kabuki makeup. Majima has painted his lips a deep crimson that gleams like candy, and Kiryu resists the urge to lick it all away. It’s not at all what he expected from Majima. He looks elegant. He looks…
“Pretty,” Kiryu murmurs. Majima smiles: a real one, gentle and admiring.
“Prettiest girl I ever did see,” he agrees. “...Kazumi.”
By the time they finally get to Roppongi, it’s fully dark outside—dark enough that no clubgoer would suspect anything from afar. Just two glamorous women, both draped in suit jackets against the unseasonable chill: Goromi’s in gold snake-print, Kazumi’s in storm gray. Perhaps two hostesses on their way home from a double date, their chivalrous companions offering up their own jackets for the ladies’ comfort. They walk arm-in-arm, the one in the red stumbling occasionally. Drunk hostesses going home after a night of fun.
Goromi tugs the lapels of her jacket closer around her chest, as if she’s cold—or, rather, to conceal the dark scallops of a tattoo crawling over her shoulders. She clutches Kazumi’s arm tightly, there to right her as she trips over herself like a newborn foal. Kazumi wobbles on the pointy heels of her strappy shoes, a stark contrast to Goromi’s confident stride in platforms. The gray jacket draped around her shoulders threatens to slip off; Goromi grabs the loose edges with a hiss, straightening the crooked coat.
“Could ya try not to blow our cover here, Ki—Kazumi-chan?” She hisses. “Just ‘cause we’re outta the business doesn’t mean ya can flash that dragon on yer back in front of civilians.”
“Who’s the one who put me in a backless dress?” Kazumi shoots back, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face. “It’s almost like you want me to show it off.”
Goromi is silent. “That’s different,” she says. “It’s for my eye only.”
Kazumi laughs. “I’d show it to you any time you like.”
A sweet blush blossoms on Goromi’s cheeks; she looks away, squeezing Kazumi’s bicep before dropping her arm, to Kazumi’s disappointment. But Goromi stays close, brushing the back of her hand against Kazumi’s.
“C’mon, lemme take ya out for drinks.” Goromi’s clawed hand curls around Kazumi’s, leading them through the darkened streets.
“Are we going to a club?” Kazumi tries not to sound too nervous.
“Naw, a bar.” Goromi pats her hand reassuringly. “It’s an okama bar. Me ‘n’ the master go way back.”
It’s nestled at the edge of 3-Chōme, wedged between a massage parlor and a ramen shop. Goromi leads them up the stairs and to the second floor, stopping in front of an old oaken door with a shiny brass knocker. She raps it twice and makes a face at the peephole. It pops open without a sound, and she drags them inside.
Kazumi is surprised to find that it’s quite similar to the old Serena, cozy and relaxed. It’s significantly louder than Serena, though, full of patrons who speak in various exaggerated impressions and accents. True to Goromi’s word, no one gives them a second glance as they walk in the door.
Goromi ushers them to a few empty seats at the bar, signaling for the barkeep’s attention and subtly adjusting her dress. Kazumi does the same, though admittedly it’s easier to relax in her looser, longer skirt.
Eventually, the master, a stocky but refined king in his fifties, approaches. He’s dressed inexplicably like a bartender in an American western movie, complete with sleeve garters, bowler hat, and an impressive steel-gray handlebar mustache. “Taka-chan!” Goromi coos.
“Goromi-san. It’s been a while.” He bows. “I was starting to wonder if you’d found another bar.”
Goromi titters. “Naw, you’re the only man for me.” She places a bejeweled hand on the counter, her many bracelets jangling. “Shit’s been busy, s’all.”
The master hums. “I can take a guess. You could’ve warned me about the change in management, though. Had me thinking you’d finally met your match.”
She snorts derisively. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.” She gestures to Kazumi. “Though I guess that did end up happenin’, in a funny way.”
The master eyes Kazumi curiously. “And you are, ma’am?”
Kazumi blushes. “K-Kazumi,” she stammers.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he replies, tipping his bowler hat. “Takahiko.”
Goromi raps her knuckles lightly on the wood. “The nice Yamazaki for me and the lady,” she requests. “Kazumi-chan’s never been out on the town before, so I figured I’d take her to a classier establishment.” She picks a stray hair out of her eye, huffing. “One where I wouldn’t hafta beat back twenty drunks all tryna cop a feel, y’know?”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“I swear, s’like they don’t even hear me when I tell ‘em to fuck off and get their hands off what’s mine!”
Taka-chan chuckles dryly, scanning an appraising eye up and down Goromi’s outfit. “Perhaps they thought they’d try their luck after seeing you dressed like a third-rate hostess.”
Goromi gasps in mock-outrage. “Haw? I’m hurt, Taka-chan! Twenty years we’ve known each other, and ya won’t even compliment a lady’s outfit?”
“It looks beautiful, ma’am,” he says flatly.
“Ugh! Says the guy dressed like he’s boutta get turned into pink mist in a shootout!”
“So, how do you know each other?” Kazumi loudly interrupts, eager to change the subject.
Taka-chan latches onto the opportunity with ease. “She tried to shake me down,” he says, as breezily as one would comment on the weather.
Goromi squawks. “I was not! I came to ya with a genuine business proposition!”
“That’s not how I remember it.”
Kazumi sips at her drink as they argue. Goromi shushes Taka-chan, raising an accusing finger. “Kazumi-chan, hear me out. So the story goes like this: my, um…boss, see, he was interested in…real estate investment. Ya know the type.”
Kazumi snorts, remembering the burn in his arms from carrying briefcases stuffed with cash back in the eighties. “I see.”
“He tells me: kid, buy me some shitty dives and seedy clubs and I’ll turn ‘em into real moneymakers for the fam—I mean, company. I got cash to spare, but in case that ain’t enough to convince the locals to sell, feel free to persuade them using…other methods.”
“You can be quite persuasive, nee-san,” Kazumi agrees, finishing off her glass. Takahiko slides another across the bar toward her without being asked.
“So I hit up this dump lookin’ to bring the boss-man back a diamond in the rough,” Goromi continues. Taka-chan raises an eyebrow in amusement, leaning his elbows on the granite bar. “I go up to this twink at the bar—” she gestures at Taka-chan “—and ask him how much it’d cost to take this shithole off his hands.” She takes a deep gulp of her whiskey, leaving a crescent of pink lipstick on her glass.
“Granted, it didn’t look nearly as nice back then,” Taka-chan concedes.
Goromi stabs a pink nail in his direction. “And this asshole says—”
“One billion yen,” Takahiko says.
“One billion yen!” Goromi shrieks. “The audacity!” She polishes off her drink; likewise, Taka-chan simply slides another one toward her. “So I tap my beloved pummelin’ bat against the bar and say: ‘Well shit, that’s a steep price. Maybe you’ll come around if I do a little devaluation of your property.’”
“That does sound like you, nee-san,” Kazumi agrees.
Taka-chan chuckles. “And I said, ‘Go ahead, break it all. You can replace the furniture, but you’ll never replace my customers. They’re high rollers, and they’ll only come to this place if I’m here.’”
Goromi grins. “Of course, that got my attention right away. What kinda dingy dump like this attracts fat cats? And this guy looks me up an’ down real hard before givin’ me an answer.”
“Clients with…unusual preferences,” Taka-chan says, “who like to keep those preferences private.”
Kazumi suddenly lets out a bark of laughter. “He thought you looked gay, nee-san.”
Goromi pinches Kazumi’s cheek and tugs gently. “You’re one to talk, Kazumi-chan,” she teases. “And that got me really interested. So I said: ‘Alright, then. Say I got a…sister…who might be interested in a place like this. What’ll it cost to get her in the door?’”
Taka-chan cuts in. “So I told her: ‘Retract your offer, and then we’ll talk.’”
“And the rest is history,” Goromi declares, raising her glass. “It all worked out in the end, didn’t it?”
“For both of us,” adds Taka-chan.
Kazumi hides her smile behind her drink. “Glad to know she hasn’t changed.”
Goromi cackles. “Not a lick!”
They stumble out of the bar an hour later, giggly and tipsy. Goromi holds Kazumi’s hand tightly, lacing their fingers together.
“Ya up for some dancin’?” She asks, eye bright.
A few drinks ago, Kazumi would have said no, but she’s feeling good and just shameless enough for it. “Sure.”
She shouldn’t have worried, because Goromi leads them into an equally-innocuous nightclub hidden in the basement of what looks like an ordinary office building. The music pounds in Kazumi’s ears and the darkness is almost overwhelming, only alleviated by dim purple and blue lights overhead. The patrons inside are less like people and more like shadows, their outlines almost indistinguishable from one another. But in the weak light, he can see extravagantly-dressed queens tending the bar, men at the stools hunched over each other and holding whispered conversations. It’s almost the opposite of a gay bar—it’s a place where everyone stays anonymous, where one freak can find another without any strings attached. It reminds Kazumi of a place she visited once in the eighties where, coked out of her mind, she had her first drunken makeout with a girl who tasted like cherry schnapps and clove cigarettes. Damned if she could remember her face, though.
They down cocktails from plastic cups, lemon-lime soda and maraschino cherry concoctions that are as sweet as they are strong. And when they dance, Kazumi no longer cares about losing her balance or smearing her makeup or acting a fool, because the world starts and ends with their stupid little bubble of Kazumi and Goromi.
Goromi holds Kazumi securely by the waist, swaying in time to the pulsing music without care for theatrics. Between the drinks and the heels, Kazumi feels off-balance in more ways than one; she clings to the slippery material of Goromi’s dress, craving the warmth of her body. Her heart thunders in her chest, and she’s just waiting for Goromi to take notice and laugh at her nervousness.
Instead, Goromi plucks Kazumi’s hands from their awkward position around her hips and sets them squarely on her chest: an invitation to explore as Kazumi likes. She takes it reluctantly—she’s never been so bold as to feel up a hostess in public, even a willing one. It’s less embarrassing than Kazumi thought. The club is dark, with no one to see their display, never mind take issue with it. Goromi’s chest is muscular, but not hard; the cups of her dress give a satisfying squish under Kazumi’s roaming hands, and the tight bodice pushes her pectorals together in a facsimile of cleavage. Goromi makes a low rumbling noise as Kazumi shamelessly kneads her chest.
A clawed hand snakes its way into the deep V-neck of Kazumi’s dress, skimming a nipple playfully. Kazumi gasps, shivering. “Sensitive, eh?” Goromi murmurs, tweaking it with her sharp nails. “Ever had anyone suck your tits, Kazumi-chan? I could do it right here—”
Kazumi grabs her by the neck and kisses her hard, earning herself a nip from Goromi’s teeth. It feels thrilling, like getting away with something. “Shut up,” she growls.
“Make me.” Goromi seizes two handfuls of Kazumi’s ass, fingers digging into the supple flesh. Kazumi jumps, accidentally rolling her hips into Goromi’s and feeling an answering heat there. Goromi slides a foot between the folds of Kazumi’s skirt, pressing a knee into her groin and delighting in the bitten-off moan she receives.
“We’re—ngh—in public,” Kazumi hisses, squirming against Goromi as if she can’t decide whether to pull away or rub herself off right there.
Goromi grins. “Let’s take this back to my place, then.”
Although the liquor had her feeling warm to the core, the cool night air seems bent on sobering Kazumi up. Wandering through the crowded streets in search of a taxi, Kazumi is acutely aware of just how little she’s wearing. Is this why hostesses drink so much? They must be cold all the time.
She decides being unfashionable is better than being miserable and slips her arms into the sleeves of her suit jacket, which had been hanging casually off her shoulders to hide her tattoo. The night is loud and bright in the same way Kamurocho is, except there are discothéques on every block that rattle her teeth with deep pulsing beats. Everyone around them is too drunk to care about two towering women walking arm-in-arm, one still wobbling around on high heels. They venture farther away from the main streets, hoping to snag a cab before it dives into the clubbers crowding the busier intersections. A passing wind sweeps Kazumi’s hair into her face, and she shudders at the chill that goes through her. She pulls her jacket around herself just a little bit closer.
She startles when something heavy drapes itself around her shoulders: a yellow snakeskin jacket. Goromi holds a cigarette between her teeth and wraps a firm hand around Kazumi’s bicep, looking completely unaffected by the cold. The jacket smells like a mix of cologne and perfume: earthy patchouli and sweet iris, two competing scents blanketed by cigarette smoke. The material is surprisingly warm. Running around Kamurocho shirtless in the winter almost seems like a reasonable feat.
If any passers-by dare to look in their direction, they don’t linger once they catch sight of the hannya’s eyes peering over the edge of Goromi’s dress and the snakes crawling over her shoulders. Goromi flags down a taxi with an imperious wave of her hand and they slow to a halt as the cab pulls up. She wonders if Goromi was ever embarrassed to show herself like this in public, unapologetic and exposed. Was there anyone who held her arm and guided her through the bright streets? Did anyone take her dancing? Buy her drinks? Tell her she looked lovely? Something twists in Kazumi’s chest at the thought that the answer to any of those questions might be no.
Goromi cracks open the taxi door for Kazumi and holds her hand as she ducks inside. Goromi’s thigh presses against hers as she leans forward and speaks to the driver, her hand on Kazumi’s knee. An foot hooks around ankle as the cab lurches forward. Goromi sprawls across the back seat, unapologetic and by all appearances relaxed—but Kazumi feels the tension in her casual posture, sees the jump of her throat. Her arm drapes over the head rest, and her hand is so close to Goromi’s shoulder. Your move.
So, mustering all her courage, Kazumi reaches up as casually as possible and takes Goromi by the hand, laying it on her shoulder. She takes the hint and scoots closer, lets her arm fall so that they’re in contact from chest to hand. Neither of them acknowledge the contact or the change in the air between them, or even look each other in the eye; the taxi ride passes in tense silence.
Goromi’s arm is warm around Kazumi’s waist as they stumble inside the apartment, shedding their jackets and leaving smears of makeup all over each other. Kicking off her heels, Goromi drags Kazumi, still struggling to undo the buckles on her strappy shoes, into the bedroom and all but shoves her onto the bed.
Kazumi gives up the fight with her stupid shoes and leans up to kiss Goromi on the neck, leaving behind a crimson print. The coarse fibers of Goromi’s wig tickle Kazumi’s cheek, and her own pools under her back like a tangled fishnet. Stray strands catch on her lips and eyelashes and Kazumi is seized by a moment of pure, incandescent rage, ready to rip her entire outfit off at once like a werewolf on a full moon. Except that this werewolf is still wearing high heels, and the moon is the outline of Goromi’s lithe figure pinning her down by the wrists.
In slow, deliberate movements, she grinds herself against Kazumi, skirt riding up to reveal a strip of hot pink panties and the bulge straining inside them. The hungry look in Goromi’s eye sends a thrill down Kazumi’s spine. She looks feral: makeup smudged beyond recognition, hairstyle coming undone, lips parted like she plans to eat Kazumi alive.
“Goromi,” she croaks, hands resting on her waist. Goromi grins, all teeth.
Kazumi sighs, indulgently rocking her hips to meet Goromi’s. She could probably cum from this alone, but she’s thinking of something else. Something she hopes Goromi will also be into.
“Kiryu-chan,” she coos. Her nails dig painfully into Kazumi’s exposed chest.
Kazumi cups Goromi’s dick, stroking it through the fabric. “Sit on my face.”
She can feel the throb that goes through Goromi’s clothed cock. “Fuck yeah,” she snarls.
Goromi sits up, scooting her way up Kazumi’s body until her crotch is at eye level. It’s a position Kazumi is intimately familiar with. “Like this?” Goromi teases, gently squeezing Kazumi’s head with her thighs.
Kazumi shakes her head. She reaches around to grab Goromi’s ass, pulling her in. “Higher,” she whispers. Goromi’s eye goes hazy and her body pliant, dropping onto her hands to position her ass above Kazumi’s face. If she wanted to, she could definitely suffocate Kazumi. It would be a nice way to go.
She tugs Goromi’s panties to the side and stuffs her face between Goromi’s cheeks, licking a long stripe from balls to asshole. Goromi lets out a low moan and braces her hands on the floor, letting Kazumi swirl a warm tongue around her hole. “Aw, fuck, Kiryu-chan…”
Kazumi hums, spit pooling at the crack of Goromi’s ass. She gets her as sloppy as possible before working a finger alongside her tongue, saliva easing the slide. Goromi sighs and lets her thighs spread wider, rocking her hips back on Kazumi’s hand. Kazumi can feel the tight muscles softening under the attention.
Feeling bold, Kazumi slides a hand around Goromi’s front and palms her dick through the flimsy material of her panties; she tugs them down and Goromi’s cock springs free, dripping and stiff. She takes Goromi’s cock in hand, eliciting a sharp moan and jolt of her hips. With her mouth still attached to Goromi’s ass, Kazumi twists another finger inside her hole and crooks them until she keens and dribbles precum over Kazumi’s hand. Closing her eyes and humming contentedly, Kazumi strokes her off in time with the thrusting of her fingers. Goromi seems pleased with the technique, hunched over Kazumi’s head and letting out short, choppy cries steadily growing higher in pitch.
But before Kazumi can push her over the edge, Goromi gasps: “Wait, Kazumi-chan.” Kazumi pulls back reluctantly, looking up at Goromi’s hooded eye. “Let me turn around,” she pants.
Kazumi lets go of her bruising grip around Goromi’s thighs. Kicking her panties off completely, Goromi sits up and switches positions—facing away from Kazumi, she bends forward until she meets Kazumi’s groin. “Keep going,” she commands, pushing her ass into Kazumi’s face and impatiently pulling the layers of her dress aside to expose her cock.
A wave of arousal ripples through Kazumi as she catches on to the plan, and she dutifully buries her face in Goromi’s ass, playing with her prostate and jacking her off at the same time. Goromi brushes aside a loose lock of hair and unceremoniously swallows Kazumi to the root, arching her back so Kazumi can eat her out with ease. It’s a position Kazumi has never seen outside of porn, and is beginning to enjoy immensely—a perk of having a partner as tall as herself.
Giving and receiving pleasure simultaneously feels elevated to an entirely new level with Kazumi’s tongue teasing the silky skin of Goromi’s hole while her partner’s mouth mirrors the same motions on her dick. Goromi grinds her hips down, almost cutting off Kazumi’s breath entirely. It makes her lightheaded in a way that has nothing to do with her impending suffocation; pressure builds in her belly, orgasm approaching like a distant storm.
At Goromi’s urging, Kazumi adds a third finger and turns up the heat, digging into her prostate and stroking faster, rougher. Amid pants of right there and don’t stop, Goromi shoves Kazumi’s cock all the way down her throat and comes with a drawn-out moan, a rumble that she feels deep in her pelvis. Her cum splatters onto the cleavage of Kazumi’s dress as she milks Goromi through her orgasm. Shivers wrack Goromi’s body, almost feverish on top of Kazumi’s. She eases up once she shocks subside, cradling her spent cock in her palm.
Goromi rolls onto her back, lipstick smudged beyond recognition and a dark trail of mascara running from her eye. She licks her hot-pink lips, tits falling out of her unzipped dress. “Y’sure know how to treat a lady, Kazumi-chan,” she pants, mouth parted in a smile.
“So I’ve heard,” Kazumi replies. She looks pointedly down at her dick, still hard and dripping. “Do you?”
With cat-like grace, Goromi flips and crawls between Kazumi’s legs, reaching out to grab her cock and give it a languid pull. “Sure do,” she purrs. She sucks the head into her mouth, cheek bulging with cock. Kazumi sighs in approval, slinging an ankle over Goromi’s back. Goromi cups a hand around her balls, rolling them gently between her sharp fingers. She buries her face in Kazumi’s pubic hair and swallows around her cock; her throat bobs. Kazumi moans and squeezes Goromi’s head between her thighs. Goromi seems to have no problem with wearing her legs as earmuffs, suckling even harder.
Kazumi sighs in contentment. “Goromi-chan.”
Goromi mumbles something around a mouthful of cock and digs her nails into Kazumi’s muscular thighs, little prickles of pain that makes her throb in Goromi’s mouth. Kazumi buries a hand into Goromi’s hair, careful not to tug, fucking her face at a leisurely rhythm until the pleasure in her gut boils over and she cums down Goromi’s throat in long spurts, hugging her head between trembling legs. She swallows it like syrup, pulling away to show a pearly pool of Kazumi’s semen on her tongue before it disappears down her throat.
“Thanks for the meal,” she sing-songs, cackling when Kazumi makes a face.
“That’s so gross.”
Goromi reaches up and pinches Kazumi’s cheek, hard. “Says the nasty gal who just had her tongue in my—”
Kazumi grabs her wrist, prying it away from her face. “Point taken,” she grumbles.
The streaks of cum on her bare chest are already becoming cold and tacky, wig plastered to the back of her neck with sweat. Goromi looks equally debauched—exposed tattoos spilling out of her bodycon dress, eyepatch askew. She licks her raw, bitten-red lips as if daring Kazumi to kiss her again. And she just might.
But not yet. Kazumi squirms uncomfortably. “Can I get up now? I need a shower.”
Goromi laughs. “Sure. Let’s get ya cleaned up, Kiryu-chan.”
“I’m pretty sure I have lipstick in my ear,” Kiryu grumbles, scratching at a pink smudge on his ear lobe in Majima’s large bathroom mirror. Pieces of his outfit line the hallway from bed to bath, leaving him stripped to his underwear and covered in kiss marks. Majima snaps off his acrylic nails, flicking them into the waste bin and dropping his rings all over the counter. His gold dress, still half-unlaced, clings to him like a foil wrapper.
Majima snorts, shoulder brushing his as he inspects himself in the mirror. “Well, I have lipstick in my beard, so I think we’re about even.” He digs around in a drawer under the sink and emerges with a pack of wet wipes, yanking one out and rubbing at his eye. He offers another to Kiryu, who furrows his brows at it.
“It’s a makeup wipe,” he says, smiling at Kiryu’s befuddled expression. “It’ll work better than scrubbin’ at it with your bare hands.”
Following Majima’s lead, Kiryu swipes it over his eyes and mouth and cheeks and every smear of pink lipstick he can reach. He tries not to cringe when Majima peels away his false eyelashes, but isn’t entirely successful, if Majima’s peals of laughter are any indication.
Kiryu busies himself with his itchy hairpiece, extracting the hairpins keeping it attached and letting out a sigh of relief when it comes off. Majima follows suit by ripping off his entire wig in one fell swoop, shaking out his sweaty undercut like a dog. Kiryu yelps indignantly, shielding himself from the fine beads of sweat that Majima flicks everywhere. Majima shimmies out of his dress like a snake shedding its skin, shoving it down his legs like a pair of tight-fitting trousers.
When he comes up for air, he leans on the vanity and meets Kiryu’s eyes in the mirror, naked as the day he was born. Kiryu holds his gaze, feeling caught off-guard by Majima’s stare.
Something is different.
Majima isn’t wearing his eyepatch.
Kiryu studies Majima’s reflection, unmoving. For once, Majima seems too stunned to do anything but allow it. Frozen in place, an agonizing silence steals the air from the room.
Kiryu blinks. He lifts a finger to his own eye and taps an invisible spot below it. “You…have some makeup there,” he says.
Majima tilts his head, frowning. “This?” he asks, pointing at the small black dot under his left eye.
Kiryu nods.
“It’s a mole, dumbass,” grumbles Majima, looking away.
“Oh,” Kiryu replies stupidly. Majima with a beauty mark. Cute.
His lips upturn into a wobbly smile. A bubble of laughter threatens to spill past them.
Majima scowls at him. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s very cute.”
Majima blushes sweetly as a rose, shrinking in on himself and averting his eye. “You’re so fuckin’ weird,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. He turns his back on their reflections and stalks towards the bath, the tips of his ears pink.
Of course, Kiryu follows.
Majima cranks the shower knob and ducks under the spray, soaking his hair immediately. He tosses a bottle in Kiryu’s direction and, out of reflex, Kiryu catches it.
“Wash my hair for me,” Majima demands, nodding at the shampoo bottle in Kiryu’s hand.
Kiryu glances from himself, still standing outside the shower, to Majima, currently occupying it.
Majima rolls his eye. “Ya gonna just stand there?” He beckons impatiently. “You’re lettin’ water get all over the floor.”
Kiryu snorts. “My apologies, nii-san,” he says flatly. Stepping into the foggy stall, he closes the glass door behind him and squeezes a dollop of shampoo into his hand, tugging at Majima until he tilts his head back and lets Kiryu massage it into his hair. It smells vaguely flowery.
“Oh, so I’m nii-san again? You’re in my damn shower.”
“Washing your hair,” Kiryu corrects.
“After the makeover I gave ya today, it’s the least you can do.”
Kiryu chuckles, silently conceding the point. He gently works the shampoo into Majima’s scalp until his hair turns white and foamy with soap suds. Despite his short, severe haircut, Majima’s hair holds onto a surprising amount of product, coarse and fluffy under Kiryu’s fingers.
“You have thick hair,” he muses, wringing the excess bubbles from the longer strands before letting go.
Majima tilts his head forward, letting the water wash away the rest. “Used to be a lot worse,” he replies. “When it was long, summers were hell. Was like wearin’ a wool hat every day.”
Kiryu hums. “Hard to believe you had long hair at one point.”
“Well, believe it, ‘cause it ain’t happenin’ again anytime soon.” To Kiryu’s dismay, Majima hands him a second bottle with a grin. “Y’know what conditioner is, big guy?”
Kiryu frowns, but takes the bottle anyway. “Of course I do,” he says defensively. “Nishiki—” something twists in his chest at the memory; he closes his eyes and pushes on. “Used to buy some expensive brand from a salon in Harajuku. He’d always pester me to get it for him if he knew I’d be in the area.” He works a small amount between his fingers and combs them through Majima’s hair.
A heavy pause hangs between them.
Majima sighs. “I never knew how to take care of long hair until I met hostesses who taught me. My kyoudai had this long greasy style goin’ on, and he only ever used soap.” A low rumble of laughter shakes his shoulders. “I thought guys were just destined to have gross, dry-straw hair ‘cause they didn’t have the lady-hormones to make it all pretty.”
Kiryu laughs. “I never envied long hair. Seems like more trouble than it’s worth.”
Majima turns around, snatching up the shampoo bottle from behind him and popping the cap. “Says the guy with brush bristles for hair,” he jokes. He tugs Kiryu forward until he dips his head low and lets Majima rake shampoo through his stiff hair. Kiryu closes his eyes and lets Majima have his way with him, savoring the touch. He’s pulled back under the hot water to rinse off, then immediately slapped with a handful of conditioner. Majima takes him by the shoulders and turns him around; Kiryu braces himself on the wall and startles when a pair of warm hands settle on his back.
“Hold still,” Majima orders, lathering body wash between his hands and laying them on Kiryu’s shoulders. He works the soap into Kiryu’s tired muscles, kneading firmly. Kiryu lets out a low moan, letting him know just how right that feels. Majima’s hands linger a little longer than necessary on the dip of his waist and curve of his ass, but the places where he puts the most pressure loosen like putty under his touch.
Majima’s cold, wet forehead presses between his shoulder blades. Majima’s fingertips brush Kiryu’s hips, and the sigh that he breathes tickles the skin over his spine.
“It really doesn’t bother you?” Majima asks, voice so quiet that Kiryu barely makes out the words amid the echo of water hitting tile.
It takes several moments for Kiryu to understand. “The eye?” He says, confused. “No. Should it?”
Majima doesn’t budge. “Maybe.” Kiryu can hear the forced nonchalance in his voice. “It ain’t pretty.”
Kiryu wants so badly to turn around and look Majima in the face, but he has a feeling he’d shut down as soon as he tried. He aims for neutrality. “I wouldn’t expect scars to be pretty,” he says carefully. “Does it bother you?”
Majima’s head shifts slightly as he shrugs. “I guess so.” It’s an admission that surprises Kiryu with its honesty. “It’s not a good memory.”
Kiryu himself has many scars like that—ones attached to memories he’d rather forget. “You don’t have to explain it to me,” he replies. “It’s still you.”
“Still me and my ugly mug,” Majima weakly jokes. Kiryu turns around and pulls him into a hug, tightening his grip when Majima resists.
“Don’t say that.” Kiryu rests his chin on Majima’s shoulder and leans in close. “I still think you’re beautiful.”
A pained wheeze leaks from Majima’s throat. Kiryu doesn’t let go, and neither does Majima. His fingers dig painfully into Kiryu’s ribcage, and the rest of his body goes limp. “Why didn’t you say that when I still had the makeup on?” Majima croaks, a pathetic attempt at deflection.
Kiryu is confused. “Because it’s still true?”
Majima makes a noise like he’s dying. Before Kiryu can ask what’s wrong, Majima grabs him by the face and smashes their lips together, headbutting Kiryu until his nose starts to hurt. He pushes back, but only because he’s fairly certain Majima will knock him out on the shower wall if he doesn’t. When Majima finally releases him, Kiryu stumbles, dazed.
“I’m gonna need you to stop talking for a little while, Kiryu-chan,” Majima says. “You’re gonna give me a coronary if ya keep makin’ my heart race like that.”
Kiryu feels a goofy grin tugging on his cheeks. “Fine. Another time, then.” He picks up the bottle of body wash and motions for Majima to turn around, and they spend the rest of the shower in a flustered, warm silence.
When they crawl under the covers, nothing between their hot skin and the cold sheets, Majima reaches out with grabby hands and holds Kiryu close, sharing their body heat by force. A shaved-smooth leg hooks itself around Kiryu’s calf and the sharp cut of a cheekbone digs into his clavicle. A clammy hand presses against his belly, and the chest pressed against his side rumbles with laughter when Kiryu shivers. He bears it uncomplainingly, remembering Majima’s warm jacket draped around him.
“Thanks for going along with my bullshit tonight,” Majima yawns.
Kiryu cards a gentle hand through Majima’s damp hair. “I had a good time,” he murmurs. “I feel like I can be myself around you.”
“That’s what you said at Club Shine.”
“Yeah, well…” Kiryu brushes the back of a finger along the curve of Majima’s stubbled jaw. “There was a lot that I didn’t know about myself back then.”
Majima hums sleepily. “In a good way?”
Kiryu holds him close and presses a kiss to his head. “In the best way.”
Notes:
-Majima and Haruka coordinated Kiryu's outfit ahead of time!
-Kazumi's design is (not so much inspired, more like directly ripped) from @hallu_monn on Twitter. I've been obsessed with it forever
-Goromi's outfit matches the red/gold theme, much as I wanted the pink to dominate. She is wearing throwing needles as hair sticks :)
-Goromi's perfume is Angel by Thierry Mugler
-I'm sorry for the sudden OC intrusion, but I couldn't bring myself to get rid of Takahiko. Love him to bits. He's an independently wealthy butch who owns the members-only bar on the second floor and lives with his mistress on the third
-They are drinking Dirty Shirleys in the club. I don't know why I felt the need to specify that detail
-I chose not to describe Majima's eye at all, so if you filled in the blanks yourself, that was the intention!! I wanted to follow Y4's decision not to show it. Except for the mole part I couldn't help myself
-Kiryu picks Haruka up the next morning and Date's got French tips
Chapter 15: Kazama's Last Gift
Summary:
The weight of Kazama’s last gifts hangs heavily, almost as if bringing them home will invite some deep evil into his life. By all accounts, Kiryu has been gifted a blessing: a chance to adopt Haruka as his own.
So why does it feel so much like a curse?
Notes:
"Cool, I have a juicy idea for a character-driven episode! This'll be short and sweet and I'll actually get it put out quick!" -me, clueless
There is some vague legal stuff in here, see footnotes for further background info. This has gotten wildly out of hand from my original intentions. Please enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
By the time Kiryu makes it to the Millennium Tower’s steps, the bright blue sky has faded to a dusky gray, the endless lights of the city beginning to cast their shadows on the fog. It’s still bright enough that when Kiryu takes in the building from afar, the plate-glass windows and steel supports catch the fading daylight, bathing it in a warm glow. Even after all these years, it still looks sleek and modern. He has a hard time imagining the old guard ever wandering its floors. It feels like a structure built for a different generation—one that’s already left him behind.
Kiryu feels sick.
Still, he’s come all this way, and with the stakes this high, braving it is the least he can do. His shoes tap on the stone tiles as he enters, and he punches the elevator buttons without a second thought, trying to calm his breath.
He steps out at the newly-rebuilt 60th floor, clenching his jaw and trying not to look directly at the floor-to-ceiling windows. The men attending the reception area bow before him, and though he no longer recognizes their faces, the pins on their suits haven’t changed in decades.
They usher him through glass doors into a lavish office, furnished like the cover of an office supply magazine and boasting an entire wall of rounded windows overlooking the city. Cold light pours into the cavernous room. Kashiwagi sits stiff-backed in his chair, surrounded by the remnants of the day’s paperwork (and his dinner, judging by the empty ramen bowl), looking up as his guest approaches.
“Ah, Kiryu,” he says, making a half-hearted effort to tidy his desk.
“Kashiwagi-san,” Kiryu greets, bowing formally. “Pardon the intrusion.”
Kashiwagi waves him off and gestures at the blocky couches in front of his desk. “It’s good to see you again.” He heaves himself to his feet with a crackle of stiff joints, joining Kiryu across the coffee table. He looks much older than Kiryu remembers him—tired, a little grayer. It reminds him of the first time Kiryu saw Kazama after leaving prison. Something in his chest constricts at the painful reminder of time passing him by, living in stasis while the world he knew marched on.
Kiryu swallows it down and glances around the room. “It looks like you’ve gotten a big promotion,” he comments, regretting it immediately when his eye lands on the large calligraphy print of Kazama’s name on the wall.
Luckily, Kashiwagi brushes past the faux-pas. “Something like that,” he responds noncommittally, rising to rummage through the dresser on the opposite side of the room and returning with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Kiryu nods gratefully—for both the distraction and Kashiwagi’s disinclination towards pleasantries in general. He and Kazama had that in common.
Kashiwagi slides a sheaf of papers in Kiryu’s direction, carefully setting it far away from the whiskey as the pours two generous measures. Kiryu thumbs through the documents, though he already knows exactly what they say.
“After Dojima’s death, Yumi was left catatonic. She couldn’t make her own decisions, so the Third Chairman helped Kazama add her to his family registry as his daughter,” Kashiwagi said over the phone, matter-of-factly. “And with you and Nishiki already being his sons legally, that makes you family.”
“Yumi and I…family.” Kiryu repeated, something in his chest twisting.
“On paper, yes.” Kashiwagi snorted. “One last gift from Kazama.”
Kiryu reads the title of the document, printed in bold letters, and stops there.
“We were only able to find Yumi’s individual record,” Kashiwagi says, setting down a glass in front of Kiryu. “But if you request Kazama-san’s full family registry, you can use it as a supporting document when you petition to adopt Haruka.”
It feels wrong to see Yumi’s life boiled down to a paltry sheet of paper. And yet, here it is in Kiryu’s hand: Sawamura Yumi, born June 30, 1971. A space beneath for all the trappings of a happy life—husband, child, address, date of death left blank. Except for one Kazama Shintaro, father, printed neatly underneath.
“That’s the version from ten years ago,” says Kashiwagi. There’s the click of a lighter, the hiss of a cigarette catching. “Out of date, of course.”
“And Kazama did this to protect Yumi?” Kiryu asks. He gingerly sets the paper aside to nurse his drink.
Kashiwagi releases a long plume of smoke. “That’s the long and short of it.”
Kiryu massages his temples, thinking of the three of them—himself, Nishiki, and Yumi—bound together under Kazama’s family tree. Haruka, sitting under it like a Christmas present. “Do you think he did it knowing things would turn out this way? Did he know that Haruka would end up an orphan?”
Kashiwagi pauses, sucking on his cigarette thoughtfully. “To be honest?” He takes a swig of his whiskey. “He probably did the same thing as always: just watched the pieces fall together conveniently and claimed the credit.”
And Kiryu knows what he means. When he was still a newly-minted chinpira, naïve to the world he was entering, Kazama held an almost god-like status in his mind. Kazama was a thinker, a schemer, a visionary who always had a plan, even if Kiryu couldn’t see it.
Especially, it seemed, when Kiryu couldn’t see it.
Now older and jaded, Kiryu knows that their world doesn’t work that way; that nobody could ever formulate a plan with that many moving parts and expect it not to go awry. That confidence could have you feeling like a god, especially when you had the worshippers to buy into it.
But Kiryu was hardly the only one. Out of everyone in Kazama’s sphere of influence, he had the least reason to doubt him. He didn't lie when Kazama was dying in his arms; legally or not, Kazama would always be his father.
The day he and Nishiki were officially turned from orphans into sons was one of the happiest of his life. To be formally adopted by Kazama was to be made real—to mean something to someone. Not only did it give Dojima a greater incentive to take them in (a father is responsible for his children, after all), but it also washed the stink of orphanhood from them. They could dream like real people and enter the world as real adults, even if they were only seventeen and being laughed out of nightclubs.
“What about Nishiki?” Kiryu asks. “What happened to his adoption record?”
Kashiwagi’s jaw tenses. Kiryu silently braces himself for the temper Kashiwagi has long been known for, but as the silence drags on, it mellows out into something more contemplative.
Kashiwagi drains his glass before answering. “When you left, Nishikiyama’s relationship with Kazama became somewhat strained.” He speaks slowly, as if choosing his words.
Kiryu nods miserably.
“In the beginning, his status was the only reason he was promoted to patriarch over everyone else in the family.” His voice drips with disdain, and Kiryu fights the temptation to defend Nishiki on principle. “But as Nishikiyama grew in power and influence, he increasingly distanced himself from Kazama. It was as if he wanted everyone to believe he was a self-made man.” Kashiwagi’s lip curls. He takes one last drag of his cigarette before stubbing the remains in the ashtray. “As far as I know, the legal bond between him and Kazama was never broken, but I wouldn’t put it past him.”
And now it doesn’t matter hangs unspoken in the air. “I see,” replies Kiryu.
“But again, you’d have to request the full registry to find out for sure.” Kashiwagi gets to his feet and takes the whiskey bottle, returning to the dresser to put it away. Kiryu senses Kashiwagi’s mood souring and begins planning an exit strategy.
He stands, bowing. “Thanks again, Kashiwagi-san. These documents mean the world to me and Haruka. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”
“You don’t need to,” Kashiwagi grumbles. “They would’ve ended up in a paper shredder otherwise.”
“Still.” Kiryu awkwardly shifts from foot to foot. “I really appreciate it.”
Kashiwagi emerges from the cabinets, a walking stick in his hand. “Before you go,” he adds, “Kazama wanted you to have this.” He holds it out to Kiryu with two hands, as delicately as if it were a flower.
It’s a wooden cane; its sculpted handle, tarnished from use, glows dully in the fluorescent lights, but the dark wood has been polished to a shine. The gold dragon bares its fangs, a round pearl clutched between its jaws. Kiryu swallows the lump in his throat and takes it gently by the neck. “Really?”
Kashiwagi nods stiffly. “Kazama’s will was brief, but he specifically wanted it to go to you.”
The finely crafted cane is like a thorn in Kiryu’s mind, long since healed over but still festering under the scar tissue.
“I’d do it all over again,” Kazama said stubbornly, limping clumsily on his new walking stick toward Kiryu’s hospital bed and lowering himself into the chair beside it. “A father is responsible for his children.” Even half-cut on painkillers, it rang hollow in Kiryu’s mind. It did not escape his notice that Yuko was on the floor above them, languishing in a hospital bed like his own, and had not seen Kazama for over a year.
He wants to curse Kazama’s name.
“Thank you,” he says instead.
Kashiwagi’s expression is grim, like he knows exactly what’s going through Kiryu’s head. “Take good care of it.”
The weight of Kazama’s last gifts hangs heavily, almost as if bringing them home will invite some deep evil into his life. By all accounts, Kiryu has been gifted a blessing: a chance to adopt Haruka as his own.
So why does it feel so much like a curse?
When Kiryu was twelve years old, he watched Kazama murder a man in cold blood.
Kiryu stared down the barrel of a stranger’s gun, lead pipe raised over his shoulders and yet totally unprepared to bring it down. With the crack of a gunshot, his would-be assailant crumpled and stumbled back like a squashed bug, drops of dark blood already pooling at their feet.
Kazama’s face was utterly impassive, gun pointed forward like a natural extension of his body. He’d pulled the trigger without a second thought, and he trailed his bleeding quarry with the smoothness of a professional killer, punching bullet after bullet into the struggling body until it fell and struggled no more.
There was none of the stoic but kind man Kiryu knew behind Kazama’s eyes; nothing in the hard set of his shoulders that Kiryu recognized. He knew he’d made a grave miscalculation in assuming Kazama ever needed saving. This was a different man entirely—but hadn’t Kiryu always known this was Kazama, too?
The thrashing he’d received after Kazama pulled him out of the burning building was nothing compared to the distant look in Kazama’s eyes as he stood over Kiryu, as though he were thinking of something else.
“Kazuma. Do you understand why I told you to go home?” He said calmly, hands folded neatly behind his back.
Kiryu nodded, head hung in shame.
“It’s not a game,” Kazama admonished, the way he would speak to a young child. “It is not your job to protect me from danger, Kazuma. It is mine, and mine alone. Is that clear?”
Kiryu shivered. “Yes, sir.”
It was late and he was chilled to the bone; the ground was cold against his knees and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed. Although he’d ventured all the way out to Kamurocho by himself, like a real grown-up, all the courage had fled from him and left him a trembling, scared boy.
Kazama drove him home in his black sedan, tense silence between them. Kiryu leaned his temple against the window, watching the streetlights grow fewer and farther between as they left the city. Kamurocho had always felt like an open hunting ground that he would someday grow into; now, he was acutely aware of just how small he was.
“Your good intentions almost got you killed tonight,” Kazama said once the car pulled up at Sunflower. “One day you may not be so lucky, and your good intentions will result in the death of someone you love.”
He fixed his gaze on Kiryu, its magnetism forcing him to make eye contact. His mouth was a grim line. “Are you prepared to live with that guilt?”
Majima slurps down his noodles and lets out an exaggerated sigh of contentment. “Nothin’ better than cold soba on a hot day!” He exclaims, washing it down with a gulp of cold tea. “Kiryu-chan always knows what I need.”
Kiryu chuckles weakly, picking at his own bento. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is out, the food is good. He picks at his vegetables, unconsciously sorting them by color.
“Kiryu-chan.” Majima’s voice is deep and sharp. Kiryu looks up to see Majima eyeing him curiously. “What’s eatin’ ya? You’re thinking a lot harder than usual.”
“It’s nothing,” he says.
Majima’s eye narrows dangerously. “Spit it out before I make ya,” he growls. Kiryu shrinks back, sheepish.
He rolls the words around his mouth, absently pushing a stray pea back and forth with his chopsticks. “I…submitted a petition to adopt Haruka this morning,” he finally admits.
Majima’s brows knit in concern. “And what, ya think it ain’t gonna go through? I can grease a couple palms if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Kiryu shakes his head. In truth, he knows the process well—he’s done it before, after all. The first time was shortly after the fallout had settled, but as the months trickled by without an answer, he knew that it wasn’t just government bureaucracy at work. At least this time he’s reasonably sure things will work out; they might be loath to hand over custody of a child to a convicted murderer, but if they were family, anyone who wanted to interfere would have no legal cause.
“It’s not that,” he replies. With a sigh, he tells Majima the story: his meeting with Kashiwagi, the records he obtained, the loophole they’d found. To his credit, Majima listens to every word, not interrupting even once.
“Ain’t that a good thing?” Majima asks. “The old man made it all possible.”
Kiryu grimaces. He thinks of the koseki tucked away in his bedroom, the names on it of people both dead and alive. Nishiki’s and Yumi’s names conspicuously struck out with a slash of red pen, with matching dates of death; Kiryu’s and Haruka’s clinging onto the page like the last two trembling leaves on a dead tree.
He steels himself. “Before Kazama died, he told me…that the reason I came to Sunflower as a child was because he had killed my parents.”
Majima nods somberly, quietly digesting the information. Kiryu can’t remember telling anyone about this. “He’s the reason my parents are dead. And ever since I heard from Kashiwagi, I can’t help thinking that…to Haruka, I’m just like Kazama. I’m the reason why her parents are dead.”
Kiryu clenches his fists, pressing them to his thighs to stop them from shaking. “Haruka doesn’t need someone like me in her life. She needs someone normal, someone who won’t ruin her life.” He screws his eyes tightly, tears prickling behind their lids. “The world doesn’t need another Kazama.” He takes a steadying breath, thinking of the look on Haruka’s face when he struck her. “I’m not meant for this. I can’t…”
I can’t do this.
“Kazuma,” Majima says, voice gentle.
It startles Kiryu out of his reverie. Majima’s lips are pursed in thought, eye fixed on his own. “Do you remember what I said to you ten years ago?”
A silver briefcase, a bloodied man kneeling at his feet, an umbrella raised high in a gloved hand. “Yeah.” Kiryu laughs, but it’s still watery at the edges. “You said I was ‘soft as a marshmallow.’”
“Sure did.” Setting the remains of his lunch aside, Majima takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offers one to Kiryu. Out of instinct, Kiryu’s hand goes into his own jacket for a lighter and searches for the end of Majima’s smoke. Instead of waiting for Kiryu to come to him, Majima grabs him by the jaw and reels him in until the ends of their cigarettes kiss, forcing Kiryu to light both of them at once.
Majima withdraws, taking a deep pull. “I still stand by what I said,” he adds casually, blowing a smoke ring. “You’re the softest motherfucker I ever met.”
He sighs. “Not even my kyoudai was as soft as you. Saejima knew when to leave well enough alone—but not you.” He points his cigarette at Kiryu accusingly. When Kiryu meets his glare without flinching, Majima relaxes and brings his smoke back to his lips as if nothing happened. “You’d hold your hand out to anyone, even if it meant losin’ it.”
“You told me that if I kept it up, it’d break me.”
“Damn straight. In the gokudō, bein’ that soft will get ya killed. Like walkin’ around with a giant target on your back.”
Kiryu pointedly looks at Majima’s loud snakeskin jacket and leather pants. Majima cackles. “You know what I meant, smartass! When I first found ya after getting outta the pen, you still had that giant soft spot. Except,” Majima pokes Kiryu in the chest, “You were weak. If anyone came after ya, you’d crack like an egg. All that gooey shit, wasted.”
Withdrawing, Majima quiets. “I always…liked that about ya,” he admits, blowing smoke. “So I kicked yer ass, and kicked it some more for good measure. And kept kickin’ yer ass because ya needed to shape up, and fast.” He turns to Kiryu, a slight smile on his face. “And ‘cause you’re a marshmallowy fuck, ya went along with it.”
Kiryu smiles back. “I wasn’t thankful at the time, but you really did end up saving my life.”
Majima turns away, looking uncomfortable. “My point is,” he continues, “you’re nothing like Kazama. That guy was stone cold. Nothin’ soft about him.”
Majima drops his cigarette to the ground and grinds it with his shoe. He bends down and retrieves the squashed butt, slipping it into his pocket. “You’re…different. Yer not in the game anymore. Ya don’t need to be a brick wall. That soft spot ya got…it’s a gift.”
He looks Kiryu up and down appreciatively. “If I had a dad like you, maybe I would’ve turned out normal.”
“I like you just the way you are, nii-san,” Kiryu says, touching Majima’s knee.
Majima giggles, muscles jumping underneath Kiryu’s hand. “See, that’s what I mean!” He swats Kiryu away playfully. “Anyone with half a brain can tell Haruka-chan means more to you than life itself. That kinda care is all a kid needs.”
It doesn’t completely dispel the black mood that’s been taunting Kiryu for the past few days, but he does feel better. “Thanks, nii-san.”
“For what?” Majima says loudly. “I didn’t do anythin’.” He swings his legs onto the bench and crawls into Kiryu’s lap, pointing at his mostly-uneaten bento. “Are you gonna eat that, or am I gonna have to steal it from ya?”
Kiryu laughs and shoves Majima back as he lunges for Kiryu’s lunch, making grabby hands at it, and that’s the end of it.
“Do orphans not get to dream?” Kiryu croaked skyward, knelt in the mud with rain pouring down on them.
Kazama stood tall and proud with their blood on his knuckles, rivulets of water carving trails down his face. His expression was unreadable to young Kiryu. Sad? Disappointed? Resigned?
It wasn’t until twenty years later that he would put a name to it, when he saw Kazama again for the first time in a decade. In a tearoom hidden deep in Tojo Headquarters, Kazama’s eyes unfocused as he told the story of Nishiki’s downfall.
“Nishiki gave into his demons, and I couldn’t help him,” he said, face mournful as if Nishiki really died. And to Kazama, maybe he had.
Kiryu knew that face: it had stared down at him hauntingly as he knelt in the mud in his school uniform, pleading for his father’s recognition. It was mourning.
Kazama had mourned him.
Perhaps the sweet boy he loved had frozen to death in the rain that day, his dying words a declaration to tread in his mentor’s bloody steps. His boy would never know the satisfaction of an ordinary life or the peace of a natural death. His boy, with his innocent dreams, was gone for good.
And it was all Kazama’s fault.
Kiryu wasn’t stupid; he knew that something had broken between them long before they swore the oath. By cementing their bond, Kazama distanced himself from Nishiki and Kiryu for good. He could never trust Kazama as a father again. He would play the part—he adopted them, after all—but Kiryu could never come crying to him with a skinned knee and wounded pride ever again. They weren’t that kind of family. Not anymore.
It was better to be loved from a distance.
Kiryu banishes the memory from his mind, checking his watch and hurriedly spooning the chicken and egg mixture he’d been watching over two heaping bowls of rice. Washing his hands, he abandons the kitchen and ducks out the door to fetch Haruka from school.
“What’s that smell?” Haruka asks, catching onto the scent still lingering in the apartment. She perks up hopefully. “Did you make oyakodon?”
“I did,” Kiryu replies, smiling as she scrambles to her room to drop off her backpack and change clothes. While no longer piping hot, the rice is still steaming and the eggs have stayed runny. Haruka reappears before he’s even finished setting the table, practically vibrating in her seat as they say their thanks. She digs into her bowl and shoves the first spoonful into her mouth, comically huffing and puffing around the too-hot bite. Even still, she closes her eyes and hums with pleasure.
“It’s so good, oji-san,” she mumbles. He’ll never get tired of the happy faces she makes while eating the food he’s made. “Did you cook the eggs differently? They’re softer than last time.”
Kiryu chuckles, pleased by her sharp observation. “That’s right. I lowered the heat a bit and added them to the chicken slowly.”
“I like it.”
Belatedly realizing he’s left his own bowl untouched, Kiryu samples his handiwork, marveling at the soft, silky consistency of the eggs. They almost melt right into the dashi, and the chicken parts easily under his teeth without feeling rubbery or dry. The simple combination of chicken, eggs, and rice settles comfortably in his belly, leaving him feeling warm and full.
Haruka breaks the silence. “Were you able to find the papers you needed for the adoption?”
Kiryu’s shoulders tense subconsciously. “Yes. I submitted the application today. I don’t know how long it’ll take to process, though.”
“That’s good.” She stabs her spoon into the rice, mixing the egg and dashi into it. “Where’s Majima-san? He usually comes by today.”
“He said he had a meeting, so he wouldn’t be able to make it.”
“Ah, that’s too bad.” A small smile blooms on Haruka’s face. “Is that why you look sad?”
Kiryu startles. He hadn’t realized it was so visible. “Do I really?”
Haruka nods. “You’re a lot happier when Majima’s around.”
The gears in Kiryu’s mind are spinning at light speed, scrutinizing every word of her sentence. Is it a simple observation, or is it a thinly-veiled complaint? Has he been paying so much attention to his love life that he’s missed something vital? Has he failed to perform his paternal duties? Is he perhaps failing right now?
“Have you been feeling lonely?” Kiryu asks, brow creased with worry. “Do you feel like I enjoy being around him more than you? What can I do to make it right?”
Haruka shakes her head, giggling. “That’s not what I meant, Uncle Kaz,” she says, not unkindly. “It’s different with Majima-san. Things just feel…too quiet when he’s not around. It’s like something’s missing. I feel it too.”
Kiryu marginally relaxes, still uncomfortable. “I see.” He takes a deep breath. “I just worry that you feel neglected with him in the picture. You’ll always be my first priority, and Majima knows that.”
Her smile is sad. “I know. But I want you to be happy, oji-san. If I’m worried, I’ll tell you.”
It doesn’t quite reassure him the way he’d hoped. “Thank you, Haruka.”
They’re working on Haruka’s homework together (well, Haruka is doing it—Kiryu is mainly a confused spectator) when his cell phone rings. He checks the caller ID and excuses himself, stepping out onto the balcony. The rainy season started in Japan not long ago, and he swears he senses a change in the air.
He flips the phone open. “Hello?”
A familiar voice greets him, soft and scratchy from use. “Yo, Kiryu-chan.”
“Majima.” Kiryu rests his elbows on the railing, wishing he’d brought his cigarettes. It’s unusual for Majima to call, but he’s probably being considerate given the day Kiryu’s had. “Everything okay? How was your meeting?”
“Eh, same shit, stupider time. Sorry I couldn’t make it today. These contractors have been driving me up the wall for weeks over this scheduling shit.” Majima’s voice curls with distaste.
“It’s fine,” Kiryu replies, trying to sound casual but not quite sticking the landing.
“You say that, but…” Majima sighs. “Nevermind. How’s Haruka-chan doin'? Are ya celebratin' the occasion?”
He frowns, but lets it go. “Not today. I figured it would be better to wait until it’s confirmed.” Swallowing his pride, he makes a selfish request. “Would you like to be there when we do?”
Majima sounds taken aback. “Haw? Ain’t that supposed to be special?”
Kiryu squashes down the stab of embarrassment that pierces the back of his brain. “I guess I’d have to ask Haruka, but I don’t mind if you’re there.” He grimaces but shows his hand. “I’d like it if you were there.” You seem happier when he’s around, Haruka said. He almost hates that she was right.
Majima clicks his tongue. “Well shit. I can’t say no to that. If the li’l lady says it’s fine, then sure, Kiryu-chan. I’ll be there.” It’s so kind Kiryu wants to cry. He never thought he’d be finding comfort from Majima, of all people.
“Hey, speakin' of Haruka, can ya hand the phone to her? I wanna talk to her for a second.”
Kiryu makes a questioning noise. “Why?”
“What, I can’t congratulate the little squirt on being adopted?” He replies, faux-casual.
Kiryu doesn’t believe that for a second, but he figures if he says anything strange to Haruka, she’ll spill right away. She always had a sense of self-preservation, unlike him. “Alright. Hold on.”
He returns to the living room and holds the phone out to her, still sitting at the table. “It’s Majima-san. He wants to talk to you.”
She looks just as confused, but takes it from him. He hears Majima’s low voice buzzing over the line, but makes out nothing else. He wonders if he should be worried.
With a simple “okay,” she abruptly gets up from her spot and retreats to her room, still holding the phone. Her door clicks shut, leaving Kiryu standing awkwardly in the living room. Concerned, he briefly considers following her and eavesdropping. He discards the idea as soon as it comes to him. It’s not like you’re her dad, a nasty voice says.
He searches for his cigarettes and goes back outside for a smoke. The nicotine soothes the unease somewhat, but instead of smoking it, he mostly watches the lit end smolder, paper withering to ash.
The balcony door cracks open. Haruka holds out the phone, flipped shut. “He said he had to go, but he wanted me to tell you good night and he’ll see you tomorrow.”
Kiryu can’t help prying, just a bit. “He didn’t say anything weird to you, did he?”
“No.” She wrinkles his nose at his cigarette. “Those are bad for you, y’know.” She ducks inside and shuts the door behind her, fanning her hands as if shooing the smoke away from the apartment.
Kiryu stubs out his cigarette and goes back inside.
The first time Haruka held Kiryu’s hand, it was December and mere minutes after Kiryu had just used said hand to shatter a man’s nose. With no heed for the blood on his knuckles, she slipped her tiny, fragile hand into Kiryu’s massive paw like it could do no wrong, clinging to it in the crowded streets. Her fingers were icicles in his gentle grip; she had braved the winter cold in with her thin sweatshirt and exposed legs, but she refused to even shiver.
Now nearing June, her hand is warm against his palm, yet she still reaches for it when he walks her to school. One day, she’ll be older and want to shed such childish displays of affection. He knows that day will come, but hopes it isn’t any time soon. The morning commuters form a constant river of traffic that pushes them forward.
“Oji-san?” Haruka is looking at him curiously.
Kiryu tears his eyes away. “Yes?”
“What was your dad like?”
“Kazama?” He doesn’t try to hide his surprise.
“Uh-huh.” She kicks a rock on the sidewalk, sweeping it into the gutter with her foot. Kiryu frowns at the scuff marks on her shoes, wondering when he’d polished them last. “I didn’t know him very well, but he seemed like he cared about you a lot.”
Kiryu swallows. “Yeah, he did. I really looked up to him, when I was growing up. He was the reason I joined the yakuza.”
“Was he a good man?”
The question throws him; he gives her a quizzical glance as they wait at a crosswalk. He instinctively wants to answer yes, of course he was, but had he ever actually thought about it before? It seems awfully insensitive to say that, considering Kazama’s line of work. And yet, in Kiryu’s mind, he was never a bad person. He knows that much.
“It’s complicated,” he admits. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”
Haruka turns and glares at him. “Why do adults always say that? I’m almost ten. I’m not a baby.”
Kiryu chuckles despite himself. “No, you’re not. I guess I have a hard time putting it into words.”
“That sounds like a more honest answer.”
Kiryu sighs, holding her close as they cross the road. “I owe a lot to Kazama-oyassan. I really do consider him my father. But knowing what he did, I can’t say that he was a good person.” He squeezes Haruka’s hand. “The upbringing I had…I don’t want that for you. And I worry that if you stay with me, you’ll never be able to live a normal life.”
Haruka squints at him. “Isn’t that why you left? I think things have been pretty normal.”
“You don’t just leave the yakuza. If it wants you back, it will find you.” He replies tersely. “I left knowing the risk. You don’t deserve to get caught in the fallout.”
She shakes her head. “You think it’s just going to stop if I don’t live with you anymore? That’s stupid.” She gently tugs his arm and he steps out of the way of an approaching bike rack. “Things will be different no matter what you do. If I’m going to be in danger, I’d rather be by your side than not.”
Kiryu thinks about his father, present but distant like the moon. How, for better or worse, he’d been brought up right. Maybe not all in one piece, and perhaps missing some parts, but he was alive, wasn’t he? “Sometimes, it’s just best to love someone from a distance.”
Haruka makes a face. “Who told you that? Clearly they don’t know how good your hugs are.”
Kiryu bursts into laughter, startling some passers-by and earning him a bewildered look from Haruka. “Nobody’s ever told me that before.”
“Well, it’s true. You give great hugs, you cook delicious food, and you’re not with the yakuza anymore.” She turns to look at him, a broad smile on her face. “I don’t want distance. I just want to be with you. So don’t feel sad, okay?”
It knocks the air out of him better than any punch he’s ever taken. They slow to a stop at the sidewalk outside the gate, and Kiryu’s brain flops around like a fish out of water struggling to come up with what to say to that. “Wait, how did you know I was sad about that?”
She slips easily out of his grasp, trotting forward and turning to face him from a few steps away. “I gotta go, Uncle Kaz,” she chirps. “See you later!”
And then she’s sprinting away to join her friends without looking back.
Kiryu stands there, utterly nonplussed, well after she’s gone.
“Is it gettin’ hotter every year or what?” Majima complains, flopping onto the bench and shrugging his jacket off his shoulders. It peels away from his body like a second skin—well, a snake skin.
“You’re just spending too much time inside, nii-san. It’s fine out here.” Kiryu pops the lid of his bento, enjoying the breeze. Wedged as it is between the subway entrance and a stack of shipping crates, their little lunch hideout is perpetually shaded, which will no doubt be a blessing when summer comes in full force.
Majima leers at him. “Well, with a view this good, I might just have to take ya up on it.”
Kiryu smiles crookedly. “You know where to find me.”
Tilting his head, Majima drops his lecherous expression and studies him carefully with a narrowed eye. “You’re in a better mood than yesterday.”
“I guess so,” Kiryu says. He shoves a clump of vinegared rice and fish in his mouth. He looks over at Majima, expecting him to say something more. Instead, Majima just huffs and looks away. His shoulders droop with relaxation, or perhaps tiredness.
“Nii-san, what did you say to Haruka yesterday?”
Majima crunches on a slice of pickled ginger. “Hm?” He takes a sip of his tea. “On the phone?”
“Yeah.”
“I said ‘hey, congrats on the new dad.’” He smirks. “I heard he’s kinda lame, but ya gotta play the cards yer dealt.”
Kiryu snorts and shoves him with his shoulder. Majima careens dramatically, righting himself with a tremendous amount of effort. “Ow, Kiryu-chan!” He wails. “Ya damn near broke my arm!”
“You’ll live.”
Majima shakes his head, sighing. “Poor Haruka-chan, stuck with this brute.”
Kiryu opens his mouth to argue, but thinks better of it and tries to steer the conversation back on track. “She said something important to me this morning. Do you want to hear it?”
Majima’s ears perk up (metaphorically—obviously he doesn’t have posable ears, as far as Kiryu knows). “No,” he answers, but his face says otherwise. “...But give it a shot anyway.”
Kiryu swallows and picks at his food. “She told me…that she didn’t want to be left behind just because I felt she’d be safer without me.”
A cool breeze stirs the hairs on the back of his neck. “I spent so long being grateful to my old man that I didn’t want to notice his flaws as a father. Now that they’re so obvious, I can’t help but feel like they’ve all been passed onto me.”
Majima has frozen next to him, face carefully kept blank. Kiryu continues, “But I owe it to her to try. I’d never forgive myself if something horrible happens to her because of me. But most of all, I’d never forgive myself for turning my back on her. Not after everything she’s been through.”
Snapping out of his stupor, Majima blinks and shakes his head. “Kid’s wise beyond her years. She knew what ya needed to hear.”
Kiryu smiles at him. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“Nope. Had nothin’ to do with it,” Majima answers quickly. He seems rather preoccupied with his own hands. “Glad you’re feelin' better.” It’s barely a mumble, but Kiryu hears it.
Kiryu cranes his neck and checks for any wandering eyes. He sets his lunch aside and leans into Majima, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Their plastic helmets bonk each other, but Kiryu doesn’t pull away. He holds Majima and hugs him tight. Majima stiffens when he moves in, but it melts when he realizes what Kiryu is doing. After a moment, Kiryu withdraws.
Majima blinks in astonishment, face red. “What the fuck? What was that for?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Kiryu picks up his bento and takes another bite of chirashi. “Are you going to eat what I made you, or should I give it to someone who will actually appreciate it?”
Majima grins. “Over my dead body.”
Notes:
-To clarify: the family register (koseki) is a legal document that every Japanese citizen has. It contains a person's name, address, date of birth, and date of death. It also tracks their family and is modified in cases of adoption. Adult adoptions were quite common in cases of families who had no sons and needed one to pass an inheritance. (Families are required to share the same surname so technically this means Kiryu, Yumi, and Nishiki all have the Kazama last name but uhh let's pretend not)
-Family registers are separated into individual and full records. Individual records do not contain information on siblings or extended family, while full registries do.
-I did a lot of handwavey artistic liberty bullshit with the legal stuff so please correct me if this is not in fact how adoption works in Japan
-Kiryu and Nishiki being formally adopted by Kazama was a detail I made up to make a loophole haha. I may or may not have been playing Y6 and got very offended on Kiryu's behalf for being called Haruka's "guardian".
-This whole fic is just me going fuck it, Kiryu and Haruka are Family Now
-Kazama's cane literally has a metal dragon for a handle. I didn't even notice until I rewatched some Y1 cutscenes. He has a favorite son and it's not Nishiki :(
-The food is always a deliberate choice. The soba is a nod to Kashiwagi, oyakodon means "parent and child rice bowl", and chirashi is a dish commonly eaten on Children's Day and other celebratory occasions :)
-I had a headcanon that Kazama's favorite dish is kazunoko, or herring roe. It didn't make it into the story sadly
-I could write an entire essay on the choices made in this chapter but these notes are long enough
Chapter 16: Beach Day
Summary:
He can’t remember the last time he’s seen the ocean. It greets him like an old friend, beckoning them to stay a moment on its doorstep.
Notes:
I tried to write this in time for the new year but uh I overslept. So here it is now!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Kiryu wakes up in the dead of night to the sound of sniffles and sobs. It’s not an unusual occurrence for him, but this time he’s not the one making the noises.
He sits up in bed and spots a small shadow huddled in his doorway. “Haruka?” He blinks hard, eyes adjusting to the low light. She shuffles toward his bedside, cheeks streaked with tears—the sorriest little creature he’s ever seen.
“Oji-san,” she whimpers, kneeling next to him. He throws the covers aside and lies back down, spreading out an arm and letting her snuggle up against him. She tucks herself in the crook of his arm, and he curls a hand protectively around her and pats her back like a baby.
Part of his brain, indignant at having been woken, pleads for him to go back to sleep. He ignores it. “What do you need?” He asks, waiting for the trembling and gasps to subside. He pays no mind to the tears wetting his shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Bad dream.” She sniffles and takes a deep breath. “I got taken away from you,” she whimpers, punctuated by hiccups. “They sent me to an orphanage far away so you couldn’t find me.” Kiryu tightens his arm around her in an awkward side-hug. A fresh wave of tears wracks her tiny body and he feels horribly guilty for ever contemplating leaving her with someone else.
“I waited and waited for someone to get me…but nobody ever did. I thought you gave up trying.” She quiets and stuffs her face into Kiryu’s shoulder. He wonders if she can hear his heart cracking in two.
Kiryu feels horribly guilty. If he still has doubts about keeping Haruka around, they’re withering and dying on the spot and he’s taking a flamethrower to the remnants. “Haruka,” he says, willing his voice to remain steady, “We’re family. Once things are finalized, nobody can take you away.”
He considers. “And if anyone tries, I’ll fight tooth and nail to get you back. I’d fight anyone. Even a tiger.” Haruka laughs shakily. “Maybe even two,” he adds.
“If the social workers took me back, that’d be kidnapping,” she jokes weakly. “They’d put you right back in jail.”
“That would never stop me,” he declares, rubbing her back in small circles. Haruka has already been through so much, but in moments like these she shows her age, seeking comfort from Kiryu and clinging to him like the child she is. He wishes someone had done this for him when he was small. “If you ever get lost, just know I’m looking for you, always. I’d never give up on you.”
She gradually quiets, gasping sobs tapering into quiet hiccups. “I—I know.”
He searches for something to make her feel better. “Hey, Haruka. What do you want to do when the adoption’s finalized? Anything you want.”
Her breaths even out and she stays silent so long that Kiryu wonders if she’s fallen asleep.
“...I really wanna go to the beach,” she admits, her voice small.
He laughs. Haruka makes a disgruntled sound as his chest rumbles. “You’re still thinking about that, huh? Okay. We’ll go to the beach.”
“Good.” She yawns. “I’ve never been to the ocean before.”
“Really?”
“Mm.”
He can feel her starting to drift off. “Just the two of us? Or would you like Majima-san to join?”
She hums. “Yeah, I think I would.” Her body relaxes. “I like Majima-san.”
“Yeah.” Kiryu strokes her hair, listening to her breaths grow deep and restful. “Me too.”
The weekend after a judge stamps the papers, declaring them legally father and child, Kiryu stuffs a giant tote bag and ice cooler into the back of a rented car and drives the three of them an hour and half to Kamakura. Majima passes bags of chips back and forth to Haruka in the back seat and blasts idol songs on the radio until even Kiryu finds himself humming along to the new ARASHI single. Of course, it doesn’t last—when Morning Musume comes on, Majima seizes the opportunity to chant SEXY ue ue! in Kiryu’s face, bouncing in his seat and pointing at him with both hands. Haruka even joins in, to his great dismay and embarrassment.
But when they finally get there, it’s worth the drive. The vast stretch of shore is blissfully peaceful, the low roar of the ocean its only soundtrack. The beginning of beach season is still a month away, the beach huts and bars shuttered to guests, but there’s no quieting the cries of the seabirds or crashes of the tides. Turquoise ocean stretches as far as the eye can see; if he squints, he can see the tiny figures of wind sailers and surfers riding the waves.
He can’t remember the last time he’s seen the ocean. It greets him like an old friend, beckoning them to stay a moment on its doorstep. Haruka charges forth in search of a good spot while Kiryu and Majima trail behind bearing their belongings like royal retainers.
“It’s hot out,” Majima complains, plucking at his T-shirt. “You’re tellin’ me I gotta keep this on the whole day?”
Kiryu rolls his eyes and tries not to think about his own dark shirt, already sticking to his neck with sweat. “You could’ve worn a wetsuit,” he replies, eyeing Majima’s white shirt and hot pink swim shorts.
Majima grins. “And have ya oglin’ me the entire time? Pervert.”
Kiryu blushes, turning away and mumbling a weak protest. Majima leans in close to his ear and adds: “Consider yourself lucky I didn’t wear my bikini.”
Before Kiryu can process the revelation that Majima indeed owns a two-piece, Majima races ahead of him toward Haruka, who waves at them to hurry up.
Majima kicks off his shoes as soon as they have the beach towel spread out, positioning the umbrella at the perfect angle to block out the sun. It doesn’t completely shade their legs, but Kiryu can already feel the air turning a bit cooler around them.
“Can I go, Uncle Kaz?” Haruka pleads.
“Sunscreen first,” he replies sternly, bottle in hand. “Sit down.”
With a theatrical groan, Haruka stomps over and plops down on the towel, shucking off the sundress covering her swimsuit—a white one-piece with cute rainbow pinstripes on it. Kiryu slaps sunscreen on her back, ordering her to hold still while she squirms.
“All done,” Kiryu says. He immediately turns on Majima, sunscreen raised threateningly. “Your turn.”
Majima, unintimidated, breaks into a smug smirk, turning his back to Kiryu and arching suggestively. “Don’t mind if I do. Ya better work it in real good, Kiryu-chan, ‘cause this girl ain’t cheap.” He pats himself on the back over the hannya’s snarling face.
Haruka makes a face. “I’m going to collect seashells,” she loudly declares, bolting toward the ocean before either of them can say anything.
Majima snickers. “Guess she’s gettin’ to be that age.”
Squirting lotion into his hand, Kiryu hikes up the hem of Majima’s shirt and rubs his back. “What do you mean?”
“Where everythin’ her old man does is embarrassing. We’re crampin’ her style, Kiryu-chan.”
“Maybe she just doesn’t want to be seen with you, nii-san.”
Majima gasps, mock-offended. “Rude! I’m the coolest fuckin’ guy on this beach!” He cranes his neck to look at Kiryu’s face. “And I’d look a lot cooler if you’d let me take off this stupid shirt. Do ya really have to do it like that?”
Instead of asking Majima to strip or even rolling up the hem, Majima’s shirt covers Kiryu’s hands, completely hiding his tattoo as Kiryu rubs up and down the knobs of his spine. The front is stretched tightly across Majima’s torso like a baby tee. Kiryu admits that it is a rather odd (and unsexy) way to put on sunscreen.
“There are people around,” Kiryu grumbles.
Majima snorts. “You’re so fuckin’ weird. Fine, have it your way.” He takes the bottle of sunscreen and slathers it on his face and chest while Kiryu works on his back and shoulders.
Once they’re done, Majima manhandles Kiryu until their positions are reversed—but while Kiryu had kept a respectable distance, Majima spreads his legs wide and crowds into Kiryu’s space until his back is almost flush with Majima’s chest. Majima runs his hands over Kiryu’s back languidly, sending a shiver down his spine. He takes his time, kneading and squeezing the muscles far longer than is appropriate. Even still, he keeps Kiryu’s shirt loose, working up the dragon while keeping it carefully hidden. Kiryu’s cheeks redden in a way that has nothing to do with the heat.
“Haven’t gotten to feel ya up like this since Officer Majima was in town,” he sighs, giving the scant fat at Kiryu’s hips an appreciative squeeze.
“I should’ve reported him for sexual harassment,” Kiryu muses, remembering the wicked grin Majima had sported the entire pat-down (which Kiryu had been all too happy to wipe off his face with a right hook).
“And he should’ve arrested you for assaultin’ an officer.” He snakes his hands up Kiryu’s chest and squishes his pecs between them briefly before dropping them to Kiryu’s waist and letting them settle there. Kiryu clears his throat and hurriedly slaps sunscreen onto the rest of his front, ignoring the weight of Majima’s chin resting on his shoulder. He still can’t help himself from tipping his head back and sighing contentedly, enjoying the fleeting moment of intimacy. With some reluctance, he scoots out of Majima’s space and rises to his feet.
“We should catch up with Haruka,” Kiryu says, holding out a hand to Majima. He takes it with a knowing smile, letting Kiryu heave him to his feet and keeping their hands intertwined just a little longer than necessary before letting go.
They find Haruka picking her way along the shore, weaving her way around clumps of seaweed and twigs washed up on the beach.
“Find anything good?” Kiryu asks.
“Not really,” Haruka replies. “Mostly mussels. But I did find some nice ones.” She shows her small haul: a knobbly, reddish mollusc, sunbleached scallops, and bivalves of varying colors and shapes.
“You’re lookin’ for the wrong things,” Majima says. “The coolest shit on the beach ain’t shells.” He bends down and starts combing the beach alongside her, wading in up to his knees. Soon, he straightens up with a triumphant grin.
“Check it out!” He holds out his find: a bright green piece of sea glass, its surface worn smooth and frosted. He gives it to Haruka, who examines it curiously.
She smiles. “It’s pretty.”
Majima beams. “Ain’t it?” He turns back to the hunt, prowling the sand for more. “Kiryu-chan, help us find some interestin’ shit!”
Kiryu obliges, joining Haruka as they meander about the shallows. “Don’t go out too far,” he calls. He scans the sand, occasionally bending down for a closer look before straightening up in disappointment. True to her word, the shells that litter the beach are mostly peeling mussels and tiny snails. After a few minutes of searching, though, he picks up a small piece of sunbleached coral and a rock with a hole worn through the middle.
He’s about to return to Haruka with his meager offerings until he notices the glint of something buried in the sand. Coming closer, he gently unearths it and rinses away the excess dirt, inspecting his find closely.
He finds Haruka ankle-deep in the shallows. “Look what I found,” he tells her.
It’s an oblong shell. Its dull orange surface brings to mind a clam, but when he flips it over, the inside is covered in a layer of mother-of-pearl that shines pink and green in the sun. Seven neat holes line its outer edge.
“Whoa,” Haruka breathes, turning it in the light and marveling at its luster.
Majima peeks over her shoulder. “Abalone,” he says. “Too bad it’s just the shell. Could’ve made a nice sashimi out of it.”
Haruka giggles. “That’s gross. What if it was already dead?”
“Then I’d fry it,” replies Majima, as if the answer were obvious.
Kiryu stifles a laugh and puts a hand on Haruka’s shoulder. “You ready to finish up?”
Back at their umbrella, Haruka examines their pooled haul like an appraiser. Thanks to Majima, her collection has expanded beyond shells to bits of broken pottery, urchin shells, coins, and even a tiny shark tooth. She carefully folds the collection into a napkin and tucks it into her shoe for safekeeping.
“Let’s go swimming,” Majima says, fanning himself. “I’m dyin’ out here.” Kiryu quietly agrees—his own temples prickle with sweat and his black shirt is relentlessly soaking up the sun.
Haruka hesitates. “I want to…but I don’t know how to swim,” she admits.
“What?!” Majima’s eyebrows shoot up. “Well that won’t do at all! I’ll show ya.” He looks over at Kiryu. “Ya know how to swim, big guy?”
Kiryu scowls. “Yes.” Maybe not that well, but he can at least avoid drowning.
“Thank fuck for that. C’mon, then!” Without waiting for an answer, he takes off for the ocean, leaving Haruka and Kiryu scrambling to catch up.
By the time they reach Majima, he’s already disappeared in the waves, completely soaking himself and popping out to shake himself like a dog. The water comes up to his hips and almost completely swallows Haruka, who shrieks at the cold.
Majima slicks his hair back and gives Kiryu a shit-eating grin, planting his hands on his hips and proudly showing off the tattoos peeking through his translucent shirt. Kiryu knows what he’s doing and resents it deeply. Even still, he only manages to tear his eyes away from Majima’s abs to make sure Haruka isn’t drowning.
“It’s so cold!” She squawks, hugging herself.
“You’ll get used to it,” calls Majima over the roar of the waves. “Let’s start by teachin’ ya how to float.”
He holds his arms out and demonstrates, flopping backwards and floating to the surface on his back. “Even if ya don’t know how to swim, knowin’ how to float will save your ass,” he says, drifting along serenely with the waves. Returning to an upright position, he watches Haruka try it, Kiryu supporting her legs and shoulders.
“Stick out your gut!” Majima barks, puffing out his own. “Pretend you’re the Florist!”
Haruka laughs, instantly sinking as she folds in on herself. Majima tuts and barks at her to do it again.
After several tries, she gets the hang of it; both Kiryu and Majima cheer when she bobs up to the surface and stays there, drifting serenely like a corpse.
“You’re doin’ much better than the guys in Tokyo Bay,” Majima compliments.
Kiryu gives him a disapproving look. “Nii-san.”
“What? It’s true.”
“No murder jokes in public.”
Majima grumbles and sticks out his tongue at him.
Within an hour, Haruka’s worked up to paddling around unassisted—though Kiryu still can’t help himself from hovering like a mother hen, ready to yank her out of the water at the first sign of trouble.
“She’ll be fine, Kiryu-chan,” Majima scolds him, floating lazily on his back. “Get in here and stop bein’ a stick in the mud.” He beckons Kiryu impatiently.
Kiryu has to admit, the prospect of a full-body soak in cool water is appealing. Bracing himself, he dunks himself and surfaces, instantly feeling refreshed. He swims out further to join Majima, but finds that he can still stand on the bottom with his head above water. It’s probably for the best—he hasn’t had his deep-water survival skills tested in quite a while, and if he drowned, the embarrassment would kill him long before the asphyxiation would. Majima grins and swims leisurely circles around Kiryu as if he knows exactly why Kiryu has rooted himself to one spot. Kiryu stubbornly ignores him and focuses on Haruka swimming small laps up and down the shore.
Kiryu yelps as a cold hand squeezes his ass. He whirls around to glare at Majima, who whips his head in the opposite direction and whistles innocently. For once, Kiryu gives into the urge to wipe the stupid smile off Majima’s face and tackles him, submerging them both. Cackling, Majima grabs at everything within reach while Kiryu swats him away, and they tumble through the water in a low-gravity wrestling match.
“Can we have lunch soon? I’m kind of hungry,” Haruka interrupts, looking thoroughly unimpressed by their antics. Majima and Kiryu swing their eyes guiltily in her direction and slowly disentangle themselves (but not before Majima gives his butt one last parting honk).
“O-of course,” Kiryu stammers, ignoring Majima’s salacious gaze boring into his back as he wades toward the shore.
Tossing towels in Haruka and Majima’s direction, he cracks open the ice-filled cooler and extracts the three bento boxes he prepared that morning, wrapped in plastic to prevent water from seeping in. He passes them to his hungry charges with bottles of chilled water that are already sweating in the heat. With a furtive glance around them, he rummages through the ice and passes a thick plastic cup to Majima, who eyes it skeptically but takes a deep drink from it anyway. He’s swapped out his eyepatch for a pair of dark sunglasses, which do nothing to blunt the intensity of his stare.
Majima grins at him. “Kiryu-chan, you snuck beer onto the beach? Naughty boy.”
“Not so loud,” Kiryu hisses, though he doubts anyone heard over the sound of the sea and the birds. A few crows putter about a few meters away, bold enough to beg but not quite enough to snatch the food from their hands.
When they open the bento boxes, Kiryu’s silently glad he’d gone to the extra trouble to package everything securely. The salmon and rice inside are perfectly dry, and boxing the side dishes separately has kept their liquids confined to their respective containers. This time, he’s fallen back on the summer foods he remembers from his childhood, along with some fancier foods they’d never had the luxury to eat at the orphanage.
“Salmon!” Haruka cries, descending on her broiled fillet as soon as their thanks are said. Kiryu can’t resist starting in on his own, making sure to take a bite of its mazegohan bed. The edges of the fish are still pleasantly crispy from the grill, and the myoga and shiso in the rice give it a fresh, fragrant taste. He never properly appreciated seasonal vegetables until he started cooking for Haruka and himself.
The smashed cucumber salad offers a satisfying crunch, its flavor boosted with toasted sesame seeds and soy sauce—and if Kiryu secretly enjoyed whacking the cucumbers with a rolling pin until they were reduced to bits, that’s just a bonus. With the leftover vegetables, he’s thrown together a quick side of chilled tofu, drizzled with ponzu for tartness. It’s a meal best served cold, and it hits the spot on the sweltering day.
“I dunno how ya keep doin’ it, Kiryu-chan,” hums Majima, mouth half-full of rice. “You’re a fuckin’ prodigy at everything ya try.”
Kiryu smiles, pleased. “It’s hard to mess up cold tofu, nii-san.”
“Just take the compliment, Kaz.”
Kiryu raises an eyebrow. “Kaz, huh?”
Majima chokes on a piece of cucumber, face reddening. “Well—I mean—”
“I don’t mind,” replies Kiryu, hiding a blush of his own behind his beer. “It’s kind of cute.”
Haruka lets out an agonized groan, eyes screwed tightly shut. “Please stop.”
Quickly recovering, Majima drawls: “Yeah, Kiryu-chan, we’re embarrassing her.”
It doesn’t get rid of Kiryu’s silly little smile, but the way Haruka is grimacing at them stops him from saying anything more. They finish their meals in silence, a small flock of birds watching them with interest. Majima flicks a piece of salmon at them and cackles as they descend on it, shrieking and squabbling.
If Majima has made any attempt to dry off, it seems that he got to his hair and nothing else. His usually-neat undercut is frizzy with humidity and seawater, curling around his ears in gentle waves. His wet shirt clings to his shoulders and back, leaving almost nothing to the imagination, and Kiryu desperately hopes that any wandering eyes simply chalk it up to a pattern on the fabric. Kiryu pointedly wrings out the front of his own shirt, but Majima just gives him a winning smile and continues lounging on the beach towel unperturbed.
They’re busy collecting the trash and packing away the containers when a shadow falls over the sand before their umbrella. Kiryu looks up at the visitors and bristles immediately; Majima remains calmly reclined, but Kiryu can sense his muscles tensing in anticipation.
Three young punks loom over them, dressed as gaudily as the weather will allow with gold chains and piercings. One of them, a muscular man in a red baseball cap, approaches.
“You guys yakuza?” He growls, pointing at Majima’s tattoos still showing through his shirt.
Kiryu subtly positions himself in front of Haruka. Majima smiles breezily, looking up at them through dark lenses. “And what if we were?” Majima sneers, revealing a flash of teeth.
Baseball Cap gestures at the delinquent standing next to him, who has a volleyball tucked under his arm. “We wanna play beach volleyball, but nobody wants to go up against us.” He puts his hands on his hips. “You guys game?”
Majima looks them up and down. Finally, he shrugs. “Sure, I’m up for it.” He turns to Kiryu. “How about you, Kaz?”
Kiryu lowers his guard—the way Majima casually calls him Kaz does funny things to his stomach—but not entirely. These guys don’t seem to recognize them, and even if they did, there’s not much they can do in a crowded public space. Still, he should probably lend Majima a hand if things get dicey. “I guess I can play,” he says.
“Can I join?” Haruka pipes up, poking her head out from behind Kiryu’s broad back and looking at the thugs curiously.
Kiryu is about to say absolutely not when one of the punk’s buddies laughs. “You think you can keep up, pipsqueak?”
She narrows her eyes. “I can hold my own.” They stare at each other for a tense moment. To Kiryu’s surprise, the punk nods and seems to accept her answer.
“Ya heard her, Kiryu-chan,” Majima says. “She can handle herself.”
Part of Kiryu still wants to protest, thinking about the many ways she could get hurt. Haruka gives him a pleading look until Kiryu finally sighs and relents with a nod.
Majima snaps his head back to the punks. “You’re on.”
“But not before everyone puts on more sunscreen,” Kiryu orders.
The opposing team leads them down the beach and away from the crowds, leading Kiryu to scan his environment closely for any improvised weapons in reach, but true to their word, there is a volleyball court drawn in the sand near the beach huts, a sagging net marking the center line. The sand beneath their feet is coarse but dense, offering decent traction. Kiryu and Haruka take the back right and left corners of the court respectively while Majima stands front and center. Kiryu hasn’t played volleyball in a very long time—not since junior high—but he’s always been good at sports. This should be fine, right?
“First to two sets wins,” Baseball Cap calls from the other side of the net. Another punk, a stout guy in a green tracksuit, idly tosses the volleyball from hand to hand as he digs his heels into the sand and readies a serve.
“I’m playin’ to win, Kiryu-chan,” Majima says in a low voice, eye trained on the ball.
Kiryu lets out a snort of amusement. “So am I.”
“I’m here too,” Haruka huffs, annoyed.
With one fluid motion, Tracksuit tosses the volleyball upward and spikes it.
For a moment, it looks like it’ll sail right out of bounds, but as it reaches the peak of its arc and starts to descend within the lines, Kiryu dives to intercept it. He makes it just in time to bump it in Haruka’s direction. She centers herself under the ball and sets it toward the net. “Majima-san!” she calls.
With a ear-splitting shriek, Majima leaps for it and arches his back as he winds up. He undershoots it slightly, smacking the ball with his fingertips. It’s not the spike he’d been trying for, but it nudges the ball just over the net and sends their three opponents scrambling to catch it.
Their middle blocker, a lanky dude in a pair of shiny blue shorts, bumps it backwards just enough for Baseball Cap to set it to Tracksuit, who sends it over the net, but it’s clear they’re on the back foot.
Kiryu seizes the opportunity and charges forward, jumping and smacking the ball as hard as he can. It’s not unlike delivering a sumo slap, and the ball rockets into the ground in the opponents’ court.
Majima whoops. “Good shit, Kiryu-chan!”
Even Haruka looks impressed. “That was pretty cool, oji-san.”
Kiryu suppresses a pleased smile. “Heh.”
However, their luck doesn’t last long. While he’s gotten more experience fighting with Majima rather than against him, the competitive spirit still tends to rear its ugly head even when they’re on the same team. When a spike comes down in the middle of their court, both he and Majima lunge for the ball at the same time, colliding foreheads and almost coming to blows as the ball bounces off them and out of bounds.
When another shot comes down, aimed directly at Haruka’s head, Kiryu dives in without hesitation and takes it straight to the face out of some strange paternal instinct. The ball drops limply to the ground. Haruka just sighs, “Uncle Kaz, I had that.”
Eyes still watering from the blow, Kiryu stubbornly replies: “It was too fast for you. I didn’t want you to get hurt.” He keeps his head held high and turns his back on Majima, who’s still keeled over on the sand and howling with laughter.
Haruka frowns. “I can’t have any fun with you hovering around the whole time.”
“You can have fun without getting a concussion.”
“You get hurt all the time fighting Majima-san, but I don’t tell you to stop having fun.”
“That’s different,” Kiryu half-heartedly protests. Majima dropped the pretense of keeping Kiryu sharp months ago, and Kiryu hasn’t been particularly bothered to correct him. “It’s my job to keep you safe.”
“I don’t think it is.”
“She’s right, Kiryu-chan,” Majima says. “Ya gotta let kids fall on their faces sometimes. It doesn’t mean you’re a shitty dad for it.”
Haruka pats him on the arm. “I know you’re worried, but I can handle it. Just let me play, okay?”
Kiryu bites his tongue but nods at Haruka. “Okay.”
She gives him a smile. “Let’s win this.” Hurling the ball over the net, she readies herself for the next serve and gestures for him to do the same.
It takes several more lost points before they hit their stride, ultimately conceding the first set, but they start the second in a much stronger position. It turns out that Haruka is quite good as a setter, scurrying under the ball and sending it in the perfect position for spikes. Majima’s gangly build lends itself well to blocking, and he crows with glee each time he smacks the ball down. Kiryu, to no one’s surprise, is best suited to spiking and not much else. The arrangement works well, and Kiryu finds himself enjoying it, even if Majima screeching Rainbow Storm! and Marble Screw! every time he gets to spike is somewhat annoying. They scrape by with a win in the second set, leaving everyone on the sand breathless and raring for more.
Kiryu already knows that he and Majima make a good team (when they aren’t at each other’s throats), but the energy that Majima and Haruka share stuns even him. She receives every pass with brows furrowed in concentration, setting the volleyball cleanly in Majima’s direction and suppressing a smile when he lunges for it like a dog playing fetch. By the time the game is winding down, both teams are engaged in fierce volleys, diving for the ball like their lives depend on it. Kiryu can hear the blood rushing in his ears, action playing in slow motion.
Blue Shorts hucks a jump serve that Majima barely catches with the tips of his fingers, slowing its momentum just enough for Kiryu to give chase and bump it with the side of his fist as he tumbles over the back line. It sails in a high arc—a near-perfect setup for a spike.
“Haruka!” Majima barks, a knowing grin on his face. He widens his stance, beckoning her. She gives him a devious smile and charges him, chasing the curve of the ball.
“O light of the spirits! Glitter of life!” Majima yells. Kiryu recognizes it; he’s heard them shout it at the television.
“Lead these two hearts on the path of hope!” Haruka screams.
Majima boosts her with hands clasped, sending her soaring well over the net and into the ball’s path.
In unison, they roar: “Pretty Cure Spiral Star Splash!”
Haruka lets out a war cry and spikes the ball as hard as she can with her tiny, twig-like arm. It crashes into the huddled forms of their opponents all scrambling for it at the same time, blowing them back with the force of a nuclear warhead. Freed of its constraints and the laws of physics, the unfortunate volleyball careens far out of bounds and toward the ocean, disappearing into the waves. Majima catches her in his arms, still cheering.
They manage to get it back (Kiryu soaked to the bone for his troubles), but everyone seems to acknowledge that the game has reached its natural conclusion and parts ways with fist-bumps and handshakes.
Returning to their umbrella, they flop out on their towel and soak up the sun as it begins its descent. Listening to Haruka and Majima excitedly recount the highlights of the game, he can’t even be bothered to harass them about sunscreen.
Haruka dozes in the back seat, head leaning against the window. The car is quiet, the sun chasing their backs while they drive east toward home. For once, Majima is silent, sprawled in his seat and watching the landscape crawl by. He almost looks like he’s sleeping—except when Majima’s truly asleep, he snores.
“Nii-san,” Kiryu says.
Majima cracks his eye open. “Mm?”
The orange sunlight blankets his face in a warm glow, highlighting the proud bridge of his nose and the fan of his eyelashes. The black of his eye becomes a chip of amber, translucent in the light. Kiryu tears his eyes away from the sight and suppresses the urge to blurt out something stupid.
Instead, he says: “Thank you for coming with us today.”
Majima blinks. “Eh? What’re ya thanking me for?”
Kiryu trains his gaze on the road, already feeling embarrassed. “Haruka had a lot of fun today with you here. I don’t think it would have been nearly as nice if it was just me.”
Majima shifts in his seat, folding his arms behind his head. “You’re her dad,” He scoffs. “I’m just an overgrown kid she can play with. Anyone could do that.”
The serene look on Haruka’s face as she drifted face-up along the waves was not one of her more familiar expressions. “That’s not true,” Kiryu quietly disagrees. “She likes being around you.” You, in particular. It sounds bitter when he says it, even though he doesn’t mean it to be. “I’m not as good with children as you are,” he backpedals, hoping to cover it up.
Majima goes silent. It’s the kind of quiet that worries Kiryu. He risks a peek in his direction, but doesn’t even have a name for the expression on Majima’s face, the little sliver of it he sees. It’s only a glimpse, and yet the first thought that pops into his head is…
Sad.
“Nii-san?” Kiryu prods, concern creeping into his voice.
Slumping back, Majima scrubs his face with a hand. His mouth pinches like he’s just sucked on a lemon—or about to say something incriminating. “You’re a real lucky guy, y’know that, Kaz?” He mutters, avoiding eye contact.
Something about the delivery rubs Kiryu the wrong way. It doesn’t sound like a light-hearted jab; it sounds genuinely resentful in a way that makes Kiryu’s hackles rise. “I don’t consider myself especially lucky,” Kiryu replies curtly, thinking about the abysmal sequence of events that, until recently, was his life.
Majima makes a frustrated noise. “That’s not what I meant. You—” He sighs; his sharp tone abruptly drops to a hushed murmur, as if remembering the sleeping child in the back seat. “You have a family. A real one. Not that fake shit the Clan feeds us,” he spits.
Kiryu recognizes Majima’s anger now: not hatred, but envy. It’s an ugly look that he’s seen mirrored in himself so many times. In the last moments of Nishiki’s life, he’d seen something like it in his eyes. It sticks to him like napalm, melting into his skin; boiling, foul envy.
Majima presses a fist to his good eye, voice almost a whisper. “Sometimes I get so jealous of ya it makes me sick.”
Kiryu’s first instinct is to swerve off the road and pull Majima into a hug—but if he does, it’s just as likely that Majima would bolt from the car and disappear into the woods, never to be seen again. So he keeps his eyes trained on the road ahead, facing forward like a priest in a confession booth, and Majima does the same.
“You’re my family, too,” Kiryu says, trying and failing to keep the hurt out of his voice. “I think about you every day. I miss you when you’re not here. I’d still care about you even if I never saw you again. Isn’t that a family?”
Majima stares mournfully out the window. “I dunno,” he says, defeated. “Haven’t had one in a long time.”
Kiryu takes a steady breath in. He holds it. He breathes out. He loosens his grip around the steering wheel and stomps down the urge to locate every single person responsible for that sad-sack comment and murder them painfully.
So instead, he replies: “Well, you have one now, whether you like it or not.” He channels his righteous anger towards a better cause: forcibly adopting Majima Goro. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
Majima weakly chuckles. “I’m bein’ made an official Kiryu Family man, huh?”
“Yes.” Kiryu says firmly. “You’re one of us now. I won’t let you go without a fight.”
“One of us now,” mumbles Haruka in the back, startling them both. “No escape.”
“Am I bein’ kidnapped?” Majima squawks incredulously, eye darting between Kiryu and Haruka. “You two really think ya can take the Mad Dog hostage?”
“It’s only fair,” Haruka offers.
“Only if you want to,” Kiryu amends, deflating. He can feel Haruka’s disapproving eyes boring into the back of his head. It’s the same look she gives him when he says something self-deprecating or gets caught eating ramen straight out of the packet: oji-san, NO!
Majima throws his head back and laughs. “You’re the shittiest kidnapper ever, Kiryu-chan.” He cranes his neck to look at Haruka. “Looks like ya got me backed into a corner, missy. If I abandon ship now, Kiryu-chan would get real upset.”
Haruka narrows her eyes. “And you know what happens if you hurt oji-san.”
“I do,” he solemly responds. “You’re the only one who’s allowed to kill me.”
Not for the first time, Kiryu regrets the example he’s set for Haruka. “No one’s killing anyone on my watch,” Kiryu says.
Against his better judgment, he reaches over and pats Majima’s knee. “Especially not you.”
But he doesn’t miss the small smile on Majima’s face, and he certainly doesn’t miss Majima laying a hand over his and squeezing gently. “You’re really set on keepin’ me around, huh?”
Kiryu huffs out a laugh. “That’s the plan.”
Notes:
-They're at Yuigahama! It's a pretty well-known spot for windsurfing (and one of the closest actual beaches to Tokyo T.T)
-ARASHI "Kitto daijoubu" and Morning Musume "Sexy Boy" are their soundtrack. Please consider watching the dance choreo to Sexy Boy for the full embarrassing experience
-Fun fact: a rock with a hole through the middle is called an adder stone
-My headcanon is that Kiryu can swim okay-ish. He can save himself from drowning but not much else. He left Majima at the pier because he was scared :)
-The entire volleyball scene is lifted from Way of the House Husband. It's one of my favorite chapters!
-The three punks........their names are Aru, Saita and Teizo but that didn't make it in
Chapter 17: Kiryu's Birthday, Part 1 [E]
Summary:
It’s the week before Kiryu’s birthday, and Majima has no fucking clue what to get him.
Notes:
They make me so SICK I'm gonna PUKE
On an unrelated note: happy Fingers In His Ass Friday
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s the week before Kiryu’s birthday, and Majima has no fucking clue what to get him.
He’s been agonizing for days about this—during his clandestine meetings with Haruka, during his actual meetings at work, during his long sleepless nights laying in bed. Is this what Kiryu went through for his birthday? As if the poor guy didn’t suffer enough.
So now, instead of responding to his subcontractors about fucking paint swatches, he’s holed up in his office, head in his hands like the world is about to end. Haruka had told him: You know a lot about oji-san, don’t you. She couldn’t be more wrong. He knows what Kiryu likes on a superficial level, but he has no idea what’s going on inside that thick skull of his.
But he owes it to Kiryu-chan to at least try. So he knocks his knuckles against his helmet a few times for luck and puts his trusty intuition to use. What does Kiryu Kazuma like?
Majima is…very intimately familiar with Kiryu’s love for weaponry, but somehow he doubts Kiryu would be happy receiving a frozen tuna as a gift, no matter how fun it’d be to hit Majima over the head with it. Knowing him, the guy would just turn it into a beautiful carpaccio. What a fucking waste of a good fish. He thunks his helmeted head on his desk, stomach growling at the thought.
They used to do practically everything there was to do in Kamurocho, but recently, Kiryu has been avoiding it like the plague. The guy won’t even cut through the Hotel District on his way to work—he always insists on taking the long way. Kiryu needs all the steps he can get to maintain his oh-so-grabbable ass, so ordinarily Majima wouldn’t complain, except that now the majority of interests they used to share are off the table. He never does anything for himself anymore unless Majima drags him. And Majima will drag him, but he’ll be damned if he shows up empty-handed.
He might not look it, but Majima is good with money. In fact, he has more of it than he knows what to do with. He’s dying to spend it on a noble cause like Kiryu, because Kiryu certainly won’t indulge himself—not since he took his dadly responsibilities to heart and renounced earthly desires like the self-flagellating idiot he is. Even Majima’s generous offer of an apartment in December was only accepted because Kiryu knew his young charge couldn’t sleep on a bar sofa forever.
Majima drums his fingers on the table. If only Kiryu’s stubborn ass would accept the little things, like a new jacket or a better cell phone or a penthouse. The only way to make him give in is to appeal to his sense of duty towards Haruka. With Majima, he’ll resist any attempts at niceness, even if he really doesn’t have an ulterior motive this time, he promises!
There is one person, though, who can make Kiryu fold like a house of cards. Who needs only to say the word and have him on his knees begging for whatever he’s given.
Majima sighs and sends a text to Nishida.
Call Katsurada. Tell him I need a new wig ASAP.
Kiryu would never voluntarily take a day off work for himself, but when Majima has a plan, it’s best just to indulge him. So when Majima insists on giving him the Friday before his birthday off, Kiryu puts up a token protest and accepts his forced fun time. He’s never been able to refuse Majima when it matters—and by the way Majima had phrased it, this plan matters. What that plan is, Kiryu doesn’t know, and frankly he’s a bit scared to ask.
But here he is, fighting his way through a dense crowd in Omotesandō on the sunniest (and hottest) day all month. He’s a bit annoyed at Majima for calling him out all this way—until he sees her.
The best part about dating Goromi is that she always stands out from the crowd. Exploring the city with her is like parading around with a celebrity on his arm; of course, Goromi is the one who attracts the attention, but Kiryu feels proud just being allowed within a meter of her.
She’s a bit more dressed-down today, but he can still spot her platinum-blonde hair from a block away. He hurries closer, already anticipating the shrill keeping a lady waitin’ complaint he’s about to receive. She’s texting; he sees a hot pink flip phone in her hand, jangling with charms.
“Sorry I’m late,” Kiryu puffs.
“Kiryu-chan!” Goromi squeals, kissing his cheek. Instinctively, Kiryu scrubs at his face with the back of his hand to wipe off any lipstick left there. “Way to keep a lady waitin’. I’m a busy girl, y’know.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” She lets him take her hand and kiss her knuckles, giggling. “You look beautiful today, Goromi-san.”
“Ya think so?” She turns this way and that to show off her outfit: a black scoop-neck shirt that hugs her biceps and reveals just a sliver of her tattoos, and a pair of impossibly-tight skinny jeans that accentuate her long, sculpted legs. She’s covered from chest to ankle, yet her clothes still somehow leave nothing to the imagination, every curve and plane of her body on display. Her hands drip with gold bangles and rings, hoop earrings swinging. Kiryu recognizes the necklace she’s wearing—a chunky chain with a large golden charm shaped like a butterfly. He’d bought it for her on their last date, when she’d caught sight of it in a shop window and wouldn’t be moved until they went inside. His heart does a funny little flip in his chest.
Goromi grabs him by the wrist and starts dragging them through town. Her blonde ponytail, long and wavy, sways in the breeze. Instead of an eyepatch, she’s donned a pair of big round sunglasses rimmed with gold, opaque black lenses completely concealing her eyes. However, he can still read her expressions in her smile, painted shiny crimson and curling playfully. With her other hand, she clutches a square, hot-pink crocodile purse under her arm. Her high heels click sharply against the pavement; he looks down at her leopard print shoes and sees a flash of red on the soles.
“Where are we going?” Kiryu asks.
Goromi grins, turning to glance at him. “Today, I’m gonna be yer sugar mama.”
Kiryu flushes. “Are you serious?”
She tightens her grip on him. “When am I ever not serious?”
“Only all the time,” grumbles Kiryu, allowing himself to be pulled along anyway.
She turns back to him, holding up three fingers. “Three conditions.” She ticks off her fingers one by one. “One: no bitchin’ over the prices.” Kiryu rolls his eyes.
“Two,” she emphasizes, “No presents for Haruka. She and I have an agreement. And three…” she halts, yanking Kiryu close and tipping his chin up gently with her finger. “No arguing with mommy.”
“I’m not calling you that,” Kiryu sputters, knees threatening to give out.
Goromi pouts. “Aww, too public for you?” She lets him go, giving him one last sharp smile. “I’ll get it outta ya sooner or later.” It’s not a threat—it’s a promise.
Kiryu swallows hard and follows her, already knowing that she will.
To his surprise, their first stop isn’t one of the giant luxury retailers located on the main strip but instead a small boutique on a narrow side street. It’s quaint, but the door is a rich mahogany that actually takes a bit of effort to crack when Kiryu goes to let Goromi inside. A tiny bell rings as he levers it open. The interior is packed wall-to-wall with fabrics of all types, lined with racks practically sagging under the weight of dozens of suits. A few plush-looking chairs face a set of dressing rooms covered by curtains. Kiryu already feels way out of his depth. Goromi trades her sunglasses for an eyepatch so quickly that Kiryu wonders if it even happened at all.
The tailor emerges from the back of the store: short in stature, but wearing a perfectly-fitted waistcoat and slacks. “Majima-san,” he says, bowing. “How can I help you today?”
“Tsutsumi-kun!” Goromi chirps. “I want a suit made for my boytoy.” She pats Kiryu on the shoulder. “Ain’t he a gorgeous specimen?” Kiryu smiles weakly, not used to being paraded around like a purse dog.
The tailor tilts his head, looking him up and down. Decisively, he nods. “Of course. Please, have a seat. Shall I make some tea?”
Kiryu sits while Goromi makes a beeline for the wall of suits, inspecting each one critically. He sips his barley tea and flips through a catalogue sitting on the coffee table as Goromi and the tailor get into a heated argument about peaked lapels and shawl collars, which he tunes out completely. He can’t help but wrinkle his nose at the “trendy” designs. When did suits get so…baggy?
Somewhere in the background they’re squabbling about worsted and woollen yarns. He flips a page open to a male model in a white suit who reminds him of Nishiki. He snaps the book shut and slides it away from him.
“Kiryu-chan!” Goromi is giving him an odd look. “You gonna let him take measurements or nah?”
Kiryu shakes himself and gets to his feet. “Sorry, spaced out for a second.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but thankfully lets it go. He steps onto the elevated platform and lets the tailor circle around him, armed with notebook and tape measure. He holds his arms out awkwardly as Tsutsumi winds the tape around his waist and down his legs and across his shoulders and jots them down. “You have a nice figure,” the tailor mumbles absently.
Goromi beams. “Don’t he?”
“What exactly are you planning on?” Kiryu asks, frowning.
She huffs. “Don’t be like that. It’ll look good on you. Besides, I don’t think you have any room to talk after that abomination ya wore in the eighties.”
“I liked that suit,” grumbles Kiryu.
She pats his arm. “Baby, if you ever wear a double-breasted jacket again, I’m gonna kill ya for real. Hidin’ that waist should be a crime.” Kiryu’s ears redden at the pet name.
Tsutsumi makes a low hum of agreement.
“Tsutsumi-kun, could you fetch us some shirts? White, pink, and blue.” She gestures at Kiryu’s (slightly-rumpled, now that he notices) dress shirt. She studies him carefully. “French cuffs, too.”
“Of course, Majima-san.” He disappears, leaving them alone.
“So are you getting me a nicer version of my usual suit?” Kiryu asks, furrowing his brows and already thinking about the amount of trouble his clothes get into on a daily basis.
Goromi smiles. “Somethin’ like that. I want a suit you can take me on a date with. Your current duds ain’t cuttin’ it, sweetheart.”
Kiryu doesn’t think the embarrassment of being called sweetheart will ever go away, but Goromi doesn’t seem to mind one bit. She sighs dreamily. “I’m thinkin’ charcoal with a cute waistcoat. I’m dyin’ to see you in a three-piece suit, Kiryu-chan, you got no idea.”
He smiles wryly. “I think I have a bit of an idea.”
Tsutsumi returns with a large stack of shirts in various patterns and colors, with a bolt of gray suit material for comparison. Goromi sorts through them quickly, whittling them down to mostly whites and blues (silently, Kiryu thanks the gods; he’s never looked good in pink). “What do you think, Kiryu-chan?”
Most of them look like plain dress shirts to him. His eyes are pulled towards a white shirt with a subtle basket-weave pattern, but that’s not what grabs his attention—it’s the deep red trim lining the cuffs and collar, and the matching buttons that gleam like drops of blood.
Goromi giggles. “Like that one, don’t you?”
Kiryu nods.
She turns to the tailor. “We’ll take it.” Then, to Kiryu: “How about a tie then, baby?”
Kiryu makes a face; Goromi cackles.
Settling into her seat, Goromi fishes a pack of cigarettes out of her purse. Kiryu scrambles to light it for her, nearly planting his elbow into the grill on the table. The paper catches with a sizzle; taking a deep drag, Goromi leans back and blows out a stream of smoke.
“What a day,” she sighs, as if she’d been the one hauling all the shopping bags around town and not Kiryu. Not that he’s complaining—trailing behind her like an overgrown puppy is its own reward. And when they left the tailor’s and visited a series of luxury department stores, the things they bought there had been for him: a set of cuff links, several pairs of shoes, a leather belt, a bottle of cologne, and a pack of silk briefs Goromi had forced into his hands with a giggle (“No panty lines allowed, Kiryu-chan!”).
He hates to admit it, but it really does feel good having someone to spoil him. No pleading, no subtle hint-dropping, no embarrassment. Goromi sees Kiryu eyeing a new pair of loafers or a silk shirt and adds them to the basket, no questions asked. And now she’s taking him out for barbecue, not even batting an eye as Kiryu single-handedly demolishes the restaurant’s stock of harami. She puffs away on her cigarette, smiling indulgently and only pausing to let Kiryu feed her a cut of perfectly-grilled meat.
“Happy birthday, Kiryu-chan.” Her voice is soft and sweet.
Kiryu looks up, a piece of kalbi halfway between his plate and his mouth. Goromi’s loving expression sparks a fluttery feeling in his chest. Must be indigestion. He clears his throat and sets down his chopsticks. “Thank you, Goromi-no-neesan.”
Her smile widens. “Aren’t you sweet?” She lowers her voice in both volume and pitch. “Y’know…Mommy really wanted ya to have a nice day today. Ya got anythin’ to say to her?”
Kiryu’s cheeks burn. He grits his teeth, digging his heels in. He won’t give in! He won’t!
Goromi’s smile fades into a pout. She bats her eyelashes, and—is that a tear welling up? Oh no. Oh no. Fuck.
He gives in.
“T-thank you…” Kiryu grinds out. He adds, voice as small as possible: “...Mommy.”
Goromi immediately brightens, reaching out to pat his head. “Good boy,” she coos. She drops her hand, covering Kiryu’s with her own. Her nails are painted to match her red lipstick.
“Is there anywhere else you’d like to go after this, baby boy?” She purrs.
He swallows hard, mouth suddenly dry. Before he can stop himself, he blurts out: “Your place.”
Her smile widens. “Of course.”
The shades are drawn, bathing the room in soft shadows as Goromi pins Kiryu to the bed and kisses him breathless. He opens his mouth for her gladly, letting her taste him. Her jewelry clatters to the floor as she sheds her rings and bracelets, freeing her hands to roam across his body as they please.
“I got one more present for ya, Kiryu-chan,” Goromi murmurs into his ear. “You wanna unwrap it?”
Kiryu’s breath hitches. “Yeah.”
She rolls off Kiryu, flopping onto her back and throwing her arms over her head like a spoiled princess. She gives him a coy look; the hem of her shirt rides up, exposing a strip of red fabric. She sits up and lets him pull it off, revealing a tiny red bralette—little more than two triangles of sheer fabric that do nothing to hide her hard nipples or dark tattoos. A matching garter belt sits snugly at her waist, its straps disappearing into her jeans. Goromi reclines on the bed and lifts her hips as Kiryu undoes her fly and peels her tight jeans down her shapely legs. He follows the path of the straps with his eyes, taking it in: another lacy G-string, somehow even skimpier than the last, and thigh-high stockings trimmed with embroidered flowers. Her entire body glows with a thin sheen of sweat, and Kiryu feels a similar heat prickling at his temples and the small of his back.
“You look beautiful,” Kiryu breathes.
Goromi rolls her eye, but even he can tell she’s pleased by the compliment. “This ain’t an art exhibit,” she drawls, beckoning. “You can touch, y’know.”
And he does, gladly, running an appreciative hand over the hard planes of her abdomen. She arches into the touch with a content hum. He pulls aside one pane of her bra and fixes his mouth on her nipple, tweaking the other with his fingers. A spidery hand buries itself in Kiryu’s hair, curling tightly. Goromi sighs and wraps a leg around Kiryu’s waist, tugging him closer. He snakes his arms under her chest and feels for her bra clasp, growling when his fingers can’t seem to undo it.
Goromi laughs, shoving at him until he crawls off her. She sits up and fusses behind her back; suddenly, it falls loose around her shoulders. She slips her arms free and tosses the cursed bra off the bed. Kiryu scowls at it for a moment, then turns his attention back to the matter at hand: separating Goromi from the rest of her clothing. When he thumbs at the waistband of her panties, she gives him a challenging grin.
She lifts her hips and allows Kiryu to slide the rest of the ensemble off, stockings and all. Her hard cock springs free, daring Kiryu to pay attention to it. Finally bare, she arches her back proudly, showing off her lean muscle and tattooed skin. Well, almost bare, Kiryu realizes, as he registers the long strands of blonde hair sticking to her neck. He remembers the wig he wore as Kazumi and how stiflingly hot it was. He wonders if she’s uncomfortable in it.
“Can I take this off?” asks Kiryu, pointing at her hair.
Goromi’s eye widens in confusion. “The wig? But—I thought ya wanted Goromi to take care of ya.” She looks uncharacteristically hesitant.
“You’re still Goromi without the wig,” Kiryu points out. “And I’d rather you were comfortable.”
She blinks at him, seemingly stunned. “Yeah,” she finally says. “Yeah, okay.”
Kiryu helps her disentangle the pins holding her wig in place. She breathes a sigh of relief as it separates from her real hair, taking her eyepatch with it. She flings it aside unceremoniously, carding a hand through her matted undercut to slick it back. Collapsing into the bed, Majima smirks at him, lips still smeared with rouge and eye smoky.
“Goromi magic’s worn off,” he says casually, though Kiryu can see the tension in his shoulders. “Still want nii-san to take care of ya?”
Kiryu leans down and brushes his lips against Majima’s, cupping his jaw and thumbing the coarse facial hair there. “Of course I do.”
In response, Majima clamps his hands around Kiryu’s neck and yanks him down, kissing him harder. His tongue traces Kiryu’s bottom lip and he opens his mouth, letting Majima taste him. Majima’s mouth is soft and sticky with lipstick, a stark contrast to the whiskers tickling Kiryu’s face. Without thinking, Kiryu grinds his hips down and Majima hisses as the rough material of Kiryu’s trousers brushes his bare dick.
Kiryu winces. “Sorry.” He makes short work of his clothing—thankfully a much faster affair than Goromi’s. Their chests press together and Kiryu can feel the deep breaths Majima’s taking. Kiryu gasps as Majima snakes a hand down between them and grabs his crotch, feeling the hardness there and stroking him gently.
“Kiryu-chan,” Majima murmurs into his neck. “Do you wanna fuck me?”
Kiryu stills. They’ve never gone that far, and while he theoretically knows how penetration works, he’s never actually tried it. There never seemed to be any partner he trusted enough to do it—but he trusts Majima. He pulls back and looks Majima in the eye. “Yeah.” He runs a hand along Majima’s side. “Is that something you want too?”
“You really gotta ask me that?!” Majima shrieks. Before Kiryu can respond, Majima grabs him by the waist and flips them over until Majima is on top. “I offered, didn’t I?”
He sits down on Kiryu’s abdomen, eliciting a winded oof. He plants a firm hand at the center of Kiryu’s chest, pinning him to the bed. “Stay here,” he orders, as if Kiryu can go anywhere with Majima’s thighs squeezing him like a vice. Majima leans off the bed and reaches for the bedside table, his ribs and serratus muscles in sharp relief. He returns, dropping a small bottle of lube and a condom onto the bed beside Kiryu.
“Am I gonna need to hold your hand through this, or are ya good?” Majima teases, looking down at Kiryu. Kiryu scowls at him. Majima cackles, holding his hands up. “Just checkin’!” He pops the cap and drizzles lube into his palm. “Let nii-san take care of ya.”
Kiryu remembers Goromi’s teasing, the electric shock he’d gotten when she put the vibrator up his ass. Could he do the same for Majima? “Wait,” Kiryu interrupts, dragging a gentle hand along the top of Majima’s thigh. The sculpted muscle is firm and tense to the touch. “Let me do it.”
Majima frowns. “But—”
“I want to.”
Sighing theatrically, Majima tosses the bottle at Kiryu’s face, using the pool in his hand to slick his cock. “You’re ruinin’ the present here, Kiryu-chan.”
“It’s my present, isn’t it?” Kiryu replies mildly, slicking his fingers. “I can do what I want with it.”
Majima just huffs in amusement. He bends over slightly, taking Kiryu’s hand and guiding it between his legs. “Have fun,” he jokes, but Kiryu can hear the minute tremble in his voice.
Very carefully, Kiryu feels the tight furl of muscle and presses in just a bit, asking permission. He feels Majima let out a breath and relax; he pushes in, going slowly. Majima arches his back but otherwise does not react. Kiryu doesn’t panic—he remembers how it first felt when Goromi did it for him. He twists his finger experimentally, coaxing the walls to give way. Majima’s insides are hot and soft, and Kiryu’s heart pounds thinking about Majima allowing him to do this. He wants to do a good job.
With his free hand, Kiryu reaches out and wraps his fingers around Majima’s cock, still hard but wilted slightly from the wait. Majima lets out a low moan, which seems like a good sign. Kiryu moves the finger in Majima’s ass in and out, feeling his body relax even further. Majima rocks his hips into Kiryu’s hand.
“More,” he demands. And Kiryu obliges, working a second finger inside. Majima’s brows draw up and his eye flutters shut.
“Doing okay?” Kiryu asks, concerned.
“All good,” Majima replies hoarsely. “It’s just—been a while. Don’t stop.”
Kiryu presses on. He gives Majima’s cock a few long, indulgent pulls and feels the way Majima melts, softening to let him in. Encouraged by the response, Kiryu keeps stroking as he scissors Majima open. With more of his hand inside, his fingertips brush against something firm and smooth. Curious, he prods at it.
“Oh fuck!” Majima gasps, jumping at the touch. “Do that again.”
Kiryu does—harder this time—and marvels at the high moan it draws out in response. Precum drips onto Kiryu’s belly and shows no signs of slowing down. He picks up the pace and Majima seems enthusiastic about the turn of events, starting to demand more and faster from him. It’s much more like the Majima he knows, and his chest swells with pride at having been the one to bring him to this point.
The third time Majima asks for more, you sonuvabitch, he slips in a third finger, paying close attention to Majima’s expression. His cheeks are flushed and eye is glassy, but it quickly swivels to focus on Kiryu. Kiryu crooks his fingers and Majima moans loudly, looking him dead in the eye, and it goes straight to Kiryu’s cock.
Majima rolls his hips insistently. “C’mon, Kiryu-chan, m’ready.”
Kiryu doesn’t have to be told twice. He withdraws his fingers, careful not to hurt anything on the way out, and fumbles blindly with the condom. Majima strokes himself impatiently.
He puts his hands on Majima’s waist and holds him as Majima stretches his back, lifting himself up and guiding Kiryu’s slicked-up dick as he sinks down. The tip pushes in and Majima lets out a shaky breath. Kiryu runs his hands up and down Majima’s sides, even as he struggles not to buck up into Majima’s body. It’s so hot, tighter than any hole Kiryu’s ever fucked. He holds his own breath, trying so hard to let Majima adjust. When he’s buried to the hilt, Majima rocks slightly and grins when Kiryu lets out a whimper.
“Hold still now,” Majima says. “I’ll take it from here.”
Bracing himself on Kiryu’s thighs, Majima lifts himself until Kiryu is about to slip out, then drops. Kiryu yelps, tightening his grip on Majima’s waist, and Majima laughs. Majima’s thighs tense with the effort, but these are the same legs that have flipped grown men to the ground and choked Kiryu until he passed out—this is trivial by comparison. His forehead beads with sweat and the arch of his spine is taut like a bowstring.
Kiryu reaches out a hand and wraps it around Majima’s cock, stroking him in time to his thrusts. “Just like that,” Majima moans. “Kiryu-chan…”
“You feel so good,” Kiryu praises. “So perfect.” He starts to shift his hips to meet Majima’s downward motions, their bodies colliding with a slap of skin-on-skin. Majima lets out a noise like a wounded dog, pawing at Kiryu’s chest. Kiryu watches Majima and knows he’s already addicted to the look on his face—not contorted into a snarl or even creased with a smile, but completely slack, all trace of emotions erased in the pursuit of pleasure.
Majima’s bouncing himself now, almost seeming more focused on his own enjoyment more than Kiryu’s, not that he minds. The way he moves, shamelessly taking what he wants, feels like the push and pull of their fights; it’s such a natural evolution that he wonders how he hadn’t noticed earlier.
Majima tenses around Kiryu’s cock, sending a spike of pleasure up his back. The arousal in his gut pools and threatens to boil over. He teases out small moans and gasps from Kiryu, determined to push him to the edge. “That’s a good boy, Kiryu-chan,” he pants. “Fill me up nice and good, yeah?” Kiryu grunts something vaguely affirmative. His legs tremble, balls aching for release.
Majima bends down until his face is right next to Kiryu’s ear. “Won’t ya cum for me, baby?”
Kiryu moans Majima’s name as he shudders and cums, fingers digging into the meat of Majima’s ass. Majima continues to move, coaxing him through his orgasm until he coasts along in a pleasant haze. When it passes, Kiryu reaches for Majima and takes his cock in hand, giving him rough, quick strokes until Majima groans lowly and spills into his fist, walls fluttering around the dick still inside him.
They breathe together, the air thick with the smell of sex, and Majima gingerly moves to let Kiryu slip out of him before collapsing on the bed with a grunt. Kiryu reaches for his hand and Majima intertwines their fingers, face-down in the sheets.
Majima sighs. “That was good.”
Kiryu chuckles. “I’m glad. Did you think it would be bad?”
“First times always suck,” Majima says, shrugging. He turns his head to one side to look at Kiryu. “It’s all your fault.”
“What?”
Majima rolls onto his side, propping his head on one hand. He pokes Kiryu in the chest. “You’re just too damn considerate. Makes me all tingly inside.”
“Oh?” Kiryu smiles. “I’m not apologizing for that.”
Majima stretches like a cat, yawning. “I don’t want your apologies anyway. That shit was hot as fuck.”
That sounds pretty soft, coming from him, but Kiryu chooses not to comment. Instead, he lifts their joined hands and kisses Majima’s knuckles, eliciting a giggle and a kick of his feet.
“Did you have fun today?” Majima asks, sounding unsure.
Kiryu answers automatically. “Of course I did. It was kind of you to get me so many presents.”
“Givin’ you a present was the least I could do,” huffs Majima. “I didn’t know how many it’d take for ya to feel like the world’s special-est birthday boy, but damned if I wasn’t gonna try.”
“I feel pretty special, nii-san,” Kiryu jokes, nudging Majima’s leg with his foot. “But you know that kind of thing doesn’t matter to me, right? I’ll love anything you give me if it comes from the heart.”
“From the heart, eh?” muses Majima. “Big ask for a guy who doesn’t have one.”
Kiryu scowls. “I know you do.”
Majima laughs. “I do.” He grabs Kiryu by the face, pinching his cheeks and shaking him. “I know I got one ‘cause it goes all doki-doki when I’m around my Kiryu-chan!”
Kiryu feels his face scrunch up into a goofy grin, even as he half-heartedly bats Majima’s hands away. “I think the feeling is mutual,” he chuckles.
Notes:
-Both the wig-maker and tailor have pun names. Wig-maker = "katsuraya" -> Katsurada, and suit = "suutsu" -> Tsutsumi.
-Omotesandō is a shopping district not far from Shinjuku, known for its luxury stores.
-Yes, Goromi is wearing Louboutins and toting around a Birkin. I couldn't help myself
-The comment about trendy suits is about the abominations NBA players used to wear in the 2000s
I'm trying to get back into the two-week posting cycle I had wayyyy back at the beginning of this fic but I may fail so no promises
Chapter 18: Kiryu's Birthday, Part 2
Summary:
Haruka is starting a conspiracy.
Notes:
Remember when I said I'd be trying to put out chapters every 2 weeks? I failed :( this one took me longer because I had writer's block.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Haruka is starting a conspiracy.
Con-spi-ra-cy. She likes that word. It’s all over the mystery novel her class is assigned to read. She knows how to write the kanji for it, even though it was hard to remember. She can even spell it in English, thanks to her tutor.
So what if conspiracy suggests the stakes are higher than they really are? It just sounds a lot cooler than Uncle Kaz’s Birthday Plan. She can picture it in big bold lettering: Uncle Kaz’s Great Birthday Conspiracy!
Uncle Kaz didn’t even tell her his birthday was coming up! She had to find out from their family register. Aunt Yumi—Mom, Haruka corrects herself—once told her he was a bit dumb like that. It’s like he doesn’t even want people to show him they care. Too bad for Uncle Kaz, because she’s making sure he feels appreciated on his birthday, whether he wants it or not.
And not a moment too soon, because it’s June and all the days are blending together in a gray fog as the rainy season comes to Tokyo. She breathes in the earthy smell of wet pavement as she waits for Uncle Kaz outside her cram school, hearing the pitter-patter of raindrops landing on her umbrella. Soon it will be Uncle Kaz’s birthday, and her conspiracy will come to great fruition. (Fru-i-tion: another vocabulary word.)
Of course, she would’ve preferred to pull it off by herself, but she can’t deny that having a co-conspirator has its advantages.
A familiar green umbrella pops into view, weaving through the sea of black and clear lookalikes. Haruka perks up and trots toward it, leaving the drab buildings behind.
“Oji-san!” Haruka beams, throwing herself into his arms without waiting for an answer.
She hugs him tightly around the waist (The waist! She barely came up to his hip a couple months ago!), too proud of herself to notice that his trousers are the wrong color and he’s a bit skinnier than usual. She looks up at him and freezes.
“Yo,” Majima says, eyeing her with an amused grin. Haruka yelps and springs back, glaring at him as he cackles.
“What are you doing here?” She demands. “And why do you have Uncle Kaz’s umbrella?” She gestures at the smiling Keroppi face stamped on its side.
Majima tuts. “What, not even a hello?” He idly spins the umbrella’s handle, scattering water everywhere. “You asked me to conspire with ya, so here I am!”
“That doesn’t answer the second question,” Haruka grumbles before adding a begrudging, “Hi, Majima-san.”
“You sound so thrilled,” Majima deadpans. “Anyway, Kiryu-chan was runnin’ behind on dinner and I was already at your place, so bein’ the angel I was, I volunteered to pick ya up from school. Ain’t I such a good person?”
She starts walking home without responding.
Majima tuts, but she can hear the click of his footsteps following. “I got some shit I wanna discuss too, so I’ll buy ya ice cream on the way back. Gives us extra time to chat.”
Haruka considers the offer. “Oji-san won’t be happy about having ice cream before dinner.”
Majima shrugs. “Eh, I’ll take the heat.”
Despite the rain, it’s still humid and she could go for some ice cream mochi. She tries not to sound too eager about it. “...Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Majima barks out a laugh. “It wouldn’t be the first time Kiryu-chan’s been mad at me, and it won’t be the last.”
She leads them to the closest Poppo, ignoring the odd looks people are giving them. She makes a beeline for the ice cream freezer—she always gives it a longing look when she comes here with Uncle Kaz, but would never ask to make a stop. But Majima offered, so she has no issue pressing her face up to the glass and debating which colorful treat to buy. After a few seconds of deliberation, she chooses a set of strawberry daifuku each as big as her fist. She turns and gives Majima a challenging stare, waiting for him to frown and nudge her toward a healthier (boring) treat like Uncle Kaz would. But he doesn’t, amused and perfectly content to let her completely ruin her appetite.
Maybe Majima isn’t so bad to be around after all.
They dawdle under the awning of the convenience store as they enjoy their ice cream. It’s hard to stop herself from plowing through the chewy mochi to get to the soft ice cream inside. It’s almost dinnertime, after all. Majima-san works his way through his soda popsicle at a slightly more measured pace, but she can easily see him giving Uncle Kaz a run for his money at Smile Burger. She’s never seen anyone inhale a burger as fast as him.
“Majima-san, what does oji-san like to do for fun?” She asks. Uncle Kaz doesn’t go out much, but when he does, it’s usually with Majima. Obviously Uncle Kaz goes to the arcade and the movies and the park with her, but none of those are things she could give as a gift. “I want to get him a present for his birthday, but I don’t know what he likes.”
Majima hmms thoughtfully. “Let’s see…” He slurps on his popsicle, giggling when Haruka frowns at him. What’s so funny? “He likes Pocket Circuit. Y’know, those little race cars?”
Haruka nods. She’s seen a couple of them in Uncle Kaz’s room, but she’d never paid much attention the few times he’d dragged her to the Pocket Circuit Stadium.
Majima continues: “At the arcade, he likes to play MesuKing and Virtua Fighter, that kinda shit. Sometimes shogi or mahjong, though he’s a bit of a sore loser at those games.” He smirks. “Kiryu-chan’s got all kinds of places he goes to have fun.”
He starts ticking off fingers on his free hand, popsicle still stuck in his mouth. “Smile Burger, Kanrai, Karaokekan, Beam…”
Haruka tilts her head. “What does he do at Beam?”
Majima coughs, almost dropping his popsicle. “Uh…watch action movies,” he stammers, clearing his throat. “Yeah. He likes martial arts movies.”
She nods, processing the information. “You know a lot about oji-san, don’t you.”
Majima huffs, mock-offended. “‘Course I do! Ya don’t stalk a guy for months and come away learnin’ nothin’.”
Haruka laughs, mouth full of mochi and ice cream. She supposes that at a time like this, it’s actually quite helpful to consult Uncle Kaz’s most loyal stalker. “I guess that gives me some ideas of what to get him. Thanks, Majima-san.”
“No problem.” The conversation peters out until all that’s left is the low hiss of the rain and the tap-tap of droplets hitting the plastic awning above them.
“Oji-san didn’t tell me about his birthday,” Haruka says unhappily. “Why wouldn’t he tell me?”
Majima grunts noncommittally around his popsicle. “Probably ‘cause he didn’t want something like this happening,” he replies.
“Like what?”
“Like this.” Majima makes a vague gesture between himself and Haruka. “Sneakin’ around behind the old man’s back, plottin’ some big birthday scheme he don’t need.”
Haruka flares up. “I know he doesn’t need a birthday party, but if he thinks I’m going to sit back and do nothing for him, he’s an idiot.”
“Hey, I ain’t arguing with ya on that front.” Majima takes a bite out of his ice pop, snickering when Haruka grimaces. “Kiryu-chan has this…complex. He’ll dump his love all over ya, but as soon as ya try returning the favor he gets all shy about it.”
Haruka shakes her head. “I just wanted to cook a nice meal for him and get him a present. What’s so wrong about that?”
“Nothin’, that’s what.” Majima chews thoughtfully on the exposed end of his popsicle stick. “Look, I wanna make Kiryu-chan happy just as much as you do. But ya gotta play the long game.”
“Then what do we do?”
Majima sighs. “I was gonna ambush him on the day before, really treat him. I can try to wear him down before you get to him.”
Haruka frowns. “Are you going to fight him?”
“Haw? No!” squawks Majima, shrinking at the skeptical look she gives him. “...I mean, probably not. I was, uh, gonna let Goromi-chan convince him. He can’t say no to a pretty lady.”
Haruka lets out a long-suffering sigh and takes a big bite of mochi. “No, he really can’t.”
“But ya don’t gotta worry about that,” he says, biting the last chunk of popsicle off its stick. “We’re gonna give Kaz the best birthday ever whether his dumb ass likes it or not. You in?”
“It was my plan from the start,” Haruka grumbles. “Obviously I’m in.”
Majima waves a hand. “Eh, semantics.” He pushes off the wall and walks off into the rain, leaving Haruka to catch up and wonder what the heck he meant by that.
The plan starts like this: Haruka rolls out of bed at exactly 8:00 AM on Saturday, Uncle Kaz’s birthday, and heads for the kitchen to start on breakfast. She’s not well-versed in fancier dishes, but miso soup was a staple at Sunflower and she knows the recipe by heart.
She has the water and the rice heating up when she hears a scuffle coming from Uncle Kaz’s room and Majima hissing at someone. The door slams open and Majima stumbles out, half-asleep and hair sticking out at odd angles.
“Good morning, Majima-san,” Haruka says diplomatically, turning away from his colorful, tattooed back. He’s not wearing a shirt.
He grunts noncommittally and starts opening their cabinets. “Big idiot wouldn’t stay in bed,” he grumbles. Haruka looks sharply in the direction of Uncle Kaz’s room, checking to make sure he hasn’t followed them.
“Is he up?” Haruka asks.
“He was.” Majima fixes himself a cup of instant coffee in front of the kettle. “I told him I’d knock him out if he tried to help.”
Haruka sighs. She stirs the pot, fishing the dashi packet from the boiling water. “I’m making miso soup and rice. Could you make some side dishes?”
“You got it.” Majima cracks open the fridge. “My cookin’ knowledge stops and ends at instant ramen, but I fry a mean egg.”
She frowns and wrinkles her nose at his bare torso. “If you’re frying eggs, at least wear an apron.”
Majima laughs. “You saw me get stabbed, squirt. A little hot oil ain’t gonna do shit to me.”
Haruka glares at him and points at the apron, hung on a nearby cabinet handle, until he rolls his eye and drags himself toward it like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. She glares at him until he pulls on Uncle Kaz’s race car apron. She doesn’t stop glaring until he ties the straps and does a twirl to show her the knot secured behind his back.
Majima scowls. “Happy?”
Haruka nods in satisfaction. “There. Now you can cook.”
She settles down at the table while Majima mutters under his breath and cracks eggs into the pan. The room fills with the smell of sizzling egg whites and hot oil. She can’t help looking at the tattoo on Majima’s back, its eyes staring back at her.
“What’s your tattoo mean?”
“Eh?” He glances over. “It’s a hannya. Ain’t ya ever seen one?”
“I’ve seen masks.”
He clicks his tongue. “Kids these days are so uncultured.” He slides the eggs onto a plate and cracks a few more into the pan. Haruka watches the soup carefully, stirring it every now and then so the tofu doesn’t stick together. “She’s a pretty lady who gets so angry she turns into a demon. Gets revenge on everyone who wronged her.”
That’s nice, but she wonders what that has to do with Majima. “Why a hannya, though?”
Majima shrugs. “Beats me. I wasn’t too happy with the design myself, when the old man first pitched it to me. But she’s grown on me.” He shakes the pan and the muscles of his back ripple, as if the hannya is laughing. “Ended up bein’ a lot more fitting than I thought.” He doesn’t sound happy about it.
Haruka decides to change the subject. “Does it go down to your butt?”
Majima lets out a surprised laugh. “Sure does! Hurt like hell, too. Couldn’t sit right for a week afterwards.” He slides the eggs from the pan and portions them onto plates. Haruka leaps up to collect utensils, and in a few moments, the table is set.
“Not bad, Haruka-chan!” Majima grins. Haruka returns the smile, albeit with fewer teeth.
She drags Uncle Kaz out and sits him down at the table. He blinks hard, taking in the spread. “You made all this for me?”
Majima cuffs him on the back of the head. “Who else, dumbass?” He snipes, but his expression is fond.
Uncle Kaz smirks and flicks the edge of Majima’s apron. “This is a new look for you.”
“Yeah, well, Haruka-chan runs a tight ship,” Majima snorts, but Haruka sees him blush. “She won’t let me get away with nothin’.”
“Good work,” Uncle Kaz says to Haruka in a serious voice.
Majima makes a disgruntled sound. “Just shut up and eat it.”
With a quick thanks, they dig into their meal. The tofu is soft and silky under Haruka’s spoon, just the way she likes it, and the fried eggs have just the right amount of crispiness at the edges. She pops the egg yolks and scrambles them into the still-hot rice, watching them curdle and lighten.
“It tastes delicious,” Uncle Kaz declares, giving her that proud-of-you smile she loves and ruffling her hair.
Majima pouts. “What about me? I helped too.”
Uncle Kaz smirks and reaches over the table, scrubbing Majima’s hair until he squawks and swats his hand away. “You did good, nii-san.”
“Jerk,” grumbles Majima, but Haruka knows he’s pleased.
In the afternoon, they enact their second phase of the grand conspiracy: gathering the materials for Uncle Kaz’s birthday dinner-slash-party. It involves dragging Uncle Kaz to Maruetsu while Majima splits to pick up the goods that Haruka can’t get herself.
Haruka leads the charge, holding the list of items they’d mutually agreed to purchase with the wad of cash Majima had stuffed into her pocket. Uncle Kaz dutifully pushes the shopping cart behind her like a loyal butler. It’d taken less convincing than she’d feared to let them make him dinner—but she still gets the distinct feeling he’s doing it more to indulge her than because he actually cares about their plan.
“Oji-san, why didn’t you tell me your birthday was coming up?” Haruka asks, making her best sad-face impression at him as they head for the vegetables. “What if I’d missed it?”
Uncle Kaz hums thoughtfully. “I guess it slipped my mind.”
“How do you forget your own birthday?” she cries, aghast, almost passing by the produce aisle entirely before remembering that lettuce is on her shopping list. Uncle Kaz can be dense at the best of times, but he’s not forgetful. He doesn’t forget things.
His mouth presses into a line, like it does when he’s remembering something unpleasant, which is often. “I haven’t celebrated my birthday in ten years, Haruka. They don’t do that in prison.”
She shakes her head. “That’s even more of a reason to make it special this year, oji-san.” She points at the cilantro piled high on the produce shelves, silently demanding his assistance.
Uncle Kaz obliges, bagging up a bundle and dropping it into the cart. “I don’t need anything special,” he replies. “I would’ve been happy with just a birthday card.”
From anyone else, it would’ve sounded like an insult, but he makes it sound so modest that it infuriates her. It reminds her of her friends at Sunflower who would simply say I don’t want anything for my birthday every year as if giving gifts was a burden they were relieving her of. The worst part is that Haruka knows Uncle Kaz is telling the truth.
Haruka sighs. “That’s just sad. Even at Sunflower, we got cake on our birthdays.”
“Haruka,” Uncle Kaz says sternly. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I didn’t ask you to push yourself like this.”
“You never ask for anything!” Haruka snaps, a little too loudly. She winces at the people glancing in their direction. She lowers her voice, fighting to keep it from wobbling. “I wanted to do something nice for you because you’re always looking out for me.”
Uncle Kaz opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but Haruka plows on. “I notice it, you know. When you’re sad. Sometimes you’d be in the middle of telling a story and you’d freeze, like you just remembered something awful. There are boxes stuffed in the back of your closet that you never touch. I know some nights you get out of bed and drink, because I see the empty glasses in the dish rack the next morning.”
She fixes her eyes on the shelves of spices, avoiding his gaze. “I know you get sad sometimes. I do too. You always make me feel better when I have those moments, but who takes care of you?”
Uncle Kaz goes quiet. They patrol the rest of the store in silence, Haruka occasionally tossing items into their cart.
She’s ticking off the last piece on the list when he finally speaks again.
“You’re right,” he says. “About all of it. I still think about last year, and I don’t know if those memories will ever go away. But that’s not your burden to bear.”
“I know it isn’t, but I want to help. I wish you would let me help. Isn’t that what families do?”
Uncle Kaz sighs. “I’m about as clueless as you when it comes to families,” he says.
She straightens up. “Well, then I’m adding that to the definition. Families help each other. That means you take care of me, and you let me take care of you.” She pokes him in the stomach for emphasis and gets an offended noise in return.
Uncle Kaz looks like he wants to argue, but she glares at him until he deflates and retracts whatever he’s about to say. Haruka counts it as a victory—when she hustles them into the checkout line, he just gives the cashier a helpless look as she peels bills from her roll of cash and pays for the groceries herself.
Majima catches up to them when they leave the store, panting and clutching a stack of boxes under one arm. “Haruka-chan, I got it,” he puffs. “I had to fight like three guys to get it, but I won.”
“Uncle Kaz’s present?” She asks.
Majima looks confused. “What? No, the cake.” He glances at Uncle Kaz’s face and freezes, frowning at whatever expression he sees in it. “What happened?”
Haruka says “Nothing!” at the same time that Uncle Kaz replies “She gave me a stern talking-to.”
“That so?” Majima leers at her. “Tell me, Haruka-chan, did he deserve it?”
“It needed to be said,” she says stubbornly. “I told him he deserves to let us take care of him on his birthday and he should stop acting like he doesn’t.”
Majima bursts out laughing. “That’s what I told him yesterday!” He ruffles her hair, and for once Haruka lets him mess it up. “Great minds think alike.” He slings an arm around Uncle Kaz’s shoulders and starts steering them toward home.
It occurs to Haruka that they really are a perfect match for each other—Majima pretending that he doesn’t care about Uncle Kaz, and Uncle Kaz insisting that he doesn’t need Majima’s care anyway.
Haruka decides that all boys must be stupid.
Haruka gently pulls the grocery bags out of Uncle Kaz’s other hand and replaces it with her own, holding on despite the summer heat. She smiles despite herself. “I think that’s the first thing we’ve ever agreed on.”
Adequately humbled by Haruka’s impassioned speech, Uncle Kaz leaves them to the dinner prep without much of a fight, relaxing on the couch and pretending not to listen to their conversation. Haruka dumps their groceries onto the counter and rolls up her sleeves and pointedly looking at Majima’s gloves until he sighs theatrically and peels them off. The cake finds its new home in their refrigerator while the presents sit in the genkan, untouched.
They’ve never tried this particular recipe before, but it sounded easy enough in the book. It's hard to mess up taco rice, right? Even when it’s made by someone who’s never done it before…right? Majima fusses with the rice cooker until it chirps while Haruka washes the vegetables.
Haruka picks up a knife, ready to dice the tomatoes. Majima’s eye goes wide and he lunges across the counter; the next thing Haruka knows, her hand is empty. Majima holds the missing blade high over her head.
“Oi, oi!” He barks, waving the knife condescendingly. “Nobody asked for your pinky, missy!”
Haruka scowls at him. “I know how to use a knife, Majima-san.”
“Your technique’s all wrong.” He shakes his head and drags the cutting board towards himself. “Kiryu-chan’s gonna have my head if ya lose a finger on my watch.”
Uncle Kiryu cranes his neck and gives them an odd look. “I can hear you, you know.”
“I wasn’t going to cut myself,” Haruka grumbles, watching Majima dice the poor tomato so fast she can barely follow his movements. He’s a lot faster than her, so there’s no point in arguing, even though she wants to. In a moment, the tomato is reduced to bits and he’s already reaching for a second. She hates to admit it, but it looks really cool.
“Could you teach me how to do that?” she mumbles.
Majima pauses. “Hm?”
“I said , could you teach me how to do that,” she says, louder and more annoyed.
“What, this?” Majima asks innocently. He twirls the knife in his hand, scattering tomato juice everywhere. “It ain’t that hard.”
She must be making a face, because he grins. With one last spin, he turns his attention back to the disassembled fruit. “Sure, why not. Gotta be careful, though, or you’ll find yourself down an eye like me.”
“Really?” Her eyes widen. “Is that how you lost it?”
“Terrible knife accident,” he replies somberly. “I could juggle five knives easily, but it turned out that six was just too many. That’s why they call me Majima Go-roku.” He pauses for a beat. Uncle Kaz makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a snort.
Haruka’s expression sours. “You’re messing with me.”
Majima cackles. “I can’t help it! It’s too easy!” He sweeps the tomatoes into a bowl. “Ya had this real serious look on your face—like the one Kiryu-chan makes before he realizes I’m fuckin’ with him.”
She’s also aware of the expression Uncle Kaz makes once he realizes he’s being toyed with. It’s a special version of Uncle’s Angry Face she’s never seen anyone else get out of him. It’s honestly pretty funny.
“How did you lose it, then?” Haruka asks.
Majima hesitates for a second, then shrugs. “Well, let’s just say it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been a yakuza. A li’l cautionary tale for ya.”
“But you only left this year,” she points out.
“Hey, I never said I was smart!” He grins. “If I show ya how to chop the lettuce, d’ya promise to keep all your blood to yourself?”
“Just give me the knife.”
While completely unnecessary, in Haruka’s opinion, she graciously allows Majima to give her a crash course in chopping before busying himself with the beef. She drags him back over to finish up the onions and takes over the meat-browning while Majima throws together the salsa. Before long, they have all the components of taco rice ready to serve. Not bad, if she says so herself.
They set the table and plate their masterpiece: big heaping bowls of rice topped with spicy ground beef, cheese, lettuce, and salsa. It smells heavenly; whatever Majima had done to the beef, it’s way better than anything Haruka would’ve come up with. She’d done her best to buy everything on their list, but between Majima’s scribbly handwriting and the unfamiliar names, she ended up making some executive decisions that might have turned their dish into an abomination had they gone into the pan.
“It looks delicious,” Uncle Kaz comments, and it really does. Haruka feels her chest swell with pride as they tuck in, chanting their thanks in unison.
Uncle Kaz has only brought Haruka to Ringer Hut a few times, but he really seems to like it on hot days—and as she bites into the lettuce with a crisp crunch, it’s no wonder. The fresh salsa takes the edge off the hot rice and meat, and the cheese slowly grows melty from the heat. It’s the perfect food for a tropical vacation; it almost makes Haruka wish they were in Okinawa right now. All those little mistakes they’d racked up along the way melt entirely in the face of Uncle Kaz’s earnest happiness, face softened to match his big gooey heart.
“Good shit, Haruka-chan,” Majima says around a mouthful of rice. “We make a good team, don’t we?”
She wants to frown, tell him to mind his table manners, but after he’d patiently watched her chop the vegetables and helped her write down the ingredients, it feels wrong to do it. She wants so badly to dislike the man who stole her adoptive dad’s heart, made him all pink-cheeked and sappy, stormed his way into their life. It’s only natural, right?
The only problem is that there’s an equally-natural smile pulling on her lips, one coming from the soft and squishy part of her that she just can’t shake. She and Uncle Kaz might not be related by blood, but it seems like both of them share the same Majima-sized soft spot.
“We do,” she agrees.
Majima smiles. It’s small and soft and looks nothing like the manic grins she’s used to—and yeah, maybe she gets why Uncle Kaz goes all hazy-eyed looking at it. She feels something crumble inside her, like a brick wall collapsing after being punched full of holes.
Against all good judgment, Haruka is beginning to like Majima Goro.
After that, the cake is enough to distract her from the nervous wriggling going on in her chest. But when the dishes are cleared and there’s nothing left to delay the last part of their plan, Haruka’s about ready to jump out of her skin.
Will he like the present Haruka got him? Well, maybe she didn’t get it for him—she’d sent Majima with a large chunk of her meager savings and a request—but the idea was hers, and that’s what really matters, right? Besides, she’s not so fond of Majima that she won’t throw him under the bus if Uncle Kaz doesn’t end up liking it.
She fetches the box from the genkan and slides it toward him, watching Uncle Kaz’s eyebrows unfurrow a bit with surprise. “You got a present for me?” He says in wonderment, before a tiny frown takes its place. “When did you…?”
“Majima-san picked it up for me,” she says, avoiding his eyes. “I asked him to.”
“I even got it wrapped all nice and pretty,” Majima adds proudly, nodding at the cheerful blue paper covered with dainty cherry blossoms. Haruka mutters “thank you, Majima-san” under her breath.
Uncle Kaz picks at the tape holding the seams together, unfurling it delicately like he doesn’t want to rip it. Majima makes a small frustrated noise as they watch him unwrap it, but says nothing.
Though his face stays as grumpy as usual, she can see his eyes light up with genuine excitement when he peels back the paper. “A…Pocket Circuit car?” he breathes, turning the box over in his hands.
“Well, I don’t know enough about them to pick a good car,” Haruka says hesitantly, “but your cars have fun colors and stickers, so I thought maybe you’d like a decorating kit.” She’d seen them in pawn shops around Kamurocho, but something told her Uncle Kaz wouldn’t appreciate her going back there by herself. It’s much nicer than the ones in the stores, too—maybe Majima had a source she didn’t know about.
Uncle Kaz just makes a tiny “ah” sound. He’s still staring at the box. She can’t read his expression very well, but it looks like caught somewhere between “constipated” and “trying not to cry.” Haruka doesn’t know how to deal with either of those things. He swallows and hard and reaches over to hug her tightly. “Thank you, Haruka. I love it.”
It jars something loose in her brain. “Oh, I forgot!” She wriggles out of the hug and runs to her room, returning with a big piece of paper. “This is for you, too.” She flips it over and shows it to him, covering her face with it so he can’t see how red it is.
It’s a portrait of Uncle Kaz, smiling and posing. Pochitaro flashes a peace sign in the corner, wall-eyed and lumpy. She’d hastily scribbled “inu” along the side after accidentally giving him whiskers. She’d never been an artist, but the process frustrated her to no end, its awkward shapes and wobbly lines appearing childish even to her. But throwing it away felt like giving up, and there’s nothing she hates more than giving up. It’s an ugly drawing, but it’s one that she made. She lowers the paper cautiously, checking his reaction.
For a tense moment, he looks like he’s about to burst into tears…but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods stoically at the drawing and makes a loud, wet-sounding sniff before pulling her into another hug, even tighter than the last. She can feel him hurriedly swiping his face behind her back. Majima politely pretends not to notice.
Once he’s pulled himself together, he releases his crushing grip, stony expression back on his face but a look in his eyes that says he’s definitely going to cry about it later.
Majima shifts uncomfortably in his seat and reaches into his jacket, pulling out a long, thin box and laying it down. “I, uh…was thinkin’ about what ya said yesterday, so I got ya something extra.”
Uncle Kaz frowns. “Nii-san, you didn’t have to.” Haruka leans in, curious. Uncle Kaz had come home yesterday with bags of accessories Majima had bought for him (with a pinky-swear promise that Majima would give her the same treatment for her birthday). Is it a necktie? Or maybe those shiny things that guys wear on their shirt cuffs? Clearly Uncle Kaz is curious too, because even as he pouts he’s already sliding it closer to himself. He pops open the lid.
“Oh.” Uncle Kaz furrows his eyebrows. “This is…”
It’s an ordinary-looking gold chain, not unlike the kind yakuza wear.
Majima scratches his cheek nervously. “You said you wanted something from the heart.” With a gloved hand, he plays with the lone chain around his neck; something about it feels off. Haruka looks closer at the chain in the box and begins to notice other details: polished to a shine, but covered in tiny nicks and scratches, like it’s been worn a lot. Majima doesn’t seem like the type of person who’d buy a used chain, so it must be important.
It clicks in her brain, and she knows what’s been bugging her—didn’t Majima wear two of them?
“I figured this was as close to the heart as I could get,” Majima chuckles weakly.
Uncle Kaz is silent. He untangles the necklace from its packaging and fumbles to fasten the clasp behind his neck. Majima makes a choked noise. “Uh—ya don’t have to wear it if ya don’t wanna,” he stammers, but makes no move to stop him.
It’s long enough to disappear behind Uncle Kaz’s shirt, but he pulls his collar aside to reveal a glimpse of gold crossing his clavicle. “How does it look, Haruka?”
She feels like she’s seeing something she shouldn’t. Something private and heavy. “It’s very pretty, oji-san,” she replies, because she can’t think of anything better to say.
Majima looks like he’s about to melt into the floor or flee. Apparently Uncle Kaz notices, because he’s halfway across the table and squeezing him in a bear hug before he can consider bolting out the door or throwing himself out the nearest window. Majima makes a strangled sound and wriggles futilely in Uncle Kaz’s grip. Haruka pats his shoulder in sympathy.
“Thank you, Goro,” Uncle Kaz murmurs, swaying them gently back and forth. Haruka has never seen Majima this red, not even when he had hay fever.
“It’s just a chain,” he grumbles, before giving up and going limp like a cat that knows it’s caught.
Haruka doesn’t fully understand, but she sees their strange relationship for what it is: it’s love, it was always love. Terrible, horrible, gross and embarrassing and weird love. Maybe Majima is too scared to admit it, but Haruka isn’t.
So she speaks for them both. Reaching up with a small hand, she ruffles Uncle Kaz’s hair the same way he always does for her. “Happy birthday, Uncle Kaz. We love you.”
It’s a mistake, because Uncle Kaz really loses it then.
Notes:
-Majima may or may not have chipped in a few yen of his own when he was buying Haruka's present. What she doesn't know won't hurt her
-ngl this whole chapter was inspired by me going "why does majima have 2 chains in yk1 and only 1 in yk2? what happened to the other one? WHAT IF..."
Chapter 19: Obon
Summary:
You’re running away again.
Notes:
We get a little abstract in this chapter. There's a bit of Nishikiryu in here if you squint, but not enough to warrant its own tag.
This chapter gets pretty angst-heavy, so be mindful and skip out if you're not feeling it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Kiryu awakens with his face pressed painfully into a wooden bar counter. Soft jazz music wafts around him, its tune foreign yet achingly familiar. There’s a crick in his neck that says he’s been here a while, but a warmth in his body that says he has nowhere to go and nothing to do. He closes his eyes, already feeling himself sinking back under.
A familiar voice interrupts the quiet. “Kiryu-chan?”
Kiryu bolts upright and searches the room, blood pounding in his ears, but he sees no flashes of gold or bared teeth. There is only the mama, standing behind the bar with a concerned look on her face. “Is something wrong?” she asks. Thin trails of smoke unfurl from the kiseru held loosely between her fingers, fragrant like incense.
“Reina,” Kiryu croaks. “It’s—it’s nothing.”
“You don’t look well,” she says, brushing an invisible speck of ash from her pristine black kimono. “Would you like me to make you some tea?”
Before Kiryu can answer, a firm hand slaps him on the back, a chuckle escaping from its owner. “Had too many drinks last night, Kiryu?” teases Nishiki, grinning ear-to-ear and several drinks deep himself, if the flush in his cheeks is anything to go by. “He’s always been a lightweight.” He’s so close that Kiryu can feel Nishiki’s hair brush his face, smell the earthiness of Nishiki’s cologne.
“I am not,” says Kiryu automatically. “I’m just…not feeling myself today, that’s all.” It might be a slight understatement—his consciousness feels divorced from his body in a way that never bodes well. If he doesn’t tether himself soon, he’ll float away entirely.
A shoulder presses against Kiryu’s other side, another hand reaching up to feel his forehead. “Do you have a fever?” Yumi asks, sounding sympathetic. Her skin feels cold. “Maybe you should go home. I can make you some soup after I get off work.”
Nishiki makes a note of protest. “Why does Kiryu get all the pampering? Where’s my tea and soup?”
“Kiryu-chan pays his tab on time,” Reina reminds him. “You’d get some too if you were a better customer.”
Yumi laughs. “You’ll get soup when you’re the sick one, Akira.”
Nishiki pouts and grabs Kiryu by the jaw. “Oi, Kiryu,” he demands, turning Kiryu’s head towards him. “Cough on me and make us even!”
Screwing his eyes shut, Kiryu plants his palm directly into Nishiki’s face and shoves. Reina just sighs and snatches Nishiki’s glass from the counter before they can knock it over with their squabbling.
“Not in front of the customers!” Yumi scolds, swatting both of them with a wet towel.
It’s exactly the kind of reprimand she’d give them when they were being too rough while playing outside. It makes Kiryu laugh.
“What customers?” Kiryu spins on his stool to face her. “There’s no one—”
There’s no one here.
The space behind the bar is empty save for half-full bottles of liquor, Nishiki’s glass nowhere in sight. He glances at the neighboring seat and finds nothing but a fine layer of dust.
Kiryu stands. “Nishiki?” Reina’s counter is spotless, if dusty. The wine glasses hanging under the bar are opaque with dirt, as if they haven’t been touched for years. “Reina?”
The banquette where Yumi used to perch for hours, giggling and pouring drinks for customers, sits unoccupied, its rich red leather appearing black in the dim light. The disembodied jazz plays to an empty room.
“Yumi?” Kiryu calls in an uncertain voice.
Maybe he just missed them. Maybe Yumi is cooking a meal for him, wondering where he is. Maybe Nishiki is getting plastered without him because Kiryu’s always late to the party.
Yeah. Yeah, he should get going.
He feels his heart beating louder and louder as he makes his way to the back door, bracing himself for the chill of winter air or perhaps the syrupy heat of a summer night. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, or how long he’s kept them waiting.
He tumbles through the threshold and wakes up in his futon, sheets twisted around him.
For a blissful moment, he believes it: they’re all alive, holed up somewhere he’s not allowed and waiting for him to join them. Yumi will be back for her next shift tonight, and until then, he and Nishiki will walk side-by-side on collections just like they used to. If he could just get a move on—
He sits up in bed and startles when a disgruntled noise comes from the thin blanket. Majima makes an unhappy grunt and flails his arm like a limp noodle, slapping Kiryu in the ribs and fisting in his shirt to drag him back down.
And just like that, the illusion is gone; Kiryu’s mind reverse-engineers the situation, remembering everything that had to happen for him to be here, in this place, at this time.
When Kiryu doesn’t budge, Majima cracks his eye open and squints at him sleepily. “Gotta piss?” he mumbles.
“No.”
“Bad dream?”
“...No.”
“Ya gettin’ outta bed or not?”
He wants a smoke and maybe a fight, but he wants to stay in his comfortable nest even more. Kiryu sighs. “I guess not.”
Majima huffs. “Get down here, then.” He tugs again. Kiryu relents, laying back so Majima can snare him in his gangly limbs like an oversized teddy bear.
It’s odd to wake up next to someone, but it means that Majima stays. More nights spent at home mean more nights sharing a futon, and Kiryu wouldn’t trade it for the world, even if Majima snores like a grandpa and jabs him with his pointy elbows and hogs the blankets.
He almost thinks Majima’s gone back to sleep until he speaks again. “Wanna talk about it?” he murmurs, petting Kiryu’s hair like a dog. Kiryu leans into it just a little, even though it’s way too warm to be cuddling like this.
“There’s not much to say,” Kiryu lies. Majima makes an irritated mrph. “I just…dreamt that they were alive again.” He doesn’t need to specify who they are. He’s had this dream, several iterations of it, before.
Majima hums. “It’s almost Obon. Maybe they were tryin’ to tell ya somethin’.” He leaves it at that, carding his fingers through Kiryu’s hair.
Kiryu knows Majima doesn’t mean for it to sound as ominous as it does. But as Majima’s hands still and his breaths grow even and deep, it gnaws at him. Majima doesn’t know that they’ve been trying to tell him something for months, now. He doesn’t know this is the fifth dream Kiryu’s had about his dead family this month. He doesn’t know that this is different—that he never sees all of them at once like this.
You’re running away again.
So yes, Kiryu knows exactly why the ghosts of his past have decided to confront him: he hasn’t been to visit any of their graves, not since their funerals.
He had, of course, attended Kazama’s out of obligation—then Yumi’s, because the thought of depriving her daughter of the chance to mourn made him want to choke himself out more than the idea of going. As first on the Nishikiyama Family’s long list of persona non grata, Nishiki’s was out of the question even if Kiryu hadn’t felt horribly conflicted about attending. He had no idea where Reina’s ashes had gone; presumably, to any family she had. What Akemi had done with Shinji’s was also beyond him, and he wasn’t about to ask after the nauseating experience of hand-delivering his remains to her.
Part of him wants to pretend that if he avoids the dead for long enough, the events of December will have never happened. The other part insists that it did happen, but he doesn’t deserve to be in the vicinity of any of them after what he did (or failed to do). The former’s hypothesis has been steadily fraying over the past year, memories of the departed coming to him unbidden at the most inconvenient and innocuous times. The latter’s has become more and more convincing the more time passes and Kiryu begins remembering the very long string of mistakes he’s made before.
He’s not self-flagellating.
He’s just experiencing the appropriate amount of guilt for a traumatic experience that was entirely his fault.
But if he can even call himself a man, he can do this. He can prostrate himself for some stupid rocks and pretend it absolves him of anything. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll make it easier to sleep at night. For Obon. For Haruka.
On a fine Saturday morning, they leave the house and take the Yamanote Line to a quiet neighborhood east of Shinjuku; on the walk to their destination, they buy a giant bouquet of daffodils, greenhouse-grown and pristine. Haruka insists on carrying it by herself, even as it completely obstructs her vision and Kiryu has to guide her with a hand on her shoulder so she doesn’t run into a light pole. In his other hand, he carries a bag laden with food: a feast of a different kind.
The sinking feeling in his chest grows heavier with each step. He could stop right here, turn around, and head home—but Haruka marches steadily on, blind and vulnerable and determined. And, like Kiryu, a determined Haruka is no easier to sway than a mountain. So he follows her until the buildings grow nondescript, then sparse, then completely absent, and the roar of the city fades into white noise.
The cemetery is packed with families also visiting for Obon, filling the quiet green with life. Headstones bristle with flowers and incense, and crows perch eagerly in the trees, eyeing the offerings with interest. The sidewalk shines wet with the purified water used to cleanse the graves. Many of the visitors sport suits and sunglasses, no doubt family men visiting deceased patriarchs. Kiryu holds onto Haruka’s arm as they weave through the crowds so that they won’t be separated.
The plots they’re looking for are buried along the outskirts of the grounds, far away from the commotion. Three large, shining gravestones tower high over the others, calling them like a three-pronged beacon. Kiryu stops awkwardly in front of them.
“Only Yuko ever told me her favorite flower,” Kiryu says aloud, “so you’re all getting her favorite.” Haruka steps forward, brandishing the bouquet.
Yuko loved those bright yellow blobs that adorned the hospital yard come spring, fresh daffodils sprouting out of the wet dirt. When Nishiki and Kiryu returned to her once, a bouquet of daffodils in hand and the bushes below her window suspiciously plucked clean, she’d just smiled and said: “Where did you find these?”
“Flower shop down the street had a delivery of them,” Nishiki lied, and Kiryu simply nodded along.
Yuko’s grin grew wider. “Oh?” She stuck her fingers between the flowers and gently poked through them. “Did they come with this, too?” She opened her palm to reveal a large spider, sitting politely in her hand and looking more confused than anything else. It crawled tentatively along her fingers on twiggy legs, its fat striped body the same yellow as the cheerful flowers.
She held it out to Nishiki and cackled when he shrieked like a girl and shrank back, screaming at Kiryu to kill it. Kiryu had to hold back tears of laughter as he accepted the poor spider from Yuko on Nishiki’s behalf, promising to release it outside while Yuko reprimanded her brother for his callousness.
But Yuko is not here, so Kiryu can only hope she hears her from the corner she occupies alone, deeper in the maze.
“Let’s visit Yumi first,” Kiryu says to Haruka, nudging her toward the middle of the three monuments. Unlike its neighbors, it hasn’t been cleaned yet—no visitors have come to see her. They fix that by splashing it with ladles of water until the stone turns dark and shiny and cleansed of sin. With some difficulty, Haruka picks open the cellophane wrapping on the daffodils and separates a generous bundle from the bunch, placing them into the tall vases next to Yumi’s name.
From his bag, Kiryu procures a homemade bento and places it on her grave while Haruka decorates it with cucumber horses and eggplant cows on spindly toothpick legs. From her pocket, Haruka extracts an unlabeled envelope and leaves it with the food.
Haruka steps forward and speaks to the stone. “Hi, Mom,” she says in a shaky voice. “Oji-san made bento boxes for everyone, all by himself.” She bows her head. “I brought a letter for you. I made Uncle Kaz promise not to look at it.”
“And I didn’t,” Kiryu murmurs.
“And he didn’t,” agrees Haruka. “Please watch over us.”
They clap their hands and bow in prayer, sending their thoughts to Yumi’s spirit. Kiryu closes his eyes, desperately searching for something to say.
It’s hard, because he’s dreamed of Yumi the most.
✻ ✻ ✻
One thing that surprised Kiryu when Yumi first came to Kamurocho: she was a good hostess. A very good hostess.
Obviously he knew why. Yumi was gentle, sweet, and funny, hardly needed to put extra effort into pleasing the customers. She could charm the coldest salarymen, soothe the most nervous virgins. Kiryu couldn’t say he didn’t feel a twinge of jealousy at seeing her pour drinks for other men or give them a genuine smile, but who wouldn’t feel a bit protective over a girl like that?
She had only worked at Serena for a few months, but her reputation had already attracted a new crowd of patrons to the bar. Not a night would go by without someone requesting her by name, and she received champagne at least once a week. Kiryu never asked, but he wouldn’t have been shocked if she made more money than Nishiki and him put together.
Still, he was never bitter about her success. It was gratifying to have the queen of the night sit down next to him at the end of her shift; to be one of the few men she doted on for free.
He was younger and dumber and had no idea how difficult the work really was. All he knew was that Yumi spent every night partying harder than the last, only to return the next day fresh-faced and ready to go again. He never saw the morning hangovers, the heavy concealer, the endless calls to the bar’s landline. If he had, maybe he’d been more vigilant from the start.
The first spring she worked there, Yumi had a stalker.
He was hardly the first, but Yumi was smart. Smart enough to know that involving her boys would be undesirable for all parties, and what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. She was good at the game, dropping crumbs of information that kept him satisfied but wouldn’t form a trail back to her. He was harmless enough—just one of those new-money dopes who thought attention from a woman meant something, as if her affection was totally independent of the wads of cash he threw at her.
Of course, Kiryu didn’t see it that way.
He was winding down the night with a drink at Serena, exchanging pleasantries with Reina when she wasn’t bartending or bantering with other customers. Nishiki was running late, no doubt hampered by the spring rain that turned the roads into neon smudges. Yumi looked tired but was putting on a good show, pouring another flute of champagne for a rather enthusiastic young patron. Alcohol had made his lips loose and his ego enlarged, undeterred as Yumi politely parried his requests for an after-hours date. The long day and the downpour had Kiryu feeling a bit irritable himself, but he did his best to turn a blind eye to the situation. Yumi had it under control.
Until she curtly denied him with a firm “No thank you,” at which point her customer looked gobsmacked that his favorite girl had told him no, then angry that she would even dare. The man was up from his seat and looming over her, and Kiryu was storming toward them.
“Don’t touch her,” he growled, placing his body between them.
“Kazuma, don’t,” Yumi hissed. She tugged at the back of his jacket and was promptly shrugged off.
Her customer barked out a laugh. “Are you her man? Scared I’m gonna touch what’s yours?” He leaned around Kiryu’s broad form and eyed Yumi. “Yumi-chan, don’t worry. I’ll get this guy off your back.”
The remark was worse than irritating—it was right. Yumi was his, and Kiryu wasn’t about to hand her over to a guy who couldn’t even respect her boundaries. Kiryu stepped to the side, blocking his view. “Let’s take this outside.”
His challenger sneered and allowed Kiryu to herd him out of the shop, both of them ignoring Yumi’s pleas to stop. As soon as the elevator’s doors opened to the sound of rain, Kiryu grabbed the guy by the shoulder and dragged him into the street.
He doesn’t remember what happened after that, only that he wasted no time relieving his opponent’s bones of their duties for the next six to eight weeks and liberated a good portion of blood from his capillaries. If there were any passersby still brave enough to bear the rain, they knew better than to interfere with a sucker getting the shit beaten out of him by a man with a pin on his lapel.
Once he was reduced to a quivering wreck, Yumi’s bothersome customer swore up and down that he’d never come near her again, shying away from Kiryu’s bloodied fists. Kiryu straightened up and watched him limp away before turning to head back inside the bar.
He stopped short. “Yumi?”
Kiryu saw her hunched in front of the elevator, covering her mouth and looking pale as a ghost. She was shaking like a leaf; when Kiryu approached, she flinched and shrank back.
He’d been expecting Yumi to look relieved. Instead, she looked afraid. Afraid of him.
She took a tentative step out of the alcove, into the pouring rain and away from him. Then another. Then another.
Kiryu swallowed. “I—”
Yumi shook her head. “Don’t. Don’t follow me.” She retreated farther, then turned her back on him and disappeared swiftly into the rain, hugging herself tightly.
He didn’t follow her.
The warm glow of headlights washed over his back, the sound of tires screeching to a halt behind him. A door opens and slams, and footsteps approach.
“Kiryu?” Nishiki calls, bewildered. “What are you doing in the rain?”
He hurries to Kiryu’s side and sucks a breath through his teeth when he sees the blood on Kiryu’s shirt. “Holy shit, what happened?”
Kiryu numbly replies: “I think I fucked up.”
✻ ✻ ✻
So in the end, he says nothing, and bows his head alongside Haruka, pretending not to notice the small sniffles she’s letting out.
Kazama’s grave, the tallest of the bunch, is sparkling clean and littered with bottles of expensive liquor—no doubt the work of his loyal underlings. They tuck a bunch of daffodils next to the artfully-arranged bouquets occupying his vases.
He bows his head and sends a silent prayer.
✻ ✻ ✻
As soon as Kiryu could stand on his own, he hobbled straight out of his hospital room and wandered the halls until he found Kazama’s.
The scalding summer sun scorched a large rectangle of light into Kazama’s lap, spilling off the bed and onto the floor. He was reclined in bed and writing in a small journal; when he looked up and noticed Kiryu’s presence, he set it aside and waved him in. Kiryu shuffled to his bedside and bowed as low as his injuries would allow.
“Sit, sit,” Kazama said brusquely, gesturing at the chair next to him. Kiryu gingerly lowered himself down. It hurt less than expected—but then, the Triad hadn’t done much damage to his legs.
He couldn’t say the same for Kazama. His eyes flicked guiltily to the bulky cast forming a large lump under the sheets. “How is your leg?” Kiryu nodded at it.
Kazama glanced down as if he himself had forgotten the injury, then shifted it slightly. “Three plates and thirteen screws,” he commented, as breezily as if he were discussing the weather. “Was tricky to put back together, or so I’m told. I’m more suited to putting bullets in than taking them out.”
Kiryu winced. “Oyassan…I’m sorry.” He tipped his head in a bow, stopping sharply when his shoulder screamed in protest.
“A father is responsible for his children,” said Kazama mildly. “As I said, I can sacrifice a leg or two. I’d do it again.”
“But this is your livelihood,” Kiryu blurted. “What if you’re never able to use it again? If I hadn’t charged into Lau’s hideout by myself, you wouldn’t be—”
Kazama laughed, bassy and raspy from years of smoking. “Kazuma, I’m flattered you think I’m as spry as I was a decade ago, but I’m an old man.” He reached out to pat Kiryu’s knee. “When you get to be my age, the only things you become good for are going to prison or dying and freeing up your seat for someone else.”
“That’s not true.”
“Kazuma.” He fixes Kiryu with a sharp look. “You’ll understand when you have a family of your own someday.”
Kiryu returned the look doubtfully. “You’d do the same for everyone under you?”
“Well.” Kazama sat back. “There’s a difference between a soldier and a son.”
It was already five years in the past at that point, but what Dojima had said buried itself in Kiryu’s side like a thorn: You’re a pawn just like the rest of them.
If every patriarch’s underlings were his sons, what did it matter when he sent them off to die all the same?
“Which one am I?” Kiryu asked.
Kazama raised a brow. “You really need to ask me that, Kazuma?”
Yes, thought Kiryu. Yes, I think I do.
✻ ✻ ✻
I am sorry that I could not be the son you always wanted, Kiryu says. I hope you will forgive me for deciding to make something else of myself.
Nishiki’s grave is even more lavishly decorated than Kazama’s, as if his loyal underlings had seen it and immediately known that they had to outdo it. Bright, exotic flowers sprout from his vases, almost spilling onto the fancy bottles of alcohol and cartons of cigarettes on his altar. Their daffodils find a home among the gifts, swallowed up immediately by the rest of the offerings, as if Nishiki’s men can buy themselves a promotion through the veil.
For all Kiryu knows, it would have worked. Was Nishiki the kind of man who traded luxuries for favors? Did he treat his men well? Did he become the fashionable yakuza he always said he’d be?
For Nishiki’s sake, he hopes so.
✻ ✻ ✻
Nishiki had always been a sappy drunk.
The first time they got shitfaced together, they were sprawled out in the field behind Sunflower, passing a pilfered fifth of whiskey back and forth under the full moon. They competed, as they always did, challenging each other to take increasingly large gulps of alcohol and hiding their grimaces as they grew rowdier and more intoxicated. They made a half-hearted effort to muffle their drunken giggles—the old caretaker was hard of hearing, but the other kids weren’t, and wouldn’t hesitate to snitch.
Halfway through the bottle, Kiryu finally wrinkled his nose and pushed it away when Nishiki offered another drink. “This tastes horrible,” he said.
Nishiki snorted and raised the bottle to his lips, failing to disguise a wince as the liquor burned his throat and dribbled onto his shirt. Kiryu knew that that meant: Nishiki agreed, but was too damn proud to admit it. He always stayed one step ahead of Kiryu—one more sip, one more smoke, one more yen. Kiryu didn’t quite get it, but it made Nishiki happy, and that was all he cared about.
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand why adults like this shit,” Kiryu declared, propping himself on his elbows in a way he hoped looked casual but probably looked more like what it was, which was a desperate attempt to keep himself somewhat upright. His head felt like it weighed a ton, and for a second he let it loll back, wishing the world would stop spinning.
“‘Cause it makes you look cool,” drawled Nishiki, brushing a blade of dry grass from his uniform slacks. “You’ll never be like Kazama if you aren’t tough.”
“I’m tough,” Kiryu retorted, a little offended by the implication. “I just don’t see how drinking is supposed to make you a stronger person.”
“C’mon, you’ve never seen those kung-fu movies? The drunken fist?” Nishiki punched the air with a limp arm.
“I don’t think they were actually drunk, though.”
Nishiki waved him off. “You’re overthinking it, Kaz—I mean, Kiryu.” His glassy eyes caught the moonlight and he sighed. “Everyone does it. You just gotta.” He tosses the bottle at Kiryu, sloshing its contents all over the ground and leaving only a few fingers of liquid.
For a job whose main selling point was hedonism, there were an awful lot of things you had to do. Had to smoke, or you were a straight-edged prude. Had to fight, or you were a limp-wristed pussy. Had to fuck girls, or you were a dick-sucking homo. Sometimes, Kiryu wondered if he’d made the wrong choice.
He picked up the whiskey and swirled it. It almost looked pretty under the moonlight—but then, most things did. He glanced over at Nishiki, whose cheeks were flushed dark and lips were shiny with spilled liquor as he lay with his eyes closed. For a moment, he felt strangely lucid.
But then it passed, and he raised the whiskey to his lips and drained it to the dregs.
✻ ✻ ✻
Nishiki’s absence is a half-healed gouge even now, too ragged around the edges for it to ever scar over. He’s had ten years and some change to replay that night over and over again, wondering if there’d been some secret path he’d forgotten to take. Only now is he beginning to realize that there never was an alternative. Either be there, and condemn his brother to a debt he could never pay, or abandon his family and take on a different burden.
I thought I was doing the right thing. I wanted to protect you.
Looking back, you suffered more than I ever realized.
Kiryu dusts off his knees and takes Haruka’s hand, and they retreat deeper into the graveyard.
Yuko’s grave is by far the most neglected, almost overgrown with weeds and kept clean only by the duty of the cemetery’s groundskeepers. Dust clings to the engraved characters of her name, worn around the edges by time.
A large golden spider spins a delicate web in the corner of her altar, hanging suspended in the middle as if asleep. Haruka blows on it, jostling the silken strings, and giggles when its inhabitant twitches in irritation.
“Should we move it somewhere else?” She asks.
Kiryu shakes his head. “No. She’d enjoy the company.”
They splash water on the headstone, gently so as not to disturb Yuko’s eight-legged neighbor. The daffodils add a pop of color to the drab stone. Kiryu pops open the last bento and sets it on her altar, hoping it attracts a meal for both of them.
He doesn’t dream about Yuko often, but he knows that if she was at all unhappy about the way they’d parted, she’d be giving him hell to this day.
✻ ✻ ✻
The last time he saw Yuko, he knew, on some level, that it would be their final meeting. She was sitting upright in her hospital bed, looking less pale and lethargic than he’d seen her in weeks, but there was a bone-deep tiredness in her eyes—the doleful eyes of a gambler who knew her winning streak against death was coming to an end.
She had asked him to sneak her out of the hospital for beef bowls. “Why me?” Kiryu asked.
Yuko scoffed. “You know Yumi and Akira wouldn’t. Yumi would take me to Smile Burger and make me get a salad, and Akira wouldn’t take me out at all.” Her shoulders drooped. “You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like I’m breakable.”
And Kiryu hated that it was true. Yumi and Nishiki were caring to a fault; they fussed over her constantly, barely gave her space to breathe in her own hospital room. Yuko was a fighter—always had been—but she’d accepted her fate a long time ago. The others just didn’t know it yet.
Kiryu sighs, all protests melting on his tongue. “Akaushimaru, though? Don’t you want something nicer than that?”
Yuko shook her head. “They put me on a cardiac diet, and it’s so depressing. I just want something bad for me. I’d like to get some enjoyment out of my life.”
He couldn’t fault her for that. He’d rolled his eyes but agreed anyway, knowing full well that Yuko would demand an extra-large bowl, take a few bites, then push the rest of it at him to finish.
Kiryu was glad he did it, even if Nishiki bitched him out the entire car ride home and some more after that for good measure. He refused to apologize for the way her eyes lit up when the server set a giant bowl piled high with beef and vegetables in front of her. Nor would he be ashamed of the way she’d grabbed his hand and cried “Look, Kazuma!” and pointed at the strings of Christmas lights adorning the scraggly park trees.
A week later, he was arrested for the murder of Dojima Sohei.
He’s glad that was his last memory of her.
✻ ✻ ✻
Thank you for showing me what it means to live, Kiryu says to her. Wherever you are now, I hope that you’re no longer in pain, and that you are eating as many beef bowls as you want.
When they sit down for dinner that night, Kiryu looks around the room and finds no ghosts—just the living, here, in this moment, with him. He passes plates to Haruka, who looks at him without pity or sadness but something entirely different: it’s love, it was always love. There’s a melancholy to her tonight that he wouldn’t dream of talking her out of, and he suspects she sees it in him, too.
Kiryu lays his head down, wondering if the spirits will be merciful tonight.
Someone is shaking his shoulder. “Kazuma?”
He blinks, finding himself staring into a glass of whiskey. The firm leather stool under him shifts as he straightens up.
Yumi’s dark eyes are inscrutable. “Reina-san is closing up. Let’s go home.”
Blearily, he casts a glance around the bar to find it completely deserted, the tables and counters spotless. Out of habit, he tosses back the rest of his whiskey—poor form to leave a drink unfinished—and stands, following Yumi to the door.
Outside, Reina bids Nishiki goodnight with a shy smile and waves at them as she returns upstairs. “Come back soon, Kiryu-chan,” she says.
“Thanks, Mama.”
Nishiki pats Kiryu on the back. “You look like you’ve had a long day,” he remarks. “You alright to head out on your own?”
Kiryu snorts. “You know I am.”
Nishiki laughs. “I do, but a brother’s gotta ask.” He twirls a set of car keys around his finger, catching them in his palm.
“Will you drive me home, Akira?” asks Yumi.
He gives her a surprised look. “Sure. Why get a car if I’m not gonna use it to drive my friends around?”
“So you can drive girls around,” Kiryu teases.
Nishiki punches Kiryu’s arm. “Smartass.” Yumi stifles a giggle.
Kiryu watches Nishiki turn towards his car, popping open the driver-side door with his key and graciously circling around to open the passenger side for Yumi. “See ya later, Kiryu,” he calls, holding the door and silently beckoning her. Something about his words rings hollow.
Before Kiryu can object, Yumi grabs him in a hug far tighter than a woman her size should be capable of. “Until next time, Kazuma,” she murmurs, avoiding his eyes as she lets him go. He watches her back retreat out of his reach.
The bottom drops out of Kiryu’s stomach as his brain screams at him: something is different.
This place is familiar, yes, but he has no memories in which this exact scenario played out. What happens after? There is no “later” or “next time” which Kiryu recalls.
There never was, and there never will be.
This is all they have.
Before he can stop himself, Kiryu chokes out: “I’ll miss you guys.”
Both Nishiki and Yumi freeze mid-step like deer in traffic. They exchange a troubled look.
Finally, Nishiki steps out of the car. “We know you do.”
“We miss you too,” Yumi adds. “But we can’t stay.”
Kiryu’s vision goes blurry with tears; with a heroic sniff, he swipes his eyes with the back of his hand and soldiers on. “I know. I just—sometimes I wish I could go with you.” Selfishly, he wishes they hadn’t come in the first place. Why visit at all, if only to torment him with their absence? To force him to say goodbye, over and over again?
Yumi gives him a stern look. “Don’t follow us, Kazuma. Not until it’s your time.”
“And don’t try dragging us with you,” Nishiki adds. “We’re on different paths now, kyoudai. We’ll meet again someday.”
“I know,” Kiryu repeats, like a mantra. “I know.”
He doesn’t spare them another glance. He shoves his hands into his pockets, turns his back on them, and lets his feet take him further away.
Behind him, he hears the sound of an engine roaring to life.
Notes:
-Let me know which memory hurted the most :)
-If you're a smart cookie, you might have noticed some death motifs woven into the first dream.
-Majima doesn't celebrate Obon. If nobody comes to haunt him in his dreams, it means he's got no one new to mourn.
-Obon is celebrated on August 15 in most of Japan, but not in Kanto! It's celebrated on July 15.
-The cemetery is based off Yanaka Cemetery in 7-Chome.
-Obon traditions also include dances and festivals, but I wanted to focus on the grave-visiting aspect for obvious reasons. During Obon, families visit the graves of deceased ancestors and make offerings of food/gifts at graves. They may also leave cucumber horses and eggplant cows meant to bring the spirits home and send them off when the festivities are over. They also clean the graves with purified water.
-The spider in Yuko's bouquet is a joro spider, a close relative of the golden orb weaver. The new generation emerges in spring and dies off by late summer.
Chapter 20: Tanabata [E]
Summary:
“Do you think Orihime and Hikoboshi are meeting tonight?” Haruka asks, looking up at the yellow sky, too smoggy to make out even a single star. It’s hard not to be enchanted by the myth of the two lovers, romance forbidden but for one day a year.
But Kiryu isn’t looking at the sky; he’s distracted by Majima, blind side facing Kiryu as they walk, fanning himself grouchily with his little paper fan. A bead of sweat trickles down Majima’s neck from behind his ear and Kiryu wants to reach over and lick it away. As though he can feel Kiryu watching, Majima turns his head ever so slightly and winks, a boyish smile on his face.
“Yeah, I think so,” Kiryu replies. He’s feeling a bit romantic himself, tonight.
Notes:
Another chapter in a week 💀 and it's a big bulky one, too. Don't expect anything like this to happen again.
Also woohoo!! The chapter that breaks 100k words!! I've never written this much fic for anything in my life.
TANABATA: A festival celebrated every year on the 7th day of the 7th lunar month (mid-August for this chapter iirc). It's based on the folk tale of Orihime (Weaver Girl) and Hikoboshi (Cowherd Boy) and is meant to be a romantic cute celebration. Please read the Wiki on it if you don't know what it is, otherwise this chapter will be less fun to read and I don't want that for you :)
I did my best to bury context clues so you can tell what the Japanese terms mean without having to look them up, but I will provide detailed definitions in the end notes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
A drop of sweat rolls down Kiryu’s temple, tickling his skin like a mosquito. He swipes it away irritably, a futile battle against the hundreds of sweat beads just like it popping up all over his body in the summer heat. He’s not wiping it off—he’s just pushing it around his face, really—but in his defense, he’s not very well-equipped for that at the moment.
He’d shrink in embarrassment at his nudity if it wasn’t so damn hot outside. Not that it would do much to turn away the dozens of eyes staring at him.
After all, he’s in public. He’s never felt more in public than he does right now.
A very unhelpful breeze brushes between his exposed thighs and skims his bare ass, and Kiryu wonders, not for the first time, how he got here.
Of course, it started with Kiryu lending a helping hand.
He’s grocery shopping with Haruka on an average weekend, walking the same route, to the same store, buying the same things they always do. Grocery shopping tends to be significantly expedited when Haruka is there, though; Kiryu’s beginning to think Haruka is better at reading his handwriting than himself. Or maybe he’s getting old and needs readers.
She’s probably a Kiryu-scrawl-deciphering genius. That’s the only explanation.
A few blocks from home, they pass by an old man hunched on the sidewalk, a large fabric-wrapped bundle tied to a stick laying on the ground next to him. When the man attempts to straighten up, he yelps in pain.
Haruka, bless her heart, makes the first move. “Ojii-san, are you alright?” She asks, dropping Kiryu’s hand and coming to stand beside the ailing old-timer.
The man smiles weakly. “Oh, I’m alright, sweetheart. I just dropped my…” he nods at the odd bundle on the ground. “...that.” It looks like a bindle, one a ronin might have made out of his katana and a furoshiki to carry between towns.
Kiryu sets the groceries aside, bends down, and retrieves it, only to momentarily stumble when he realizes how heavy the bag is. It feels like it’s full of bricks, and when he finally does heft it over his shoulder, the objects inside shift around and clank together just like them. The bamboo pole bends under the weight but miraculously holds. “This?” Kiryu asks, holding the end out. He eyes the senior’s skinny arms and hunched spine doubtfully.
“Yes, my training stick!” The man moves as if to take it from Kiryu, wincing as he reconsiders the motion. “I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it, but…could ya help me carry it home?”
“Of course!” Haruka responds, giving Kiryu an expectant look. Obviously he would’ve done it regardless of whether she was there or not—he’s not that much of an asshole—but he can’t help feeling slightly miffed that Haruka thinks he needs prompting in order to do something nice.
The old man nods in thanks. “It’s not far,” he says. “I must’a tweaked something in my back. These old bones ain’t what they used to be.”
True to his word, it isn’t far, but with the amount of stairs they climb to reach the man’s apartment, Kiryu understands why he’d asked for help. “Are you building something?” Kiryu asks awkwardly, fishing for anything to fill the silence.
“Not exactly.” He grins sheepishly, deepening the wrinkles in his face that must have formed from decades of smiles just like it. “I was trainin’.”
“Training for what?” Haruka asks, dutifully holding onto the grocery bags.
“Carryin’ a mikoshi,” he proudly replies. “Y’know, them big portable shrines you see at festivals? Used to do it all the time when I was young. Had a big callus on my shoulder and everythin’!”
Now that he mentions it, Kiryu does wonder how mikoshi-bearers are chosen. Do they just appear out of thin air and disappear until the next festival? Who are they? He can’t say he’s ever met one.
The old man sighs. “I was trainin’ to carry the mikoshi for the Tanabata festival, but I haven’t done it in a while, and now my back is payin’ for it. There’s no way I could do it now.”
Haruka perks up at the mention of Tanabata. “Tanabata has mikoshi, too?”
“Of course! Our neighborhood association carries one every year. Was thinkin’ I could try it for old times’ sake, ‘specially since we’re already short of hands. And so close to the festival, too…” he shakes his head.
They finally stop at an apartment door several floors up. Kiryu flips the bindle off his shoulder and sets it down neatly, cracking his neck.
“Yer a real strong one, sonny!” remarks the man, patting Kiryu’s arm. “Could probably carry a mikoshi all by yerself.”
An old woman with short, steel-gray hair emerges from a bedroom door, bedraggled as if just awoken from a nap. “Who’re ya talkin’ to?” She mumbles, snapping to attention as her eyes land on the two guests. “Yoshihiko, who have you dragged home now?”
Kiryu hurriedly opens his mouth to explain why a large, threatening yakuza-looking guy is now standing in their genkan, but the old man beats him to the punch. “They’re just helpin’ out this old fart, Iori. Threw out my back tryin’a carry this damn thing.” He gestures to the bag of bricks.
Iori huffs, hands on her hips. “Ya idiot. I told ya to give it a rest!”
Yoshihiko shoots Kiryu a helpless grin, a silent wives, am I right? that is totally lost on Kiryu, who is both wifeless and rarely right. In fact, he might be the wife, judging by the number of times he has physically restrained Majima from diving into oncoming traffic.
“Aw, but I couldn’t let the neighbors down,” whines Yoshihiko. “How’re the guys supposed to carry a mikoshi with only five people? They’re all ancient like us, Iori-chan!”
“If yer so ancient, then why’re ya breakin’ your back out there?” Iori’s voice raises in pitch and volume, causing Kiryu to shift awkwardly.
Haruka must sense the impending argument too, so she interrupts in a small voice. “Um…you need someone strong to help carry the mikoshi, right?”
Kiryu knows that she’s thinking—he was thinking the same thing, of course—but he already has that sinking feeling he gets when he volunteers for something that ends up being way more work than he thought. But at any rate, he’s man enough to speak for himself. “I could help with it,” he offers. “It’s just bringing it to the neighborhood shrine and back, right?”
“You’d really do that fer me?” Yoshihiko asks eagerly. “Yer a lifesaver, boy!”
“My name is Kiryu,” says Kiryu.
“Kiryu-san!” exclaims Yoshihiko. “I’m Kaminaga, and that’s my wife Iori.” He nods in her direction. “Ya gotta uniform he could borrow, right?”
“Probably.” Iori lets out a long-suffering sigh at her husband, but turns a warm smile on Haruka. “Ya remind me of our daughters when they were small. I might have an old yukata that would fit ya too.”
Haruka goes starry-eyed at the thought, and Kiryu can’t say no to that.
Though he really, really wishes he could say no to the mikoshi-bearer uniform, which Iori had conveniently wrapped up before sending them home.
He can practically hear Majima’s cackling when he finally unravels the bundle of clothing a few days later, peeling open the happi wrapping only to find that, no, pants are not included. What he finds is a blue short coat with the neighborhood emblem stamped on the back, a rope-like headband, a colorful belt to tie around his waist, and…a long strip of white cloth with two ribbon-like straps—and he knows exactly what that is for.
He hangs his head and sighs, pondering the life decisions he’s made up to this point and if there was an infinitesimal point in time where he could have potentially avoided this situation—specifically, Kiryu, in a loincloth, in public. If there was, Kiryu definitely isn’t smart enough to know where. What am I doing with my life?
But he said he’d do it, and a man never goes back on his word.
He keeps repeating that to himself as he unbuttons his shirt and dons the jacket, secures the belt around his waist, ties the twisted hachimaki around his head, and finally drops his pants and tucks his valuables into the fundoshi. It’s long enough to hang down as an apron in the front, and the ties are wide enough to cover up most of the situation in the back (it’s not that kind of fundoshi, thankfully), but if anything it just makes his exposure even more noticeable. Every flicker of motion sends the apron in the front swaying, and he can feel every lick of wind between his legs.
It’s horrifying.
It’s…oddly liberating. Maybe that tighty-whities guy Kiryu met in the 80s was onto something.
As an afterthought, he loosens the collar of the happi, exposing a small slice of his chest and the gold chain underneath. Might as well be comfortable.
Because Haruka is an angel that has never done anything wrong in her life, she politely refrains from bursting into laughter when she sees him—though her tactfulness doesn’t extend quite far enough to cover up the little giggle she lets out. Kiryu sighs and helps her tie her obi, almost envious at the yukata that she gets to wear. It’s a nice one, a pale pink thing dotted with snowflakes and sakura blossoms in white. He secures the obi, orange brocade studded with bell flowers, in a neat bow at her back. He begrudgingly admits that inconveniencing and embarrassing himself in public in exchange for a pretty yukata isn’t a terrible trade, if it makes Haruka happy.
Until he remembers, with dread, that Majima would be coming to meet them. After explaining himself, Majima had jumped at the opportunity to escort Haruka around the festival and maybe ogle Kiryu’s form while he was busy with the shrine, but Kiryu has a feeling that Majima had probably been thinking of a yukata and not…whatever this is. He had requested that Majima carry a change of clothes for him so he wouldn’t be stuck in uniform the entire night, but refrained from mentioning what said uniform was. He’d prolonged the inevitable mockery for as long as he could, but now…
Haruka brightens when she hears the knock on their door (Kiryu would be touched by her eagerness to see Majima if he wasn’t dreading this visit with his entire being) and scurries over to answer it. Kiryu carefully positions himself out of sight from the doorway on the off-chance a neighbor happens to pass by.
“Majima-san!” Haruka chirps, cracking open the door and stepping aside.
“Hiya, kiddo,” replies Majima from somewhere behind the door. “You’re dolled up real nice tonight, huh?”
Haruka visibly preens, eliciting a good-natured cackle from him. She lets him inside and Majima stoops to set down the paper shopping bag in his hand and kick off his sandals. Kiryu notes the outfit change: a dark blue yukata with an uroko pattern, black inverted triangles resembling the scales of a snake. Of course. If only his typical jacket could be so subtle.
“Yer in luck, Haruka-chan,” Majima continues, digging in the bag, “‘cause I just picked up some hair clips that would look—” he glances over and locks eyes with Kiryu. Both of them freeze.
Majima’s eye goes wide as a saucer. “Real…cute…on ya.”
Haruka’s eyes dart between them. Her hands are clapped over her mouth, stifling laughter.
Majima straightens, putting his hands on his hips and casting an appreciative look at Kiryu. “Guess you’re not the only one dolled up tonight, Haruka-chan.” He grins lecherously. “Nice pants, Kiryu-chan.”
Kiryu scowls. “It’s a fundoshi.”
He doesn’t even know why he feels the need to correct him. Majima speaking in that shit-eating tone, the one specifically intended to piss him off, simply never fails to bring out Kiryu’s inner pedant.
Majima’s grin doesn’t dim. Instead, his eye lingers on Kiryu’s legs and his voice drops sultrily. “Looks good on ya. You should go out like this more often.”
Kiryu should be used to the flirting by now, he really should. It was flattering, albeit still slightly embarrassing, for Goromi to flirt with Kazumi on their night out. But now that Majima is mostly clothed and Kiryu is mostly not, Majima’s gaze feels blisteringly hot on his exposed skin. He can already feel himself starting to sweat.
Luckily, Haruka’s eyes glaze over the second Majima breaks out the bedroom eyes (well, eye). “You said you brought something for me,” she says impatiently, folding her arms.
Majima reluctantly tears his eye away, bending down to rummage through his bag again. “Right,” he says. “Gotcha some pretty kanzashi for yer hair.” He produces a pack of elaborate hairpins. On the biggest clip, bunches of pink pinwheel-shaped flowers made of folded silk group at the head, with more strung together in tails that hang from the cluster.
Haruka oohs and thumbs at the flowers gently. “Thank you, Majima-san.”
Majima looks away uncomfortably. “If ya wanted, I could do yer hair and put ‘em on—”
“Yes,” she interrupts. “I would like that.” She takes his hand and leads him to the washroom without waiting for an answer. Kiryu lets out a sigh of relief and watches Majima start fussing with her hair.
A few minutes and many, many bobby pins later, Haruka comes out with her hair twisted into a neat little updo, the flowers pinned in place so they dangle and swing whenever she turns her head. She looks positively radiant in her patterned yukata with a big smile on her face, and Kiryu would walk around half-naked for the rest of his life if it would make her look that happy again.
“Shall we head out?” She asks.
And that’s how he ended up here: muscles aching and sweating like a horse, nothing but a skimpy little loincloth between him and the public eye.
It wasn’t so bad at first, once he met up with the other mikoshi carriers and left Majima and Haruka to enjoy the festivities on their own. The other men, all significantly older than him, looked totally comfortable in their traditional garb, as if they’d been bearing shrines in it for decades—and from their deep tans and corded muscles, they probably had. The shrine, while decorated elaborately with gold and constructed of sturdy timbers, wasn’t difficult to manage when split six ways. Kiryu had carried heavier loads that week alone. It was a mikoshi, not a parade float, so while the crowds parted respectfully as they passed, few of them stopped to watch the procession.
It is significantly less fun halfway through the route, when the heat is getting to him and his body is feeling the strain. Being taller than all the other carriers, Kiryu is forced to squat slightly as they move, distributing the burden from his shoulders to include his thighs and calves as they trudge on. They proceed at a slow but steady clip, coordinating their steps in unison so as to not jostle the kami inside the palanquin.
His legs and shoulders are burning, his thin headband doing nothing to soak up the sweat beading at his brow. Every step sends the apron of his fundoshi fluttering like the noren of a sweets shop. Have a look inside, it says, sample our wares! The feel of his clothing is irritating, wet cotton scrubbing against his damp skin like burlap. The heat makes him far more annoyed than he’d normally be. Why did I agree to this, again?
So when a sharp wolf-whistle pierces the low chatter of the pedestrians, clearly intended to provoke him, Kiryu snaps his head toward the sound with a murderous glare—only to find Majima at the sidelines ahead giving him a salacious smile, clapping enthusiastically while Haruka stands beside him and waves in Kiryu’s direction.
He breaks his thunderous expression to spare Haruka a smile, then immediately turns his scowl back on Majima. His signature Dragon of Dojima glower has made many a man turn tail and run, but this man—this fucker—just whoops at him like Kiryu’s a stripper and Majima’s the son of a bitch who just paid for a lap dance.
He pointedly turns away from Majima’s stupid smarmy grin and plows on, choosing to focus on the rhythmic chanting of the mikoshi bearers until he’s well past them and out of their sight.
Unfortunately, they end up crossing paths again a few minutes later, this time just a couple blocks away from the shrine. He sees them first, walking side-by-side along the festival stalls. Haruka holds a half-eaten taiyaki, a few stray crumbs stuck to her chin with melted ice cream that she swipes away with her thumb and sucks into her mouth. Next to her, Majima nibbles on a frozen chocolate covered banana. The phallic connotations are not lost on Kiryu.
Haruka’s eyes widen when she catches sight of Kiryu, and she tugs on Majima’s sleeve to point him out through the crowd. Kiryu gives her a tired, half-hearted smile, hoping that this time Majima will leave him be. Majima locks eyes with Kiryu, banana halfway to his mouth.
It happens so fast Kiryu’s brain doesn’t even register it: maintaining eye contact, Majima raises the banana and shoves it all the way down his throat, all the way down to the stick, then pops it out of his mouth, cheeks hollowed obscenely and lips kissing the tip as it leaves.
Kiryu continues on for a few seconds, utterly shell-shocked, until his brain catches up to his eyeballs. All the blood rushes to his face, and he levels the meanest, most intense scowl at him he can muster.
Haruka frowns and looks at Majima accusingly, mouthing something that Kiryu can’t hear. Majima shrugs innocently, biting off a big chunk from his banana.
“Was that really necessary?” Kiryu grumbles, retreating from the crowd gathering around the now-stationary shrine. His happi sticks unpleasantly to the small of his back.
“Dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” Majima replies airily. “Ya looked pretty distracting in that getup, though. Wouldn’t be surprised if someone else took notice.”
Haruka hands him a bottle of water, still cold from the vending machine. “You looked really strong, oji-san. I’m sure Kaminaga-san is happy you helped him out.”
Kiryu accepts it gratefully, downing a gulp of crisp water. “Did you have fun with Majima-san, Haruka?”
“Mhm.” Haruka produces a small treasure trove of candy from her pouch. “We won lots of prizes from the stalls.”
“Did you now?” Kiryu can’t help giving Majima a sappy smile, which Majima waves away with a glare and a blush. “Thank you, nii-san.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Majima shoves a paper bag at him—the same one he’s been carrying around all evening. “You gonna wear these, or are ya walkin’ around like that for the rest of the night? Not that I’m complaining, but ya did make me carry this all the way here.”
Kiryu gives him a look—you’d like that, wouldn’t you?—but takes the bag from him. “I would like to not be half-naked, actually, but I’m not sure I trust your choice in outfit.”
Majima pouts. “Don’t be like that, I got ya a yukata too.”
“I didn’t know you were so interested in traditional clothes, Majima-san,” Haruka pipes up.
“Haw? I’m offended, Haruka-chan.” Majima sniffs. “It takes effort to look this good, y’know.”
Kiryu and Haruka both stare at him flatly.
Majima glowers and pokes Kiryu in the chest. “Oi, I got my tailor on speed-dial ‘cause of this guy! He’s got my measurements memorized at this point! If I fuck up another jacket I can call him up and get a new one the next day!”
“Maybe you shouldn’t wear such nice clothing for fights, then,” says Kiryu.
“Naw, fuck that,” Majima scoffs. “I just gotta fight ya in the nude more often.”
Haruka makes an exaggerated gagging sound and herds them toward a more secluded area, urging Kiryu to hurry up and get dressed. She and Majima politely (well, Majima more begrudgingly) look away for a few seconds as Kiryu peels off his sweaty shortcoat and dons the long yukata. He rolls his eyes at the pattern—black paulownia flowers on white cotton, kiri for Kiryu. The obi, predictably, is the same deep red as his usual shirts.
Majima giggles at the long-suffering expression on Kiryu’s face when he turns around, and Haruka’s reaction isn’t much better. Kiryu almost prefers walking around in the fundoshi, honestly.
“Very funny, nii-san,” Kiryu deadpans.
Majima’s giggling only gets louder and more obtrusive. “Kiryu-chan…” he struggles, dropping to a knee. “W-will ya…be the Orihime to my Hikoboshi?” He snags Kiryu’s hand, quaking with laughter. Haruka straightens her back and steals the paper fan stuck in the back of Majima’s belt, holding it solemnly like a Shinto priest’s shaku.
Kiryu slaps Majima’s hand away and tugs at his elbow until he stands up, determined to put an end to the charade before any passersby get an eyeful of the impromptu wedding ceremony. “No,” he says. “And why am I the girl?”
Majima hangs his head and sobs dramatically. “She rejected me, Haruka-chan! In front of the gods, too!” He gestures vaguely at the shrine behind them.
Haruka pats his arm sympathetically. “We can try again next year, Majima-san.”
“I’m leaving you both behind,” Kiryu calls, walking away.
As night envelops the city, the lanterns around them multiply until they’re walking through a sea of yellow lights. Colorful lights decorate the festival booths, wind through the trees, and even adorn the shrines, turning them into bright pink-and-blue beacons. Big paper lanterns in eye-watering shades of red and green sway in the wind, their streamers rustling softly. Multicolored paper slips dangle from every tree branch, each written with a wish on it and hung by hopeful festival-goers.
Walking through the busy streets, one hand holding Haruka’s, the other hovering so closely to Majima’s that their fingers brush with every step, Kiryu feels no need to wish for anything.
“Do you think Orihime and Hikoboshi are meeting tonight?” Haruka asks, looking up at the yellow sky, too smoggy to make out even a single star. It’s hard not to be enchanted by the myth of the two lovers, romance forbidden but for one day a year.
But Kiryu isn’t looking at the sky; he’s distracted by Majima, blind side facing Kiryu as they walk, fanning himself grouchily with his little paper fan. A bead of sweat trickles down Majima’s neck from behind his ear and Kiryu wants to reach over and lick it away. As though he can feel Kiryu watching, Majima turns his head ever so slightly and winks, a boyish smile on his face.
“Yeah, I think so,” Kiryu replies. He’s feeling a bit romantic himself, tonight.
A voice from the crowd grabs his attention. “Oi, Kiryu-san!”
He turns and spots an old man standing behind one of the food stalls, a headband tied around his balding head and waving enthusiastically. Next to him, his wife is busy at the grill, flipping golden-brown takoyaki in a rounded mold pan with the careless efficiency of an expert.
“Kaminaga-san,” Kiryu bows.
“Obaa-san!” Haruka calls, jogging over and twirling as Iori coos over her cute yukata.
“Great job haulin’ the mikoshi out there,” Kaminaga compliments. “Heh, I couldn’ta done it without ya. Thanks for helpin’ out.”
“Ya got my thanks, too, Kiryu-san,” adds Iori. “For gettin’ this guy to help me at the stalls like he should’ve been doin’ all along.”
“It was no trouble,” Kiryu replies modestly, though his quads currently have a very different opinion on the matter.
Iori scoffs, turning her attention to the grill. “Well, no trouble or not, yer probably hungry after that workout, eh? At least take some takoyaki with ya. Yoshi-chan, pick up the slack,” she barks. Yoshihiko jumps up obediently, a new bowl of batter in hand. “Pipin’ hot for ya and yer daughter and yer…” she looks up and squints at Majima, as if just becoming aware of the third person in their group. Her eyes narrow suspiciously at him, taking in Majima’s eyepatch and undercut and general air of disrepute.
Kiryu can’t really blame her. Just Kiryu by himself is enough to earn a raised eyebrow—one yakuza-looking guy is a coincidence, but two yakuza-looking guys is a pattern. Still, he wracks his brain for a reasonable explanation for two big, mean fucks to be accompanying a young girl and comes up short.
Haruka jumps in. “This is my Uncle Goro,” she loudly declares, wrapping a small hand around Majima’s bicep. “He might look scary, but he’s really a nice guy.”
Majima plays right along, smiling winningly at the old woman. He almost looks…charming, to Kiryu’s immense discomfort. “Majima. Nice to meet’cha.”
“Oho, another Kansai guy!” Yoshihiko exclaims. “Ya from the big cities, son?”
“Nah, nothin’ like that. Lived in Osaka for a while, though.”
“Osaka! One of our daughters lives there,” remarks Yoshihiko, as if Majima could possibly know a complete stranger in a city he hasn’t inhabited for decades. “Ya came to the right place. Nobody makes takoyaki like Iori-chan!”
“There’s no one I’d trust to make it right except a Kansai lady,” Majima says seriously, at which Iori finally laughs. “And maybe Kiryu-chan.” He bumps Kiryu in the ribs with his elbow.
Yoshihiko hands them three paper boats weighed down by hot takoyaki, each garnished with a generous drizzle of Kewpie mayonnaise and a fistful of bonito flakes. “Here ya are.”
“Thanks, Gramps!” Majima cheerfully replies, popping a hot takoyaki into his mouth and immediately spluttering.
“Thank you, Kaminaga-san,” Kiryu adds.
Haruka beams. “Thank you, ojii-san! Thank you, obaa-san!”
“Stop by anytime,” Iori calls after them as they wave goodbye.
Majima moans loudly, mouth full of takoyaki. “It’s so good. Keep helpin’ out those senior citizens, Kiryu-chan.” Kiryu stays silent, still processing the revelation that, thanks to Haruka’s story, the Kaminagas now think they are the world’s strangest pair of brothers. Haruka follows Majima’s example, foolishly stuffing a whole takoyaki into her mouth and letting out a yelp as she puffs furiously around the ball of molten cheese.
“The gods will never let us get married now,” Kiryu tells Majima. “We’re brothers.”
Majima chokes. “Haw?”
Haruka lets out a peal of laughter.
After playing several more games and consuming more sugar than is probably advisable, Haruka becomes quieter than usual, yawning and letting Kiryu guide her blindly. Deciding that she’s had her fun for the night, he makes to pick her up, back already protesting the prospect. He ignores it; he’s tired, but not so tired that he can’t carry his daughter home.
Majima brushes him aside. “Lemme take her,” he says. “I can already tell yer regrettin’ doin’ that favor.” He tilts his head at Haruka. “That okay, Haruka-chan?”
She makes a vague noise of assent and reaches for him. Majima scoops her up easily and settles her on his back. Kiryu feels his heart melting in his chest as he slips her small pouch of trinkets and candies out of her hand and drops it into his own bag. The crowds begin to thin out as they continue home, lanterns growing fewer and farther between.
“Thank you,” Kiryu says quietly. “For…tonight.”
Majima chuckles incredulously. “After that show, you’re thankin’ me? I already got everythin’ I wanted.”
Kiryu thinks about the purse stuffed with sweets in his bag, the white yukata, the ice cream and taiyaki. “You didn’t have to.”
Majima huffs. “You know me, Kiryu-chan. I ain’t done a single thing in my life that I didn’t wanna do.” It rings hollow even to Kiryu.
“Well, whatever the case, I’m glad.” Kiryu considers his next words. He drops his voice low, eyes averted. “Will you stay the night?”
Majima’s voice lilts playfully. “Are you implyin’ that I’m a man without virtue, Kiryu-chan? That I’d threaten your purity outside of marriage just ‘cause ya asked?” He leans into Kiryu ever so slightly. “‘Cause I am. And I will.”
Kiryu nods, a smile playing on his lips. “Good. I’ve been thinking about a certain someone all night. You’ll do as a distraction.”
“Who are ya and what’ve you done with Kiryu-chan?” Majima grins. “I dunno where ya got that sassy streak, but I like it.”
Once they get home and Kiryu puts Haruka to bed, he wastes no time shoving Majima against his bedroom wall and putting his hands all over him. He licks into Majima’s mouth, tasting takoyaki sauce on his lips. Majima hums, grabbing Kiryu’s ass and kneading the muscles. Wandering hands yank Kiryu’s belt loose, snaking inside his yukata to palm his dick under the stupid fundoshi. Kiryu growls and rips it off impatiently, cursing the garment.
“Ya sure ya wanna get—ah—frisky, Kiryu-chan?” Majima breathes, tipping his head back and practically trilling with pleasure as Kiryu licks his way up the column of his neck. “Here? Now?”
Kiryu considers. “Think you could be quiet?”
Majima laughs, cupping the back of Kiryu’s head. “If ya do a shit job, sure.”
“Should I stop, then?” Kiryu teases, slipping his hands into the open panels of Majima’s yukata and tweaking his nipples. He presses a palm to Majima’s chest, encouraging him to lie back and sink into the futon.
Majima jolts and arches into him without responding. Sighing theatrically, Kiryu lets his hand fall, as if withdrawing; as his fingertips leave the inked skin of Majima’s pectorals, Majima shoots out a hand that clamps around Kiryu’s wrist. “I’ll be quiet,” he gasps. “Just—don’t stop.”
Kiryu’s dick twitches with a spike of arousal. Knowing that Majima wants it just as much as he does, is struggling to keep his voice low because it feels so good, is a powerful aphrodisiac. He fumbles with Majima’s obi until it comes apart in his hands to reveal Majima’s sculpted torso. He can’t help burying his face in the divot of his abdominals, nose brushing the trail of hair below the navel; Majima squeaks and claps a hand over his mouth as Kiryu’s facial hair tickles the sensitive skin there.
He snorts as he peels back Majima’s robe and sees his underwear: a plain pair of cotton briefs. Kiryu snaps the band playfully before cupping the bulge inside. “You’re dressed down,” he says. “What happened to the panties?”
Majima scoffs. “Ya ever walked around in the summer in a G-string? Shit gives ya swamp ass like nothin’ else.” He pokes Kiryu’s dick with his foot. “Unless you’re into that sorta thing.”
Kiryu makes a face and Majima giggles. “There ya go.”
“Should I be worried?” Kiryu asks, already pushing down Majima’s underwear. He’s put his mouth on worse things, he’s not going to let a bit of ball sweat stop him.
Majima tsks. “Ya got no faith in me at all, Kiryu-chan. I take hygiene very seriously, y’know.”
His cock springs out, almost hitting Kiryu in the face, and he rolls his hips insistently, pushing the tip into Kiryu’s neck. Kiryu gets the message: get on with it. He bends down and takes Majima’s cock in hand, guiding the tip into his mouth and licking up the beads of precum weeping from it. He brings his mouth down as far as it can go—still not much, but definitely more than before—while jerking the parts of the shaft he can’t reach. He wishes he could hear Majima’s high, undignified voice, but instead he focuses on the cadence of his gasps, bobbing his head and sucking harder when he hears Majima’s breathing hitch or deepen.
As he cradles Majima’s balls, a curious finger presses at his perineum and slides lower. Majima inhales shakily, pushing his ass into Kiryu’s hand. Kiryu stills, thinking hard.
“Could you be quiet if I fucked you?” He asks, pulling off. He’s been thinking about Majima’s tight ass hidden under that yukata all night, all that toned muscle obscured by baggy, shapeless fabric.
Majima stifles a moan. “I can try,” he pants, and that’s good enough for Kiryu.
Reluctantly, Kiryu pulls away to locate the lube. It doesn’t take long to find it, but it also reveals a grave miscalculation. Kiryu drops the bottle next to Majima and grimaces, defeated.
“I, uh…I don’t have condoms,” Kiryu admits.
Majima sighs theatrically, tilting his head back. “Sloppy work, Kiryu-chan.” He props himself up on an elbow. “I’m fine with ya rawin’ me, though.”
Kiryu’s eyes widen. “Huh? Are you sure?”
“I meant what I said earlier. I’m squeaky clean,” Majima responds petulantly. He raises a brow. “Are you?”
Kiryu splutters. “O-of course,” he says, trying not to sound defensive. “I haven’t had sex…like that…for ten years. You’re the only person I’ve done it with since then.” He feels his flush spreading to his ears. Majima’s grin widens as Kiryu stumbles over his words, but he mercifully does not comment.
Instead, he reaches his arm out and pinches Kiryu’s cheek, gently shaking him. “You’re cute. Now fuck me before my boner dies from all yer cuteness.”
Kiryu shuts his mouth and slicks up his fingers.
When he works the first inside, Majima sighs like a dog settling in its master’s lap, spreading out on his back and pushing against Kiryu’s hand. With the other, Kiryu jerks him slowly in sync. He likes doing this: testing Majima’s tolerance for light play, breaking down all the tension in his muscles until he’s putty in his hands. When Majima starts to get squirmy, Kiryu crooks his fingers a bit until he arches off the futon—a reminder of who’s boss, but also a little treat for being a patient boy. He likes the way Majima’s flush spreads down his chest, the way the muscles in his belly tighten whenever Kiryu so much as brushes his erect penis, the way the furrow between his eyebrows smooths when he’s completely blissed out but deepens when he wants more.
When he finally gets three inside and lets them still, encouraging Majima’s body to relax, he hisses and bucks underneath him. “Fuck me already,” he snarls, grabbing Kiryu by the jaw and reeling him in to bite at his lips.
Kiryu can’t help but chuckle at his impatience, but obliges—his own cock is feeling rather irritated by the situation as well. As he withdraws his fingers, Majima flips himself onto his elbows and knees and buries his face in a pillow, pushing out his ass until Kiryu can see the inverted V of his tattoos around his asshole. The rim is slick with lube and slightly puffy, soft and begging for something to grab.
Well, Kiryu’s never been good at denying Majima. He hauls his hips back and lines up his cock, pushing in slowly while running his hands along Majima’s flanks. Majima doesn’t make even a peep, only the taut line of his shoulders and shallow contraction of his ribs betraying the strain. Once the head breaches him, Kiryu waits until Majima begins to wriggle and push back before sinking the rest in. Majima makes an appreciative moan as Kiryu picks up the pace, careful not to connect their bodies too forcefully.
The weak light from the window and the fine sheen of sweat over Majima’s back cast an otherworldly shine on the hannya, which gnashes her teeth as Kiryu fucks him into the bed. Majima keeps his lips sealed, but the way one of his hands snakes back to grab Kiryu’s ass and spur him on tells him all he needs to know. With no barrier between them, Kiryu can feel how wet and soft Majima’s insides are, even more scorching hot than the outside. The intoxication of him, one of the strongest men Kiryu’s ever known, laid bare and trembling, goes straight to his head. But he’s not vulnerable by any means; Majima’s well-honed body and his grasping hands sinking into Kiryu’s wrist, his thigh, scream strength. With only their muffled moans to break the silence, the air is thick with more than just the summer humidity.
Majima growls and rips Kiryu’s hand off his hip, jamming it between his legs and demanding he pay attention to his straining, drooling cock. Kiryu tugs him hard and fast the way he likes, partly to make up for the softer pace of their fucking, but also to hear him struggle to hold back the pleased noises his throat is desperately making.
He watches another small bead of sweat gathering at the dip behind Majima’s ear and gives into the urge he’d been struck by earlier, leaning in to lick it away. Majima shudders violently under him and lets out a high-pitched whine. Emboldened, Kiryu slides a hand up his nape and cups the base of his skull, stroking the fuzzy borders of his undercut.
He feels Majima tighten rhythmically around him, cock twitching as it spurts cum into the futon below. Kiryu catches some in his hand and revels in the wet sounds of him wringing Majima out until his body quivers with overstimulation and he begins making small pained noises into the pillow. Gently easing out, he slides his cock between Majima’s ass cheeks and jerks himself off until he ejaculates onto the hannya’s chin, gritting his teeth to snuff out any noises. Majima slumps and tips onto his side, cheeks red and lips glistening with spit.
Kiryu searches for his briefs and pulls them on, quietly padding to the bathroom and wetting a washcloth to wipe himself down. He brings it back to Majima and kneels next to him, repositioning his pliant limbs and carefully cleaning the mess between his legs and on his back and making a token effort to swipe away the cum drying on the bed. Kiryu tosses the towel aside and digs in his closet for Majima’s unused futon, rolling it out next to the dirtied one.
He picks up Majima’s underwear and throws it at him; Majima makes a disgruntled noise as they land right on his face. “Put some pants on,” Kiryu orders. Majima grumbles but worms his way into them as requested.
Kiryu stretches out on the edge of the clean futon. As expected, Majima rolls himself over until he’s pressed along Kiryu’s entire side in a warm line, hooking his chin on Kiryu’s shoulder and tangling their sweaty limbs together. Majima sighs contentedly, laying a hand on Kiryu’s belly.
“It ain’t fair. Ya looked so sexy out there, Kazuma-chan,” he purrs. “Next time I wanna get a piece of that juicy ass for myself.”
“You mean you want to fuck me?” Kiryu asks.
“If ya wanna.”
Kiryu thinks about it. While he isn’t against it, it’s certainly not something he’s ever tried before, with a woman or a man. But then, Majima hadn’t made it look hard. Physical contact was always easy with Majima—fighting, kissing, screwing. “Sure.”
Majima sounds surprised. “Really? That easy?”
Kiryu shrugs, trying to look nonchalant. “Well, you seem to enjoy it, so…”
Majima laughs quietly and kisses his shoulder. “Just you wait. I’ll make a bottom outta ya, Kiryu Kazuma.”
Notes:
-The clothing items Kiryu wears are: happi (shortcoat), hachimaki (headband), obi (belt), fundoshi (loincloth).
-In keeping with the pun names, the Kaminagas use the character "kami" as in "shrine". Iori contains the "ori" from "orihime", and Yoshihiko has the "hiko" from "Hikoboshi" :)
-Haruka calls the Kaminagas ojii-san (grandpa) and obaa-san (grandma), which are different from oji-san (uncle).
-Lifelong mikoshi bearers have giant calluses on their shoulders from the shrine poles. They're gnarly
-Yes, fundoshi!Kiryu is based off the dragon festival RGGO card (here he is in all his glory)
-Alright, time to get into fabric symbolism:
--Haruka's yukata has a yukiwa (snowflake) pattern, associated with summer and good harvests. Often paired with bamboo leaves/flowers on fabrics
--Her obi has a kikyo (bell flower) pattern, representing honesty, obedience, and unchanging love
--Majima's yukata has an uroko (scales) pattern, associated with snakes or dragons. hmm
--Kiryu's yukata has a kiri (paulownia) pattern. It's the same character in Kiryu's name, and also known as the "princess tree" :>
--I straight up forgot about Majima and Kiryu's obi patterns. Sorry. Um, make up whatever's most romantic for them
-Majima is carrying an uchiwa (fixed fan), a paddle-shaped paper fan. Not terribly important but I thought you should know
-Haruka holds it like a shaku, a ritual tablet used by Shinto priests in ceremonies such as, you guessed it, weddings.
-I recycled Haruka's words from K1, because she's had to explain she's not being kidnapped by Kiryu multiple times by this point.
-The particularly astute reader will notice that Majima's dialect is slightly different from the Kaminagas'. Which could mean nothing
-Bottom Kiryu soon...That's all I have about that. Goodbye
Chapter 21: Housewife [E]
Summary:
Being a trophy husband, Kiryu decides, isn’t so bad.
Chapter Text
The beautifully-tailored suit that Goromi had commissioned for Kiryu’s birthday takes over a month to arrive, but it sits in Kiryu’s closet for barely a week before Majima calls him up one evening demanding to cash in on his long-awaited date.
“A client appreciation event?” Kiryu echoes, wrinkling his nose. “Majima Construction has clients?”
“Of course we do, dummy. Where’d ya think all the cash was comin’ from?” Majima’s voice crackles over the small phone speaker. “And they ponied up a lot of cash, so this ain’t gonna be some fuckin’ pizza party shit. Believe me, I tried.”
“And you need me there? Why?”
“‘Cause yer the foreman! Yer our boots on the ground! A critical part of the executive team!”
A long, skeptical pause settles between them.
“...And I wanna bring a hot piece of ass with me,” Majima finally admits.
Kiryu scowls and refuses on principle. “No.”
“C’mon, Kiryu-chan,” Majima whines. “I’m gonna be so fuckin bored goin’ by myself!”
Kiryu rolls his eyes, adjusting the tiny receiver by his ear. He’s weak to Majima’s demands and they both know it, but Kiryu’s still got his pride, and his pride demands that Majima work for it. “You’re the boss, aren’t you? Just don’t go.”
“Think of it as a date! Ya owe me one after I bought ya that pretty suit, and this is the perfect time to put it to use!”
“I owe you a date? I don’t recall promising you anything, nii-san,” teases Kiryu. “That was Goromi.”
“We’re the same person, jackass!” Majima yells. “What happened to that ‘I like you too, nii-san’ bullshit? Just admit ya only care about that trashy broad! ”
Kiryu growls, “She’s not trashy. And you know that’s not true.”
“Then go on a date with me,” Majima demands. His voice grows quiet, whispering sultrily into the phone. “If you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll give ya a nice treat when we get home. Make good on that promise we talked about.”
Kiryu grimaces, ashamed at how excited the idea gets him. “What do you want me to do?”
“In public?” Majima giggles, and Kiryu can just imagine him kicking his feet as he sprawls across his huge bed. “Stand around and look pretty, basically. Play along when I tell the clients yer my housewife. Drink champagne and hang off my arm.”
“If you call me your housewife in public, I’m ripping your arms off.”
“Aw, baby, don’t threaten me with a good time,” he drawls. “I’ll save that for the bedroom, then.”
Sighing, Kiryu pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just give me a time before I change my mind.” Not for the first time, Kiryu questions his taste in partners.
“You’re a doll, Kiryu-chan! Friday night, my place at nine. Wear that suit and wash yer ass for me!” Majima makes a kissy noise over the phone and Kiryu automatically recoils in disgust before he can fully process what he’s been asked to do. “See ya!”
The line goes dead.
With a disgruntled shake of his head, Kiryu closes the phone and glares at the bagged suit hanging in his closet, thinking about Majima’s instructions. His heart sinks.
“Wait…wear the suit and what?”
Unfortunately, his efforts to look presentable for Majima are slightly hampered by the way he’d had to hurry to the apartment, steered astray on Haruka’s recommendation. (“Trust me, he’ll love them!” she declares, smiling proudly. “Boys like getting flowers too, you know.”)
Despite Haruka’s confident proclaimation, Kiryu feels thoroughly unkempt and silly by the time he knocks on Majima’s door. He’s pretty sure his tie is crooked, but he doesn’t have a mirror to check. The bouquet of flowers Haruka insisted on crinkles in his sweaty hands.
The door flies open with a bang. “Kiryu-chan!” Majima yells, beaming. He’s wearing a towel around his hips, and nothing else. Kiryu’s immediate reaction is annoyance for having wasted his time primping; his second reaction is, predictably, embarrassment. Kiryu tears his eyes away from Majima’s exposed tattoos and steers them in the direction of his face, and…swallows hard as his gaze latches onto a bead of water winding its way down the bridge of Majima’s aquiline nose. How is it that Majima always manages to get him on the back foot?
Majima’s eye crinkles at the edges as he leers at Kiryu, clearly enjoying the attention. He lets Kiryu ogle for a moment before breaking the charged silence. “Are those for me?” he asks, looking at the large bouquet in Kiryu’s hands.
With a jolt of realization, Kiryu shoves the flowers into Majima’s face like an embarrassed schoolgirl, almost planting his nose directly into a rose. “Here,” he replies gruffly.
For a second, Majima stares at the roses like he’s not quite sure what to do with them—but then his blank expression is gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a smug grin as he takes them from Kiryu. “Aw, that’s real sweet of ya, Kiryu-chan. Such a gentleman!” A hand snaps out and grabs Kiryu’s red tie, reeling him in for a chaste peck on the lips. Majima smells like aftershave and his facial hair feels freshly trimmed as it brushes Kiryu’s face. Majima makes a loud “Mwah!” and releases him, padding into the kitchen and leaving Kiryu standing bewildered in the genkan. He makes sure to take off his shoes before he follows Majima, though—he’s got manners.
He finds him crouched in front of his cabinets, rooting around to the sound of glass bottles clinking against each other; Kiryu politely averts his eyes from Majima’s swinging jewels. Swearing under his breath, Majima emerges with several liquor bottles, setting them on the counter by the sink. He cracks open a brand-new bottle of Courvoisier XO and inspects the label, giving it a curious sniff. Shrugging, he takes a swig before promptly upending the bottle over the basin and dumping its contents. Kiryu looks on in dismay as the expensive alcohol disappears down the drain.
“I ain’t got any vases, so this’ll have to do,” tuts Majima, giving the cognac a good shake. Unwrapping the roses, he sticks as many as he can through its narrow neck—about four—and Kiryu, suddenly, deeply regrets his decision to buy a dozen of them. Finding this insufficient, Majima frowns and snatches up another bottle seemingly without regard for its price or quality. A fifth of Hakushu Green is sacrificed next, sloshing sadly as it supplements its sister in the sewer system.
“Uh…you don’t have to do that,” Kiryu says lamely, eyeing the Hibiki on the chopping block apprehensively.
“Yes, I do.” No such luck—Majima’s hand wraps around its neck like a noose, popping the stopper like the blade of a guillotine. Goodbye, Hibiki, Kiryu muses mournfully as it spills its delicious amber contents into Majima’s sink. “No way in hell am I’m lettin’ Kiryu-chan’s gift go to waste,” he continues, happily holding the Hibiki’s husk upside-down to ensure every drop is properly squandered.
Thus satisfied with his reign of terror, Majima cheerfully arranges the now-divided bouquet between the three sacrificial spirits, making a pleased noise when he positions them just so. Kiryu gives him a limp smile, still feeling rather queasy over the whole monstrous spectacle.
“There!” Majima grins. He tilts his head at Kiryu. “Ya look a little pale, Kiryu-chan. Why don’t ya have a seat while I get ready?”
Kiryu nods numbly. “Yeah…yeah, I think I will.” He shuffles over to Majima’s couch and settles down, back ramrod-straight.
Majima blinks exaggeratedly, a gesture which Kiryu is coming to understand as Majima’s version of a wink. “Just sit tight and keep it in yer pants,” he purrs. He makes his way toward the bedroom, disappearing down the narrow hallway. “Help yerself to a drink while ya wait!” He calls.
“I…I think I’m good,” Kiryu mumbles.
Kiryu’s stomach manages to settle itself by the time Majima returns, during which time Kiryu had made a vain effort to straighten out his tie without a mirror. He ended up tugging it off in frustration, figuring that starting from scratch was probably less embarrassing than letting Majima see the mess he’d made of it.
He snaps his head up as Majima calls his name, taking in the sight: Majima in an ink-black suit accompanied by a blood-red shirt, both perfectly fitted to his lithe frame. Kiryu’s mouth goes dry.
“What do ya think, Kiryu-chan? I clean up pretty nice.” It’s funny how seeing Majima in more clothes has him spellbound. It’s on the same spectrum as his usual outfit, but a completely opposite end: his normal ensemble makes no attempt at civilian legitimacy, preferring to intimidate by sheer ostentation, but this…in this, Majima could almost be mistaken for a respectable businessman, were it not for the subtle air of danger around him. It’s almost a shame Majima left the yakuza before Kiryu got a chance to see it. As Kiryu approaches, he resists the urge to bow for him as he would a patriarch.
Majima grins cheekily, hands in his pockets and leaning against the wall. The odd angle flares the shoulders and wrinkles the body of his jacket, accentuating his muscular build and cinched waist. His eyepatch is embossed with a silver snake curling in on itself. Kiryu can’t help but reach out and touch the leather, and instead of ripping his hand off, Majima lets him, even leans into it. It feels hard and smooth under his fingertips.
“Like it?” Majima says. “I wear this one on special occasions, but I was thinkin’ I might just make this my regular patch.”
“Hmm.” Kiryu strokes the edge with his thumb. “It looks nice, but it’s not as soft as the other one.” Neither flat nor pliable like Majima’s plain silk patch.
“Eh? I think it’s comfortable enough. Besides, you ain’t the one wearin’ it.”
“No, but I kiss you a lot. I liked the feel of the old one.”
Majima blushes and splutters. “Well—that’s—a convincing argument, Kiryu-chan.” Kiryu’s heart flutters; it isn’t often that he’s the one flustering Majima. He leans in and presses a kiss to the little snake. His hands fuss with Majima’s already-pristine tie, making unnecessary adjustments before settling on Majima’s chest and feeling his ribs expand.
Majima regains his composure and gives Kiryu a smirk. “Easy now, loverboy. You’ll get yer turn later.” He reaches out and grabs the loose ends of Kiryu’s tie around his neck, pulling it off and winding it around his hands. He pulls Kiryu much closer than is necessary or comfortable, turning up his collar and working the tie into a knot. Kiryu’s vest clings to him like a second skin, no buckles needed, the deep gray fabric breathable enough for every touch of Majima’s hands to feel scorchingly hot as he brushes his arms against Kiryu’s chest.
“Ya look so tasty, Kiryu-chan. Makes me wanna say fuck it and spend the rest of the night takin’ this off ya piece by piece.”
“You too, nii-san.” Kiryu’s thumbs trace the jut of Majima’s hips through the fabric—still lean and muscular, but less bony than he’d been a few months ago. Less like a starved mutt, more like a well-loved cat. The tiny part of him that always worries about Majima quiets down, just a bit. The more he looks, the less sure he feels of the patriarch comparison; there’s no gaunt, haggard edge that he’d expect from Patriarch Majima, no menacing energy.
Majima tightens the tie at the base of Kiryu’s neck. He smooths out Kiryu’s collar with a small smile. “There ya go.”
No Patriarch Majima. Just Goro.
Kiryu can’t help himself. He cups Majima’s face and leans in, pressing their lips together and tasting cologne and aftershave and cognac and something fruity like lip balm. Majima makes a surprised noise but doesn’t pull away. He can feel Majima’s pulse hammering away under his fingers.
Majima is the one to break it off. “What the fuck was that for?” he grins, two spots of color high on his cheeks.
Kiryu sighs, a dopey smile pulling at his cheeks. “Just wanted to.”
“Well, don’t start somethin’ ya can’t finish,” laughs Majima, pushing his hips into Kiryu’s before releasing him. “Much as I’d like to bend ya over and go to town, I want ya lookin’ yer best when I show ya off.”
Kiryu lets him go with a flicker of irritation. “You’re really committed to the housewife joke, aren’t you?”
“We can switch if ya want, but I gotta warn ya, Goromi ain’t the domestic type.”
“Why does anyone have to be the wife? Isn’t that kind of sexist?”
Majima puffs up indignantly. “Ya sayin’ I’m makin’ fun of ya? Ain’t a greater honor in the world for a man than a lovin’ wife! Doesn’t that make you the sexist for assumin’ the wife is a lady?”
“What? No!” Kiryu doesn’t know how they ended up here, but he was asked a question, and one of his deepest-seeded instincts from chinpira-hood is always answer a question quickly. “There’s nothing wrong with being a wife…”
“So stop complainin’ and do somethin’ for me for a change! We can argue about this all ya want later, but can ya just be my wife for the evening?”
“Ugh…” Kiryu sighs in defeat. “Got it, I’m the wife.”
Being a trophy husband, Kiryu decides, isn’t so bad.
With nothing to do and nobody in particular to talk to, it’s not hard to attach himself to Majima’s side and politely sip champagne along to Majima’s animated speeches and exaggerated hand gestures. He had forgotten how magnetic Majima could be, despite his entire appearance suggesting the contrary: he’s crass and loud and shady as all hell, but he captures the attention of everyone in the room and loosens tongues and purse-strings alike. It makes Kiryu feel less crazy for being attracted to this hurricane of a man. Even if Majima gives Kiryu a different title with every introduction.
Tonight, he’s been Majima’s personal assistant, secretary, bodyguard, accountant, biographer—pretty much everything except for Mrs. Majima Construction, which Kiryu had shut down the second it had left Majima’s mouth and forced him to take back in front of the bewildered client he’d been talking to.
“That one was even worse than housewife,” Kiryu grumbled, downing the rest of his champagne flute to drown out the embarrassment.
“Sorry babe,” Majima grinned, not sounding the least bit sorry. “I’ll call ya Mr. Majima Construction next time.”
“No.”
Later, when they finally excuse themselves from the party and tumble into a taxi home (which is to say a very long while later), Kiryu’s too drunk to care what Majima calls him. He’s more interested in the way Majima coos his name and puts his grabby hands all over him, aching to touch him without the layers of fabric between them.
“Did I earn that treat?” Kiryu whispers in Majima’s ear.
“Of course,” Majima responds, snaking a hand into Kiryu’s waistcoat and squeezing his pecs. “It ain’t no hardship for me, s’long as I get somethin’ in return.”
Kiryu tries not to sound too petulant when he says: “Didn’t you get enough?”
“Nope! There’s still one more thing I’m lookin’ to get my hands on…” Majima purrs, sliding a hand around his waist and resting it on the crest of his butt. “Kiryu-chan’s fat ass.”
Kiryu huffs a laugh. “I still don’t understand why you like it so much, but sure.”
“I’ll make sure to answer yer question in thorough detail,” Majima says smugly.
Majima’s hand doesn’t leave the small of Kiryu’s back, even as they pass the doorman and snag the elevator. He keeps it there without caring who sees, and instead of embarrassing, Kiryu finds it strangely empowering. Walking around in an outfit of Majima’s choosing, being led graciously around by his hand, makes him feel important.
But that’s probably the booze talking.
Still, Kiryu’s feeling indulgent, and when Majima finally slams the door behind them and kisses him, he melts into it without a second thought. Majima tastes like champagne and caviar, two things he’d never associate with the Mad Dog but, like most things, suit him anyway.
As Majima deepens the kiss, Kiryu tenses on instinct. It takes conscious effort for him to relax and allow Majima to take the lead. He’s never been the passive partner before. He’s never wanted to. Even if he wanted to, Kiryu never thought he could truly let go.
With Majima, Kiryu thinks he could.
Majima detaches himself from Kiryu’s mouth and drags him to the bedroom by the tie, leading him like a dog. Kiryu follows, unhappily remembering why he hates ties. Majima sits him down on the edge of the bed and climbs into his lap, their crotches pressing together as he perches atop Kiryu’s thighs and grins like a cat who got the cream.
A twist of Majima’s fingers loosens the tie around his neck, quickly flung across the room and disappearing into the darkness. Majima hums quietly, showing uncharacteristic patience as he shoves the jacket off Kiryu’s shoulders and starts on his buttons. Kiryu is itching to touch him, feel more of him, but doesn’t know what’s allowed; he snakes his hands around Majima’s thighs to knead the muscles of his ass, eliciting a breathy laugh and a hitch of Majima’s hips. Emboldened, he leans into the crook of Majima’s neck, nibbling at his earlobe and pressing his tongue to the ticklish spot under Majima’s ear. Majima makes a surprised noise and grabs a fistful of Kiryu’s hair, pulling him off.
“Yer real needy,” he says, sounding amused. His fist tightens, yanking Kiryu’s head back and forcing him to make eye contact. “Ya want it that bad?”
Kiryu’s dick jumps in his trousers, a move that Majima almost certainly feels, judging by the way his grin widens wickedly. Kiryu’s not quite ready to swallow his pride, though. “Just think you’re going a little slow, is all.”
Majima tuts. “I bought this suit for ya,” he retorts, smoothing a gloved hand down Kiryu’s front just to watch him shiver. “I can do what I want with it.” His eye flashes and Kiryu involuntarily tenses as Majima’s hands seize the white panels of his shirt. “Unless ya want me to tear it off of ya.”
Kiryu makes a face. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
Majima throws his head back and cackles. “Then shut up and lemme work at my own pace, princess!” Kiryu growls in frustration and takes his hands away to fuss with the buttons himself, but Majima slaps them aside fiercely.
He plants a feather-light finger on Kiryu’s chest and pushes, prompting him down, as if daring Kiryu to resist him or perhaps relishing in his ability to command him effortlessly. With herculean effort, Kiryu shoves down his indignance and follows until he’s flat on his back and glaring at Majima’s stupid smug smirk.
Majima must know Kiryu’s patience is wearing thin, though, because he makes short work of the vest and shirt, peeling the layers back like he’s unwrapping an expensive gift; the gold cufflinks on Kiryu’s sleeves clatter to the floor. He tugs his own tie over his head and casts it aside to join Kiryu’s somewhere in the darkness, rolling up his sleeves as he unzips Kiryu’s pants and takes his cock out. Kiryu’s hips tremble under Majima’s hands, aching for a firmer touch. Majima gives it to him.
With a smile, he bows his head and sucks Kiryu down, burying his nose into Kiryu’s pelvis. Kiryu can’t stop himself from arching his back and moaning as Majima takes him to the base and sucks hard, languorously pulling off and leaving strings of saliva connecting lips to tip. Majima goes back in before Kiryu’s ready for more, eliciting a surprised gasp and an involuntary jerk of his hips. His tongue plays with the weeping head of his dick the way Kiryu likes it; he’s never had sex with someone enough times for them to remember what he likes. Majima’s hands tighten around Kiryu’s ass, digging fingertips in and pulling Kiryu closer as if encouraging him to fuck his mouth.
Of course Kiryu can’t say no to that.
But he starts gentle anyway, rocking into Majima’s hot mouth in small movements so as to not choke him. Majima, of course, is having none of that, and grabs him hard enough for it to hurt until Kiryu starts throat-fucking him in earnest. And Majima makes no secret of how much he likes it, even if the noises he’s making are periodically cut off by cock obstructing his vocal cords. Hot puffs of breath from Majima’s nose tickle Kiryu’s belly, the warmth of his scalp under Kiryu’s clutching fingers reminding him that it’s all real. After years of longing for the touch of another human, there’s one that Kiryu cares a whole lot about lying on top of him, wringing pleasure out of him like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing.
That stupid, romantic thought gets him popping off like a rocket, giving him just enough time to choke out, “Majima, I—” before shooting a load down his throat. Fuck. He thought after a few (dozen) good orgasms he’d be past this.
But the pleased look Majima gives him, face wet with tears and spit and cum but insatiable as ever, is a sight he’s hopelessly hooked on.
Majima pillows his head on Kiryu’s thigh, panting like he’s just won a fight, which, in a way, is true, if his opponent was Kiryu’s penis and the fight was sucking it off. His tongue swipes around his lips, licking up any lingering traces of semen with the refined air of a cock connoisseur. Majima laughs when Kiryu grimaces at him.
“Y’know, the suit was hot, but I think this is yer best look,” he teases.
Kiryu reaches out to swipe a tear away from his eye. “You’ve looked better,” he replies.
“Haw?” Majima looks offended. He props himself up on his elbows. “Ya really gonna insult me to my face? While I got a hard-on and you’re on yer back, all soft and vulnerable?” His erection bobs comically as he crawls up Kiryu’s body and flips him over, pinning him to the bed face-down. Kiryu laughs breathily as Majima tucks his face into his neck, rubbing his scratchy beard all over the sensitive skin and biting the clasp of the chain around it.
“You don’t scare me,” Kiryu says, moaning as Majima moves lower down his body and palms at his ass, the matching necklace under his shirt jingling quietly. “I know how bad you wanted to—ah!” Something sharp pinches his asscheek and he jumps, nearly kicking Majima in the dick. He wrenches his neck back and spots a rapidly-reddening ring of teeth marks on his left buttock. “Did you just bite me?!”
“Heehee,” giggles Majima, licking his lips and not looking the least bit sorry. “Couldn’t help myself. Ya got such a juicy ass.” He squishes his cheek against Kiryu’s…cheek, looking like a man who’s just discovered the world’s best pillow. “Ya said no marks where anyone else could see, so unless yer plannin’ on visitin’ the tanning salon, I figured it was fair game.”
Kiryu grumbles, “But I knew you were about to do it, that time.”
“Ya don’t like it?” Majima asks, looking crestfallen.
“Well—I didn’t dislike it,” Kiryu stutters, feeling his face redden. “It just startled me.”
“So I can mark ya up down there?”
Kiryu sighs. “Fine. But no drawing blood.”
“Yessir!” Majima chirps, shoving his face between Kiryu’s legs like a pearl diver searching for oysters. He latches onto his inner thigh and sucks a pretty bruise into the skin; it doesn’t hurt, exactly, but the tickle of Majima’s beard and undercut is a novel sensation. Mostly, it just makes Kiryu want Majima to touch his dick. But he can wait—especially since Majima seems so happy to leave bites and bruises all over his butt, shedding his clothes as he goes.
It starts to feel good, in its own way; every angry, injured patch of flesh turns tender and warm, making every subsequent touch brighter. Kiryu can feel his cock stirring again, sensing stimulation in the area and wanting some of the attention. He squirms a bit, signaling his impatience. Majima’s thumbs spread him open and Kiryu tries his best to relax.
Only to gasp as, instead of a finger, something warm and soft caresses his hole, working its way gently inside. He can feel Majima’s contented hum rumbling against his ass as he eats Kiryu out. He hadn’t really seen the appeal when he’d done this to Goromi, but as Majima palms his dick and plies him with his lips and tongue, it feels…comfortable. Majima takes the time to unwind him bit by bit—perhaps teasing, but never pushy. He’s putting in the effort to make him feel good, and Kiryu loves it.
By the time Majima pulls back and actually starts fingering him, Kiryu is boneless and relaxed, arousal still present but burning low and unhurried. Unlike last time, he’s prepared for Majima to slide his fingers in and crook them just right, sending a ripple of pleasure down his spine. Kiryu buries his face in the pillow and urges him on with quiet groans and gasps. Majima responds, fucking him faster until he can slide three in and out easily. As Majima withdraws to rip open a condom, Kiryu raises himself to his elbows and knees, giving him a beckoning smile.
If Majima notices the warmth behind Kiryu’s eyes, he covers up his embarrassment with awkward teasing. “Ya ready, Kiryu-chan?” He jokes, patting his ass.
Kiryu’s eyes grow half-lidded, flinty with challenge. “Fuck me already, nii-san.”
Majima growls and seizes his hips, hauling him backwards until Kiryu’s head is buried in his arms and his ass is stuck precariously out. Kiryu laughs lowly as Majima manhandles him into position but oh-so-slowly inches his cock inside. It hurts—more than Kiryu was expecting—but thanks to Majima’s pampering, it’s not difficult to let go of the tension that builds up by reflex. Still, he can’t help letting out a drawn-out moan of nii-san as he’s stuffed with cock, so full he feels like he might split in half. It lights up parts of Kiryu that have never been simultaneously pleasured, like a dimmer switch suddenly turned to its maximum. He pushes back against Majima’s hips, seeking more of it.
Making a choked sound, Majima sneaks his hands around Kiryu’s waist and slowly starts to rock in and out of him. It starts to feel good. It starts to feel amazing. It starts to force totally undignified noises out of him: whines, whimpers, cries. He tries to stuff his face deeper into the pillow, but Majima shoots out a fist that tangles in his hair and yanks him up, preventing him from muffling the sounds.
“Don’t ya dare, Kiryu-chan,” Majima pants, snapping his hips harder. “Lemme hear ya.”
Kiryu’s brain is melting. “It—hah—feels good,” he manages. He lets out a guttural groan when Majima hits his prostate and pulls his hair at the same time, pain and pleasure coursing through his body.
Once Majima seems sure Kiryu won’t try to hide again, he lets go and snakes his hand down to wrap around his cock and there go the floodgates on Kiryu’s voice, if there were any to begin with. It’s deeply embarrassing to hear himself babbling Majima and please and more strung together in various combinations, but the more he talks, the harder Majima fucks him, the faster he strokes him, the tighter he grips him.
“So tight,” Majima hisses. Is that good? Kiryu wonders blearily, the thought slapped out of his mind with the next slap of Majima’s pelvis against his ass. Every thought that isn’t I wanna cum is there and gone in the blink of an eye, the whole world narrowing down to the pursuit of an orgasm. He can feel it pooling in his guts, burning higher and higher. He tightens around Majima’s cock; Majima leans down and bites into his shoulder, nursing the fresh wound with his tongue and drawing a trail up to Kiryu’s ear, where he whispers: “Go on, sweetheart.”
Kiryu shudders and tenses, letting out a high-pitched whine as he bucks into Majima’s hand and cums. His vision goes blank, every neuron in his brain seemingly committed to releasing dopamine into his fucked-out body. He feels Majima groan something that sounds suspiciously like Kazuma as warm spurts of semen fill him up, his hips stuttering. Majima’s nails bite painfully into his flanks, grounding him as he comes down from the high. As soon as Majima slows down, Kiryu collapses onto his face, utterly drained. He feels Majima carefully pull out and step off the bed, padding to the bathroom.
He comes back with a washcloth to clean up, though it doesn’t do much for the blooming hickeys and bites on Kiryu’s ass, which is sore inside and out. He’ll probably regret that tomorrow, but his brain is too blissfully quiet to care. He flops onto his side, avoiding the wet spot of cum on the sheets, letting Majima spoon him.
An arm wraps around Kiryu’s waist and settles on his belly, while another slides under his neck. He’s getting used to being held, but it’s still a feeling that makes his heart skip a beat. The sharp bridge of Majima’s nose presses on the nape of his neck and Kiryu’s chest feels so full of love that it threatens to spill over.
But even if he could say it, the moment feels far too delicate for such a heavy-handed discussion. He’s not—they’re not—much for words.
So he does the next best thing: he takes Majima’s hand and pulls him closer until he becomes a heavy blanket over Kiryu and he can hardly tell where one body ends and the next begins.
“Tryna manhandle me, Kiryu-chan?” Majima chuckles, warm breath ghosting over Kiryu’s sweaty skin.
“Mm.” Kiryu tightens his hold. “Good night, Goro.”
Majima says nothing, but the feather-light press of lips at the base of his skull tells Kiryu everything he needs to know.
Notes:
-I'm a feminist!!! I swear I'm a feminist!! UNLESS it's a big beefy dude with ass and tits
-I've never actually bought any of the yakuza alcohol irl so I have no idea how many it would theoretically take for a dozen roses to fit into those bottles. I just really wanted to include the Courvoisier XO because it's absurdly expensive
-I hope all the bottom!Kiryu fans enjoyed this first foray. More to come :)
Chapter 22: Insomniac
Summary:
He’s starting to think that maybe words just aren’t the right communication method for him. For both of them, really.
Notes:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAJIMA GORO! I was rushing to get this done before his birthday is officially over on AO3, and I made it!! This is a bit of a shorter chapter, but I promise I have longer, better-structured ones in the future.
It's still me, if you're wondering about the username I'm just trying out some changes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Majima gets nightmares too, but he’s too stubborn to admit it.
Kiryu’s not that dense; he knows a fellow insomniac when he sees one. He might be a heavy sleeper, but there’s only so much tossing and turning a man can sleep through. Even on good nights, it’s not unusual for Kiryu to be rudely awakened by a stray elbow or a body right on top of his chest squashing the life out of him. But as the months go by and they spend more time together, Kiryu inevitably gets a taste of the bad nights too.
On the bad nights, Majima jolts awake as if electrocuted, jabbing Kiryu in the ribs or kicking him in the side. Kiryu feigns unconsciousness as Majima lies there in the aftermath, his racing breaths the only evidence of his distress, before rolling over and closing his eye as if nothing had happened. It happens so quickly that by the time Kiryu can think to intervene, he’s settled down again. Majima covers it up so quietly that Kiryu knows it’d be more embarrassing for Majima if he tried to comfort him.
They’ve been getting worse lately. Instead of lying in bed, calming his rapid heartbeat on his own, Majima slips out of the covers in the wee hours, coming back with the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. More and more, Kiryu finds himself awakening to the sound of ragged breathing and stifled whimpers, the sheets tangled around them.
“I’m fine,” insists Majima. “Just somethin’ that happens every now and then.”
Kiryu doesn’t believe him, obviously, but Majima isn’t like Haruka. He can’t rock Majima like a baby and expect that to fix everything. So he waits, trusting that if Majima wants to talk about it, he’ll do it on his own time.
It works for a while—until it doesn’t.
Kiryu wakes up in the dead of night to the sound of sniffles and sobs.
Sitting up in bed, he hardly needs to search for the source: it’s right next to him. A warm body, curled up on his futon, muscles rigid, making sad, muffled noises. A short halo of glossy hair spills over a pillow like India ink. Majima twitches in his sleep like a dog, mumbling half-formed words and breathing quickly.
He doesn’t squirm or lurch like Kiryu does, punching his way through his dreams. Only the quick rise and fall of his chest and stiff limbs betray his troubled sleep, brows furrowed and good eyelid fluttering arrhythmically beside its motionless partner. He sleeps as if paralyzed, struggling to break free.
Enough is enough, Kiryu decides.
“Majima?” He leans over Majima’s tense form, reaching for his arm. “You’re dreaming,” he says, putting a hand on Majima’s bicep.
It’s a foolish move. With a snarl, Majima startles and twists out of Kiryu’s grasp, swinging at Kiryu. Unprepared, Majima’s fist catches Kiryu square in the nose, a burst of pain blossoming between his eyes. Kiryu gasps and releases him, and Majima flips himself over and curls in on himself like a cornered animal. Feeling something wet dripping down his upper lip and onto the sheets, Kiryu belatedly presses the back of his hand to his nose to slow the bleeding.
Majima’s eye is narrowed and wild, caught in the gap between sleep and wakefulness that Kiryu recognizes all too well, mind still catching up to body. When that eye fixes on Kiryu’s face, it goes wide with horror. Majima’s posture slackens.
There must be something in Kiryu’s eyes that makes it worse—the confusion, the hurt that he’s too slow to conceal. Whatever Majima sees, it cuts him like a blade, leaving him stricken and ashamed in a way Kiryu has never seen.
“Kiryu-chan…” he rasps, as if he doesn’t fully believe it. “Did I…?”
“You were dreaming,” Kiryu replies, voice slightly muffled. “I tried to wake you up.”
“I’m—I’m sorry,” babbles Majima, visibly flinching when Kiryu tries to come closer. “You’re bleeding.”
“You’ve done worse, nii-san,” Kiryu jokes, trying to lighten the mood. It doesn’t work. Majima cringes, shying away. He doesn’t know what Majima was dreaming about, but it breaks his heart to see him look so afraid. Afraid of him.
Kiryu senses that some distance would be appreciated. “I’m gonna change the sheets,” he mumbles, clambering to his feet and shuffling to the bathroom to wash away the blood. He turns the light on and winces at the damage—it looks a lot worse than it is, that’s for sure. There’s blood on his chin, on his shirt, the back of his wrist.
Small footsteps approach from behind. “Oji-san, is everything—oh.” Haruka looks at him wide-eyed in the mirror, still in her pajamas. “What happened?”
“Nightmare,” Kiryu replies. “It was an accident. Don’t worry, Haruka. Go back to sleep.” He avoids her gaze, instead fixating on the pink water swirling down the drain.
“Do you need help with—”
“No,” he says, sharper than he’d intended. “Go back to bed.”
Haruka’s face pinches with concern, but she doesn’t argue. “Okay,” she says quietly, disappearing down the hall and shutting her door. Kiryu sighs, already regretting the way he’d spoken to her.
Kiryu bows over the sink, rinsing his face. The blood is long gone, but the disconcerting look on Majima’s face remains burned into his eyes like an afterimage. Stupid of him to think Majima would be comfortable enough to let Kiryu rouse him from an obvious nightmare. Drying his face, he kills the lights and searches the linen closet for a change of bedsheets.
He doesn’t notice that Majima’s gone until he hears the front door click shut.
After that, it’s Majima Nowhere.
Majima disappears from work, always finding some excuse to be away from the site for hours at a time. When he is there, he’s constantly surrounded by workers, and it’s impossible to get him alone. Kiryu’s texts go unreplied. Kiryu’s bento boxes are returned to him untouched, even when he breaks into Majima’s office and drops them onto his desk. One day turns into two, which turns into a week.
Suffice to say, he’s in a rotten mood.
Haruka frowns when Kiryu comes home with another lunch box to shove in the fridge. “Majima-san didn’t eat again?”
Kiryu makes a noncommittal grunt, rolling up his sleeves and donning his apron. With Haruka on summer break, they’ve been cooking dinner together, but it isn’t enough to lift Kiryu’s spirits. He shreds cabbage grumpily, trying hard not to recall the ghost of Majima’s touch over his hands as he showed him how to use a knife.
She speaks haltingly. “Why has he been gone so long? He didn’t mean it, and you forgave him, didn’t you?”
Kiryu shakes his head. “It’s not that simple. I think…” he stops himself, remembering the naked fear on Majima’s face. “...no, I know he’s scared that it’ll happen again. He thinks things would be better if he left.” The words hit slightly too close to home.
Haruka remains silent as she whisks together tonkatsu sauce in a small mixing bowl. After a few moments, she goes still, setting her chopsticks down. “Well that’s stupid,” she says aloud. “That sounds just like you.”
Kiryu winces. “Maybe a little.”
She slams both palms on the counter, leveling a hard stare at him. “You gotta talk to him, Uncle Kaz. Chase him down and fix this.”
“I can’t help him if he doesn’t want to be helped,” protests Kiryu.
“It’s not about what he wants,” Haruka retorts. “He’s one of us now, so he’s getting help whether he likes it or not.”
She’s making the same stormy, determined expression that Yumi used to adopt whenever she came up with a plan—she’d move heaven and earth if she wanted her way done. Kiryu has tried (and failed) many times to dissuade Yumi when she’s in a motivated mood, and far be it from him to get in the way.
So he hangs his head and lets out a long sigh. “What do you suggest, then?”
“When I asked for your suggestions, I meant for Majima, not you,” Kiryu grumbles, already feeling a tension headache coming on from the blaring futuristic music and flashing lights around them. Did Club SEGA make them brighter recently?
“It’s all part of the plan, Uncle Kaz,” Haruka replies brusquely, making a beeline for the UFO catchers and pressing up against the glass in front of each. She narrows her eyes at the Kitty Kats and Chestnut the Squirrels critically. Kiryu has no idea which of the prizes she’s collected—only that she has a lot of them—so he doesn’t bother trying to guess.
To his surprise, she does a double-take and stops at a machine piled high with Bun-chan plushies, a variety that Kiryu knows for a fact that she has collected in full. But on further inspection, it’s not hard to see why: nestled inside is the biggest Bun-chan he’s ever seen, wedged between an entire flock of its smaller sisters. Slopes of fallen toys surround it, as if many others have tried and failed to extract it from its perch.
“Oji-san, can I have some coins?” Haruka asks, eyes trained on the Bun-chan in a way that says I want that and I will not be moved until I have it.
Silently resigning himself, he fishes a few hundred-yen coins from his pockets and leaves her to it. Since he’s here, he might as well take his mind off things for a little while, so he plays a few games of MesuKing while he waits. It’s significantly less fun without the cards, he finds. Haruka comes back a few times, requesting more coins and looking slightly more aggravated with each approach, but he knows better than to get between her and her prize.
A while later, he hears her cheering from halfway across the room, chuckling to himself as he finishes a game of Virtual-On and wanders back. Haruka grins and brandishes the newly-liberated Bun-chan while several of her other hard-won prizes look on impassively.
“Good job,” Kiryu comments. “Don’t you already have a Bun-chan, though?” It’s a ratty little pink thing, probably needs washing, but it’s her favorite toy by far.
“This one’s different.” She tucks it under her arm like a big white basketball, turning to meet his eyes. “Uncle Kaz, promise me you’ll talk to Majima-san tomorrow,” she says seriously. “Tell him you’re going to help him, and don’t let him get away.”
“What?” It takes a moment for Kiryu’s brain to catch up. “That’s your suggestion?”
“Yep!” She wiggles the giant Bun-chan at him demonstratively. “And if you chicken out, Bun-chan’s gonna get it.”
Kiryu gapes at her, scandalized. “You wouldn’t…”
“Yes I would.” With her pointer finger, she draws an invisible line across the sparrow’s thick neck. “Do it, oji-san.” It’s not a suggestion, it’s a damn hostage negotiation.
Well, fuck. Kiryu grimaces. He looks the poor Bun-chan in its big, beady eyes. “Fine.”
The next day he marches down to Purgatory.
In the end, he doesn’t even need to put the screws to Nishida to find out where Majima’s hidden away. From his weary, exasperated expression, Nishida seemed about ready to tell Kiryu himself. Of course he’d be holed up in some basement.
Kiryu storms through the empty hall and makes his way to the giant house at the end of the street, barging right in without knocking.
Majima sits at the Florist’s old desk, bathed in artificial light, shadows from the fish tanks dancing over his silhouette. The desk is strewn with papers, some of which have tumbled to the floor several meters away. He freezes like a deer in headlights, looking strangely shocked to see him.
“Kiryu-chan,” he says dumbly. “What are ya doin’ here?”
Kiryu’s nostrils flare in irritation. “You know why I’m here,” he says, keeping his voice even.
Majima meets his eyes guiltily. Even the fish look unimpressed as they fix their lifeless gazes on the intruder. “I do,” he agrees.
“And? Care to explain why you’ve been avoiding me for the past week?” Part of him desperately wants to escalate to a fight—bring them back to familiar territory. He does his best to ignore it. “I was worried,” he adds.
Majima seems to deflate at that. “Of course ya were.” He sighs, scrubbing his face with his hands. “Kiryu-chan…you and I both know I ain’t cut out for this domestic shit.”
“Huh?” Kiryu frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Ain’t it obvious?” Majima barks, suddenly looking agitated. “It’s been fun, but have ya forgotten who I am? A fuckin’ patriarch! Member or not, I ain’t exactly housepet material.”
Kiryu shakes his head. “That’s completely untrue. You were yakuza. I was yakuza. We’ve made it work, and I won’t sit here and let you tell me that my life is worse with you in it.”
“Ya say that now, but you’ll be sayin’ somethin’ completely different the next time I fuck ya up just ‘cause I was havin’ a stupid nightmare.” Majima shoves himself out of his chair, pacing.
Kiryu follows his path with his eyes. “Majima, I have nightmares. Haruka has them too. I’m not mad at you for what happened. It was my fault for waking you up like that.”
Majima whirls on him, glaring. “It really wasn’t, Kiryu-chan. I hurt ya.”
Kiryu scoffs. “That wasn’t even the first time you hit me. You never had a problem with it before.”
“That’s different,” Majima insists.
“Different how? I don’t see it.”
Majima makes a frustrated groan. “It just is!”
Kiryu considers. There’s definitely more to the story here, but it seems unlikely he’ll be able to get it out of Majima like this. Last time was just like this. I’m fine, Majima said, and there wasn’t a word Kiryu could say that would make him change his tune. He’s starting to think that maybe words just aren’t the right communication method for him. For both of them, really.
It’s time to switch up the game.
So he balls up a fist, darts forward, and uppercuts Majima in the jaw. With a startled squawk, Majima stumbles back, eye wide. A livid patch is already blooming on the edge of his face.
“There. Now we’re even,” declares Kiryu.
Majima sways on his feet, dumbstruck. For a moment, Kiryu worries he’s made a grave miscalculation.
Then, Majima vaults over the desk with an inhuman shriek, fisting his hands in Kiryu’s shirt and headbutting him hard enough to see stars. Kiryu stumbles but stays on his feet, wrenching Majima’s hands away and twisting at the waist to throw him off. Majima rolls gracefully and closes in before Kiryu can fully recover with a series of jabs and elbow strikes to the body. Grunting, Kiryu takes the first several blows but manages to put his arms up in time to absorb a finisher that would have knocked him down, countering with a knee to the gut that sends Majima staggering back a step.
He feints left and dodges right, getting a couple cheap shots in before Majima dances out of reach and retaliates with a kick that forces Kiryu to roll out of the way lest he take a steel-toed shoe to the temple. Seizing the opportunity, Kiryu charges, tackling him into the wooden desk in a shower of crumpled papers. The massive desk shudders but, miraculously, does not topple. Majima wheezes, caught between the unyielding wood surface and Kiryu’s crushing weight, thrashing wildly. Majima stabs a sharp elbow between Kiryu’s ribs and slaps him in the face with a stapler as he struggles to pin Majima down. Growling, Kiryu grabs his stupid construction helmet by the side strap and slams his head into the desk with a loud bang, mashing a palm into Majima’s good eye, repeating the motion over and over until the floor lurches unpleasantly under him, wobbling beneath his feet.
Disoriented but clearly not incapacitated, Majima kicks Kiryu in the balls hard enough to make him suck in a breath and drop like a sack of potatoes, rolling away and collapsing to the floor. His attempt to say “What the fuck, Majima?” escapes as a incomprehensible, pained whine. Meanwhile, Majima seems to be faring no better, lying half-slumped across his desk and gasping like a fish out of water.
When the pain ebbs from excruciating to an acceptable horrendous, Kiryu’s other senses begin to return: first a blinding light, then an intolerable heat. He pries his eyes open and squints, the image of the Florist’s wall of monitors gradually focusing. That would also explain the warmth. He gingerly rolls to a sitting position, careful of his bruised jewels, mustering the strength to prop himself up against the desk. Majima, groaning, droops and slides down the side of the desk to join him, a scribbling of angry red marks peeking through the hannya’s pale skin.
Kiryu stares at the blue flashing screens in confusion. “Did I…?”
“Ya triggered the elevator,” Majima pants, clutching his stomach. “Probably tripped the switch when ya were bashin’ my head in.”
“Oh.” He briefly considers apologizing for adding to Majima’s already-long list of concussions, but the smarting of his poor cracked nuts makes him think better of it.
Majima sticks a finger in his mouth, wiggling it around. “I think ya knocked a crown loose,” he says.
“Well, I think you castrated me,” Kiryu replies sourly.
Majima cackles. “Aw, Kazzy baby, I wouldn’t do that. I got a personal investment in those boys.”
“Let me get a shot on you and we’ll call it good.”
“Hey, c’mon now, ya wouldn’t kick a guy while he’s down, would ya?” Majima pouts, gesturing to himself. If Majima is trying to make himself look spent and pathetic, it’s not working; he’s always looked best like this, debauched and daring Kiryu to go in for round two. Barely a week apart and Kiryu already wants him so bad it makes him look stupid.
Kiryu sighs, resting his head against the wood with a dull thunk. “Well, I hurt you. I hurt you real good. Do you feel better now?”
“A real fight with Kiryu-chan always makes me feel better,” Majima says lightly. When Kiryu turns to glare at him, Majima lets out a huff of laughter. “S’like I said. It’s different.”
“Different how? I never did get an explanation.”
Majima wriggles uncomfortably, his helmet making it impossible to lean back the way Kiryu can. Kiryu slings an arm around Majima, dragging him down until his head rests on Kiryu’s shoulder.
“Yer too soft,” Majima murmurs. At first, Kiryu almost thinks he’s making a casual comment, but then Majima continues: “Someday I’m gonna hurt ya in a way that matters. I’m gonna break yer big squishy marshmallow heart.”
“Isn’t that how relationships work?” Kiryu asks. “I know you could.”
“Ya don’t get it.” Majima pinches his eyebrows together. “When I hit ya, the way ya looked at me…reminded me of somethin’. A bad memory. It’s all shit that I’ve been hidin’ from ya.”
“I don’t think you’ve been hiding anything from me,” Kiryu protests. “We all have things we’d rather not talk about. You don’t have to tell me, just let me help.”
“But I do. I can’t just not say anythin’. You’d hate me if ya knew.” Majima fidgets with his gloves, pinching the leather at his fingertips and flexing his fists to make it creak.
“So you’re saying there’s something I should know about you?” Kiryu reaches around to unbuckle the strap of Majima’s helmet, sending it clattering to the floor as he pushes it off his head. He slides his fingers through his sweaty undercut, eliciting an appreciative rumble. “I don’t see how that could make me hate you.”
“Of course ya don’t,” Majima answers easily. “Ya got no idea what it is.”
“Maybe not, but I still care about you. What you’re going through right now worries me more than anything in your past ever could.”
Majima groans, stuffing his face into the crook of Kiryu’s neck as if he can disappear under the collar of his jacket. “Too sweet. Yer givin’ me cavities.”
“Well, since you already owe the dentist a visit…”
“Shuddup.” He thumps a fist against Kiryu’s chest weakly.
“I mean it, though. I won’t rush you. But if you ever disappear without telling me again, I’m chasing you down myself.”
Majima huffs. “I won’t.”
When Kiryu comes home, bedraggled but with Majima in tow, Haruka takes one look at them and guesses exactly what went down. Even as she sighs disapprovingly at them, she greets Majima warmly and leaves out the lecture.
“I kept my promise,” Kiryu tells her.
“You did,” Haruka agrees. “Bun-chan lives…for now.”
“What promise?” Majima asks.
Haruka brightens. “Uncle Kaz promised he’d find you and fix things. Which means…” As if just remembering something, she turns and sprints to her room, coming back with the giant Bun-chan in her arms. She thrusts it at Majima, grinning. “Bun-chan lives!”
“Haw?” Majima tilts his head, gingerly taking the bird and turning it over in his hands. “Is this for me?”
“Of course! I already have all of them.”
An unreadable expression passes over Majima’s face. “Well, thanks, Haruka-chan. How come, though?”
Haruka puffs up proudly. “When I have a nightmare and Uncle Kaz isn’t around for me to hug, I hug my Bun-chan plushie until I feel better. It really works. And since you don’t like being hugged by Uncle Kaz when you have a nightmare, I thought maybe a Bun-chan of your own would help. I got the biggest one they had!”
“Which you proceeded to hold hostage until I promised I’d make up with Majima,” Kiryu adds. “You didn’t tell me that was part of the plan.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” she says, putting her hands on her hips and turning to Majima. “Do you like it—oh.” Her eyes go wide. “Majima-san, are you crying?”
“No,” Majima sniffs, his eye shining.
Notes:
-My inspiration for this fic: I was thinking about how Kiryu and Majima would deal with each other's nightmares, and after reading a lot of fics that involve one of them waking the other up from a bad dream, I thought, "Is that actually a good idea?" and the answer to that is NO! Kiryu is a trained professional demonstrating what happens if you try to wake up someone who's having a nightmare. Don't do this.
-I wonder what "bad memory" Majima was talking about...many choices, but I'll let you pick ;)
-I don't know how big the biggest Bun-chan in the game actually is, so I took some artistic liberties. Let's just say she's big enough to hug
Chapter 23: Bath Time [E]
Summary:
Kiryu likes baths.
Notes:
I tripped and fell on my keyboard and I didn't have anything better to post so I guess you can have it
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Kiryu likes baths.
There’s something so therapeutic about soaking away the troubles of the day in a bathtub: a little slice of peace for himself when life just won’t give him a break. Their apartment has a heated tub in the bathroom, and it’s hard to resist falling asleep when the water’s always warm. It’s an important step in his bedtime ritual, and it’s perfect to help wind down.
But it’s a small tub, and sometimes he misses the days when he went to the public bathhouse with Nishiki and got to stretch his legs out in a huge pool of hot water. They didn’t have tattoos back then, so they blended in with the civilian crowd easily. He knew he’d be giving that up when he got inked, and he wouldn’t trade his dragon for the world, but it’s always there in the back of his mind when his knees ache after keeping them bent for too long in the bath or goosebumps prickle over his skin when he dries off.
So when Majima suggested they sneak down to Purgatory for a quick soak over their lunch break—funny business optional—Kiryu caved embarrassingly fast.
Thankfully, Purgatory is completely deserted when they visit; the only illumination in the cavernous tunnel come from strings of lanterns that cast everything in an eerie red-tinged haze. On either side of the path, the small rivers normally lit by neon-colored lotus lanterns reflect the light weakly.
“Where is everyone?” Kiryu asks.
Majima shrugs. “Even illegal adult playgrounds have to close sometimes,” he replies mysteriously, only solidifying Kiryu’s suspicion that this whole affair was premeditated.
He leads them along the main drag until they approach a house that looks indistinguishable from its neighbors, proclaiming it to host the most luxurious bath in Kamurocho (not that Kiryu was about to dispute him). In contrast to the usual noren allowing free entry, metal grates have been pulled down to bar the doorway. Majima produces a comically large keyring from his jacket, cursing as he tries one after another in the tiny lock.
Kiryu surveys their surroundings—partly out of curiosity, but mostly out of paranoia that they’re about to be ambushed from the darkness. Without the warm light spilling from its blinds, inviting patrons to stop and rest their weary heads on the laps of its many beauties, the brothel wouldn’t look too out of place in a horror movie. He’s never actually paid the prostitutes a visit; the way the women cooed onii-san at him from behind the wooden lattices, looking more like caged birds than escorts, always made his skin crawl. That, and he’s certain the Florist would’ve videotaped whatever went down. But the Florist isn’t here now, and Majima already spies on him everywhere he goes, so there’s no reason not to check it out. With a triumphant cheer, Majima hefts the gate up and ducks inside, Kiryu close behind.
At the back of the house, far away from the rooms, they find a pair of doors leading to changing rooms. As they slip off their shoes and enter the door labeled Men, Kiryu can hear the distant sound of water sloshing around. He notes, with a bit of disappointment, that everything looks rather ordinary: shelves of wicker baskets lining the wall for patrons to place their clothes, a row of sinks, a large sliding door that presumably leads to the bath.
Unceremoniously, Kiryu shrugs off his jacket and starts on his buttons, just as he would before a bath at home. He can feel Majima’s gaze burning a hole through him, and while the attention does feel good, it’s hard not to fry in the spotlight. Majima whistles appreciatively when Kiryu drops his trousers.
Kiryu shoots him an amused look. “You’ve seen me naked before. It’s nothing special.”
“Haw?” Majima squawks, outraged. “Nothin’ special? You’re a fuckin’ hunk!” He flings his gloves into the basket in disgust. “Ya got some balls to say that shit.”
“You think I’m handsome, Majima?” Kiryu teases, tugging off his briefs. His ears burn, but he can’t stop a smile from spreading on his face.
Majima’s mouth opens and closes, starting and stopping about five different sentences. “Well, yeah,” he finally admits, cheeks dusted pink. He fiddles with his eyepatch, held limp in his hand, fixing his eye on anything but Kiryu.
With Majima’s attention elsewhere, Kiryu allows his eyes to wander Majima’s body. The true curve of his waist is revealed by the absence of the snakeskin, and from this angle, he sees the stark border where ink meets skin.
Kiryu thinks he is beautiful. He probably would have said that last year as well. There’s no other word for the way Majima moves.
Kiryu laughs. “I think you’re handsome too, nii-san.”
Majima looks up, utterly nonplussed. Not for the first time, Kiryu sees the appeal of making Majima flustered. He should really do it more often. “O-oh. Thanks.”
Now completely nude, he gives Majima a friendly pat on the shoulder as he makes for the bath entrance, leaving him to peel himself out of his leather trousers. A great gust of steam greets him as he steps inside.
He has to admit: it really is a nice bath. The floors are covered in dark, spotless tiles, the chrome taps polished to a shine. Mirrors and showers line both sides of the room, concealed lights beneath them bathing (heh) the place in a warm glow. A tile mosaic occupies the entire far wall, depicting four ornately-dressed courtesans kneeling in a tatami room playing a game of fan-toss. A small pool (or rather, a large bath) occupies the center, the water shimmering and steaming invitingly. Kiryu notes that both dressing rooms appear to open to the same bath, no divider separating the genders like a public bathhouse would have. It is that kind of place, after all.
He makes his way to one of the showers, sits down on a stool, and turns on the tap. The water warms quickly, and he soon busies himself with the process of washing up with the brothel’s jasmine-scented soap. He bends over the drain, washing his hair, when the dressing room door opens and Majima pads toward him, buck naked and whistling a jaunty tune. Filling a bucket, Majima pulls up a seat at the shower next to Kiryu’s and upends it over his own head, spluttering like a wet cat. Kiryu chuckles at the sight of Majima’s hair plastered to his skull like a bowl.
“How did you find this place?” Kiryu asks.
Majima shakes himself like a dog, scattering droplets everywhere. “I like to poke around when I’m bored,” he says. He slicks his hair back, reaching for the shampoo dispenser and working some into his scalp.
Kiryu ponders his answer for a moment, picturing Majima prowling his way through the darkened halls like a horror-film murderer. Somehow that seems more plausible than him strolling through the front door as a patron, but he’s still curious. “Have you ever been here as a customer?”
“Why d’ya ask? Are ya jealous?” Majima teases, grinning.
“No,” Kiryu replies honestly. They’re too old for Kiryu to entertain the delusion that Majima wouldn’t have tried a brothel at least once or twice.
Majima scrutinizes his expression, searching for an emotion that isn’t there, then sighs dramatically. “You’re no fun,” he complains. He reaches for the shower head, rinsing his hair. “But nah. S’bad enough the Florist was keeping tabs on me in public—the last thing I needed was him leakin’ my sex tape.”
Stiffening, Kiryu looks around for hidden cameras. “Are there really…?”
Majima watches him squirm a bit, then cracks, giggling. “If there are, I ain’t found ‘em yet,” he says, which does nothing to reassure Kiryu in the way he’d hoped. He can’t shake the feeling of unease as he rinses himself off.
“What’s wrong, Kiryu-chan?” Majima asks slyly, leaning in. “Ya worried there’ll be a video of you and me gettin’ naughty in the bath? Our own passionate manly bathhouse battle?”
Kiryu scowls. “If there’s a recording of this, you’d better delete it.”
The rest of the suds go down the long drain at his feet. He stands up, pushing his wet hair back into its usual shape, and heads for the bath.
“Aw, not even a copy for the spank bank?” whines Majima, calling after him. “I’d be for my eye only!”
Kiryu ignores him. He carefully steps into the bath, finding it to be as warm as an onsen. Sinking onto the bench, he lets out a contented sigh as the water engulfs him. He can already feel his stiff joints starting to loosen as he stretches his legs out in the large, luxurious bath. The water smells faintly like perfume.
Majima joins him, submerging himself with a similarly-satisfied rumble. He sidles right up to Kiryu, slouching until only his head sticks out of the water. Eyepatch off and hair swept back, Kiryu has a rare unobstructed view of Majima’s blind side, with its mole and patch-shaped tan line. They’re close enough for their hips and knees to barely brush, and even that much contact feels electric. Surprisingly, Majima doesn’t say anything—just closes his good eye and relaxes, leaning into Kiryu ever so slightly. Kiryu, of course, lets him.
Truth be told, he hadn’t really expected Majima to take him to a real bath; being lured into a deserted area by Majima is a mistake you only make once. Or twice. Or maybe thrice. Or maybe Kiryu still hasn’t learned his lesson and he’s about to become an unwilling cast member of Passionate Manly Bathhouse Battle!: Part 2. He definitely doesn’t see any incentive to follow his more practical instincts now that there is, indeed, an actual bath to be had.
Maybe a bit more, if he’s lucky.
“This is nice,” Kiryu comments. The tension in his muscles has completely unwound, and at this point he’s leaning on Majima just as much as Majima’s leaning on him.
“Mm,” agrees Majima. He cracks his eye open, pinning Kiryu with a mischievous look. One that says: We doing this?
Kiryu meets it with a small smirk. Might as well.
That arresting eye crinkles at the corner. Majima says: “I can think of somethin’ that would make it better.”
Moving smoothly through the water, he swivels his legs and scoots until he’s right in Kiryu’s lap, looping his arms around Kiryu’s shoulders. Kiryu sighs, relieved and already half-hard, resting his hands on Majima’s waist.
“Was this your plan the whole time?” Kiryu asks, pressing his fingers into the firm muscle of Majima’s abdomen. The skin feels softer and smoother under his fingers than usual—maybe it’s the bath salts. Majima preens, grinding his hips into Kiryu’s thighs.
“What, can’t a guy do somethin’ nice for his boyfriend?” Majima’s smile widens as he feels Kiryu’s dick twitch in response. “There’s more than one way to relieve the tension, big guy.”
Kiryu huffs out a laugh. “I don’t know about that. I think you’ll have to convince me, nii-san.” He lifts a hand and takes Majima gently by the chin, drawing him in.
His lips part for Majima’s tongue, the familiar rasp of facial hair against his sending shivers down his spine. Puffs of air from Majima’s nose tickle his cheek as he licks into Kiryu’s mouth. Kiryu loves the feel of Majima’s soft lips and whiskered jaw, drinks him in like he’s drowning. Majima nips at him playfully, catching his lower lip between his teeth until it’s red and swollen. His breaths deepen when Kiryu sneaks a hand between his legs and gives his cock a slow stroke, hips rocking foward. Majima’s nails dig into Kiryu’s shoulders, leaving little red crescents in their wake.
Kiryu shifts to take both of them in hand, pumping them together and enjoying the slick slide of their foreskins. Majima gasps, breaking away and burying his face in the crook of Kiryu’s neck, sucking bruises into the skin. His other hand draws a trail down Majima’s colorful back to squeeze his ass, teasing at the cleft. The steam and the warm lighting give the outline of Majima’s body a hazy, dream-like appearance. At this rate, he might overheat.
“What do ya want, baby?” Majima purrs into his ear, squeezing him with his thighs. “Tell me.”
Kiryu’s face heats, mind wandering. Majima’s cock stands at attention, Majima himself making little needy sounds as Kiryu palms him absently. It would be nice to get Majima on his back and take him right here, or have Majima fuck his face, or just frot like this. But tempting as all of those options are, there is a particular encounter that’s been on his mind lately—something that’s been keeping Kiryu’s restless dick occupied on lonely nights.
“Can you fuck me again?” Kiryu blurts out, his horniness temporarily overpowering his embarrassment.
Majima freezes and pulls back, his pupil blown wide. His thumb strokes Kiryu’s cheekbone in wonderment as a smile grows on his face. “Yer wish is my command,” he says. He abruptly slides off of Kiryu’s lap and hauls himself over the edge of the tub. “Hold on a sec.”
Kiryu, confused, watches him make a beeline for the towel rack at the dressing room entrance. Majima’s hard dick bobs up and down as he squats down to inspect the bottom shelf, rummaging through a basket that Kiryu had missed when he walked in. He makes a triumphant noise, popping up and carefully trotting back to the bath with a tube of lubricant in hand. He ungracefully throws himself back in, sending water sloshing over the sides. Noting Kiryu’s quizzical expression, Majima shrugs and says, “It’s that kinda place, ain’t it?”
Next, he bullies Kiryu into position, turning him around and pushing him until he’s bent over the side of the bath, ass exposed to the air. The lip is generous in width, making it easy to lean his weight onto his elbows, but the hard tile definitely won’t be comfortable for long. Kiryu’s too turned-on to care about that just yet; he gasps as Majima’s hand squeezes his ass and pushes back impatiently.
Majima chuckles, pressing a kiss to Kiryu’s asscheek while he pops open the lube and drizzles a generous amount over Kiryu’s tailbone. It’s warm, either from Majima’s hands or the water, and the addition of Majima’s finger working its way inside him is just what Kiryu needs. He can’t help but let out a pleased sigh as Majima stretches him open, free hand unabashedly feeling up his backside. Kiryu’s dreamed about this—not this exact scenario, obviously, but the image of Majima’s fingers inside him had crossed his mind many a night when he was trying to get himself off. The sigh turns into a yelp, however, when the fingers curl inside and rake over his prostate. This part, Kiryu’s never quite been able to replicate on his own.
“So cute,” Majima coos, his hand making obscene noises as it scissors Kiryu’s hole. Kiryu shivers—whether that’s from the cold water rapidly drying on his skin, or from the praise, he doesn’t know. “So needy, Kiryu-chan.”
Kiryu moans, hanging his head and shoving his hips back. “Nii-san…just—mmh—please.”
“Use your words, baby.”
Kiryu grits his teeth. “Fuck me, please.”
The fingers retreat; Kiryu startles at the sound of splashing, turning his head to see Majima pulling himself out of the water to sit on the edge of the bath.
“Come here,” says Majima, coaxing Kiryu to straddle Majima’s lap. Kiryu perches on his knees to avoid putting his full weight on him, but it’s a precarious position. His hands instinctively grab Majima’s shoulders, searching for balance.
Kiryu looks down, a little too afraid to free up a hand. “How do I…?”
Majima grins. “Gonna make ya work for it, Kiryu-chan. Lemme get ya started.” He takes his cock in hand and guides it towards Kiryu’s ass, pushing the blunt head against his entrance. With a twinge of embarrassment, Kiryu understands what’s being asked of him.
Blushing, Kiryu carefully lowers himself onto Majima’s cock. Although relaxed, he still has to make an effort not to tense up as the uncomfortable stretch gives way to a low burn. It’s almost more than Kiryu can handle. It takes what feels like hours to fully seat himself, but Majima doesn’t push him, doesn’t do anything but hold Kiryu by the waist and bury his forehead in his chest.
Kiryu’s already breathing hard, but he knows he’s been given control and instinctively wants to please. Using Majima’s shoulders for leverage, he lifts up and drops down, a spark of arousal flickering in his pelvis from the pressure. He does it again, faster this time, and the spark becomes a flame. Feeling slightly more confident, he begins chasing it in earnest. He rocks his hips and arches his back, as he rides Majima’s dick, mashing Majima’s face right into his tits. Majima seems to have no complaints.
When Majima lets out a low growl and brings his hips up to meet Kiryu’s downstroke with a loud smack, Kiryu’s whole body lights up. A whimper escapes him and he clutches Majima’s shoulders tighter. They find something really good, a rhythm that knocks the breath out of Kiryu and causes Majima’s breaths to speed up, tickling the skin of Kiryu’s belly. His dick is so hard it hurts, and if he could speak he’d beg Majima to touch him. But he can’t, so the most he manages is a pathetic whine.
Of course, Majima gets the message anyway. “Not yet, baby,” he pants, digging his thumbs into Kiryu’s hips. “You’re doin’ so good.”
Ah. Kiryu likes the sound of that.
“Liked that, eh?” Majima teases, no doubt detecting the way Kiryu clamps down. He attaches his mouth to Kiryu’s nipple and sucks it. “Gonna be a good boy for me?” He bites down, stamping a bright ring of teeth marks around Kiryu’s areola.
Kiryu gasps loudly at the sudden pain, fingers digging into Majima’s shoulders hard enough to bruise. “Yes…nii-san…”
His thighs are burning, but he keeps going, the need to cum suddenly becoming secondary to the need to be a good boy. Vaguely, he thinks that he should probably be embarrassed by the noises coming out of him, but Majima doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, his thrusts become harder the more Kiryu cries out.
He nearly weeps with relief when Majima grabs his leaking cock, jerking him off with rough strokes. It’s almost, almost, too much—but it’s not, because Majima seems to know his body better than Kiryu himself.
“Say my name when ya cum?” Majima wheedles, color high in his cheeks and eye half-lidded.
“Ah—” Kiryu tenses all over, so close to breaking. “G-Goro,” he chokes out, the rest dissolving into fucked-out nonsense as he paints Majima’s abdomen with streaks of cum. Majima makes a wounded sound as Kiryu tightens around him, burying his face in Kiryu’s chest with a low chant of Kazuma, Kazuma, Kazuma and finishing inside. Kiryu holds on for dear life as his muscles go loose, and Majima keeps his arms firmly locked around Kiryu’s waist. The sound of their breaths is barely audible above the rippling water.
Finally, face still stuffed in Kiryu’s tits, Majima mumbles, “Kiryu-chan, I’m beggin’ ya…if that got caught on camera, please let me keep it.”
Kiryu sighs, already feeling the deep crease between his brows returning. He considers the ramifications of Passionate Manly Bathhouse Battle!: X-Rated Edition falling into the wrong hands, weighing it against the pitiful droop of Majima’s shoulders. He supposes that, on the saucy-calendar-to-porn-video scale, a low-resolution CCTV capture isn’t too crazy. “...Fine,” he grudgingly agrees. “One copy. For personal use only.”
“Yer the best,” Majima breathes, hugging him tightly. “No fuckin’ way am I sharin’ it with anyone else.”
“Mm.” Kiryu shifts uncomfortably, the ache of his knees on the tile becoming more and more apparent as the afterglow fades. “Can I get up now?”
“I suppose,” huffs Majima, reluctantly letting go. Unfortunately, as easy as it had been for them to get into this position, getting out of it might be an entirely different matter. With the bath behind him and the hard floor below him, it’s obvious which direction is the preferable one to dismount, but either plan would first require severing their…attachment.
So Kiryu begins the onerous process of extracting himself, lifting carefully up to let Majima’s soft dick slide out. He had not, however, anticipated that Majima would jolt at the sudden stimulation, briefly knocking Kiryu off balance. Struggling for purchase on the slippery stone, Kiryu gasps as he falls backwards, instinctively latching onto the closest object—that being Majima—and yanking them both into the water with an undignified squawk and a splash of hot water.
Momentarily dazed by the impact, Kiryu rights himself and pops his head up, completely soaked. Majima is faring no better, sodden hair covering his eyes like a blindfold. He parts it like a curtain, peeling it aside to expose his good eye.
“Well, s’better than fallin’ the other way and bustin’ your skull on the floor,” Majima quips.
Kiryu grunts noncommittally and sloshes his way to the edge of the tub, grimacing at the unpleasant sensation of cum dripping down his leg. He hauls himself out and makes directly for the showers again, hoping to rectify the situation. He tries not to look too envious at Majima, who needs only rinse off his front—a trivial task, as the bath had already done a good job blasting everything off. Guiltily, Kiryu hopes the bath is disinfected regularly.
Majima looks over at him. “Probably should’ve grabbed a condom,” he says sheepishly. “Sorry.”
Kiryu shrugs; he can’t honestly say he regrets it. “It’s fine. At least I don’t have to walk around like that afterwards.”
“Don’t give me any ideas,” warns Majima. “You’re makin’ it sound hot.” He cackles when Kiryu makes a face.
Kiryu gives himself one last rinse with the spray before turning it off and reaching for his towel. There’s a new ache in his hips that makes itself apparent as he’s drying himself—one that would best be suited for a different bath with fewer distractions.
Back in the dressing room, he checks himself in the mirror and sighs at the fresh bruises on his neck, another forming a cheeky collarette around his nipple. Unhappily, he does up an extra shirt button to conceal the worst of it.
“Kiryu-chaaaaaaan,” Majima whines, grabbing his attention. “Help me get these on.”
He’s sitting hunched over on a changing bench, his leather pants pooled around his ankles and seemingly unwilling to climb higher. Kiryu rolls his eyes, but makes his way toward him.
“Don’t you get hot wearing these in the summer?” Kiryu asks, straightening the cuffs as Majima tugs at the waistband. When he almost kicks Kiryu in the face, Kiryu growls and grabs Majima by the ankles, holding him still.
“Like ya wouldn’t believe,” grunts Majima, all the while squirming more than a worm on a hook. Kiryu belatedly notes Majima’s underwear: a lacy thing in an eye-watering shade of neon green. “They make my ass look great though.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Kiryu lies.
Majima huffs. “Not everyone can be blessed like you, Kiryu-chan! Ya could wear a fuckin’ rice sack and still rip a hole through it with all that ass.”
“It’s not that big,” grumbles Kiryu, face reddening.
“It’s huge,” Majima corrects, finally pulling his pants up. Kiryu lets go of his legs, allowing Majima to swivel off the bench and spring to his feet. “Don’t ever change it, Kazzy,” he purrs, giving Kiryu’s rear a loving pat that gets swatted away.
Straightened out and once again presentable, they go back the same way they came, winding their way through a maze of hallways before popping out on the main strip. Kiryu checks his watch, his eyes widening at the time. “Uh…do you think we’ll still have time to eat lunch after that?” As if on cue, his stomach rumbles, demanding to know what’s taking so long.
“Haw?” Majima pulls out his phone and swears loudly. He grumbles, but begrudgingly says, “you can have an extra fifteen minutes for lunch. But just this once!”
“Just this once,” Kiryu agrees. “Thank you for bringing me, nii-san,” he adds, squeezing Majima’s hand. The bright glow from the subway entrance grows closer and closer.
“Er—sure thing, Kiryu-chan,” Majima stammers, blushing. It’s quickly replaced by his default shit-eating grin, his tone turning light and playful. “Feel free to call me up any time ya need some…stress relief.”
Kiryu chuckles. His whole body hurts, but it’s a pleasant ache. “I’ll be expecting something different next time. There’s more than one way to relieve tension, or so I’ve heard.”
Notes:
-There was, in fact, a camera
-Unfortunately, Majima didn't find the feed until long after the footage had overwritten itself
Chapter 24: Haruka's Bicycle
Summary:
“You can teach her how to smash a bike over a guy’s head, and I’ll be in charge of showin’ her how to ride the damn thing. How about that?”
Notes:
I apologize for the long wait! Life got in the way and I agonized over this chapter for way longer than I should have. I'm still busy at the moment and have plans to focus on side projects, so future chapters may take longer than usual.
I hope this chapter makes Yakuza 0 substory music start playing in your head.
Edit: The wonderful InternetDoctor has made an illustration!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Ouch!” Haruka hisses, snatching her hand away from the edge of the tamagoyaki pan where her fingers had gotten close enough to brush the hot metal. She drops the handle with a clatter.
Kiryu looks up at the commotion, attention momentarily diverted from the arduous task of chopping green onions. Abandoning the cutting board, he brushes a few stray bits of onion on his apron and ambles over to check on her. “What happened? Are you okay?” He refrains from asking follow-up questions, such as: Should I take over for you? Do you need a bandage? Are you grievously injured?
Crowding next to Haruka at the stove, they inspect the damage: a small, angry mark on the side of her thumb. Feeling slightly foolish, Kiryu reminds himself that he’s received worse injuries during street fights—yes, burns included.
“I’m fine, Uncle Kaz,” Haruka says dismissively. “I was holding the chopsticks too close and accidentally touched the pan.” As if to demonstrate her physical fitness, she returns her attention to the eggs sizzling in the square pan, picking up the handle and tilting it just enough for the cooked egg sheet to tumble and form a lopsided but unmistakable roll. “See? I’m getting better at it.”
Kiryu spares a smile for her newest attempt at tamagoyaki, despite his worry. “It looks great, Haruka.” He barely stops himself from adding be careful next time.
“Once I’ve got the eggs down, I can make you a whole breakfast!” she beams, pouring more egg mixture into the pan. On the adjacent burners, a pot of miso soup quietly simmers and two steaming salmon fillets rest in a skillet. All of these Haruka had prepared with minimal assistance from Kiryu, only allowing him to help with minor tasks like chopping onions and beating eggs.
She’s been gradually demanding more independence this summer, from household chores to errands. Cooking is only one of her latest interests, and while a part of Kiryu will always chafe at the idea of his child taking care of him, he’d never deny her the chance to learn a useful skill. When she goes back to school, he’ll take over the kitchen like always, and she’ll start making the trip to and from school on her own. Then, she’ll probably go to a junior high school in another neighborhood and take the train, and then she’ll likely get into a high school that’s further still. And then…
He banishes that train of thought from his head. Not even a year with Haruka in his care and he’s already thinking about how fast she’s growing. He’s beginning to understand why Kazama had so adamantly steered him onto a different path, then been so furious when he and Nishiki had defied his wishes anyway.
So yes, he might be a bit overprotective. It’s for her own good.
However, he will admit that Haruka does a damn good job of cooking salmon. The fish is grilled to perfection, soft but flaky under his chopsticks with a crisp sear. The miso, savory but light enough for a morning meal, pairs readily with the lightly-sweetened egg roll. It’s a simple but heartfelt breakfast, and Haruka visibly revels in the praise he gives her.
So when she springs her request on him halfway through his food, he’s simultaneously stung that she thought he’d be more suggestible on a full stomach and begrudgingly impressed that she was correct.
Haruka sets down her chopsticks and folds her hands in her lap, making eye contact. “Oji-san, can I have a bicycle?” she asks, but it’s phrased less like a wish and more like a courtesy.
Kiryu pauses with a chunk of fish halfway to his mouth. “A bike?”
“To ride on,” she clarifies, which could be interpreted as insulting to anyone who actually used a bicycle for its intended purpose. However, to Kiryu, who has never used a bike properly in his life, it’s a necessary distinction. “Yesterday I ran into Ikematsu-san while I was taking out the trash.”
Kiryu squints, trying and failing to assign a face to the name.
“Our next-door neighbor,” she explains, noting his puzzled expression. “She said she was cleaning out her storage unit and found her son’s old bicycle and asked if I wanted to have it. I told her I’d have to ask you first.”
“Oh.” He sets his chopsticks down. He’s not against the idea, but his brain is still processing the information. “I didn’t know you were interested in a bike.”
Haruka shrugs. “Well, I’d been thinking…since you’re worried about me walking to school by myself, why not ride a bike instead?”
Before Kiryu can respond, she hurriedly continues: “It’s faster, so I wouldn’t be out for as long! And if anyone wanted to kidnap me, they’d have to chase me first.”
Kiryu distinctly recalls her last three kidnappers using cars to abduct her. Not to mention negligent civilian drivers, who could just as easily run her off the road. Once again, he questions his decision to let her walk alone in the first place. What was he thinking?
But of course, when Haruka finally mutters, “I really want it,” all his protests die on the spot. As she’s grown more comfortable in their home, she’s come to want many things—but all of those are ultimately trivial. This feels important. This is a request for independence.
He couldn’t possibly deny her.
“You make a good point,” he says, pretending to think about it. “Alright.”
Haruka lets out a held breath, relief washing over her face. “Thank you, oji-san.”
Kiryu’s mouth involuntarily twitches with a smile. “Is that why you insisted on making breakfast by yourself today?”
“Maybe a little,” she admits. “But I also wanted to see if I could do it.”
“And you’ve proven to me that you can,” he replies, popping the last bite of his salmon into his mouth. “Can you ride a bike, too?”
Suddenly she shrinks, looking sheepish. “Well, about that…” she sucks in a breath. “I’ve never actually ridden a bike before.”
Kiryu’s heart drops. Oh no. She’s going to ask him.
“Do you think you can teach me, Uncle Kaz?”
Uh oh.
Kiryu freezes. “I…don’t know how either.”
“...So that’s why I need your help,” explains Kiryu, standing before Majima’s desk. His face reddens, scowl deepening. “Stop laughing.”
“I can’t—I can’t, with ya,” Majima wheezes, clutching his stomach. “How many times have ya hit me over the head with a bike? And now you’re tellin’ me ya don’t know how to use them the right way!” Dissolving into another fit of giggles, Majima plants his forehead into the desk, thumping the surface with his fist.
“We never had bikes at Sunflower,” Kiryu says defensively. “And then I joined the yakuza, and nobody ever rides bikes in the yakuza because it makes the whole clan look stupid.”
If anything, that just makes Majima howl louder. Stewing in embarrassment, Kiryu waits until Majima’s laughter subsides somewhat. “Are you done?”
Majima finally picks up his head, swiping an imaginary tear from his eye. “You are too precious, Kiryu-chan. Hopeless.”
Kiryu grits his teeth. “I’m aware.”
Majima grasps at Kiryu’s sleeve, demanding he come closer. “C’mon, I’m just fuckin’ with ya. What kinda nii-san would I be if I didn’t help ya out?” Kiryu reluctantly gives Majima his hand, which he pats and kisses in apology like a prince. A really ratty, sketchy prince, but it gets a blush out of Kiryu nonetheless.
Kiryu sighs, relieved. “Thank you.”
“You can teach her how to smash a bike over a guy’s head, and I’ll be in charge of showin’ her how to ride the damn thing. How about that?”
“Fine, as long as you agree to be the test subject.”
Majima perks up. “Really? Fuck yeah!” His expression grows dreamy. “Ah, I remember the first time ya hit me with a bike. That was some hot shit.”
“Please don’t say anything like that around Haruka.”
“Tch. You’re no fun.” A mischievous grin spreads across his face. “What do I get in return?”
“The opportunity to participate in a childhood milestone,” Kiryu replies flatly. When Majima pouts, he amends: “I’ll make you lunch. Your choice.”
“Hmm…” Majima taps his chin, pretending to ponder it. “I’m in the mood for eel.”
Kiryu raises his eyebrows. “Eel? Expensive taste.”
“The cost of knowledge. Hell, I’ll even let ya take her here to practice,” Majima drawls. He kicks back in his chair, propping his heels on his desk. “We got a deal or not?”
Kiryu rolls his eyes, swatting Majima’s feet until he reluctantly swings them off and sits upright. A smear of dirt sticks to an important-looking document with a CONFIDENTIAL watermark stamped across it.
“It’s a deal,” Kiryu agrees.
Kiryu’s been working at the construction site long enough for the towering skeleton of Kamurocho Hills to blend into the surrounding skyline—but Haruka hasn’t, so her gasp of surprise when he brings her by on Saturday catches him off-guard as well.
“You work up there, oji-san?” she asks in amazement, gaping at the giant web of concrete and scaffolding that now occupies West Park.
“I spend most of my time on the ground,” he hedges, embarrassed. It’s true; very few Majima Construction employees have the self-preservation instinct to be allowed on the upper floors, not that Kiryu really needs to. Most of the sabotage attempts come from ground-level, though there have been instances of vandals slipping past and scaling the structure (which had led to some interesting accident reports). By law, they’re required to report any injuries that happen on-site, but are they really to be held responsible if a trespasser just happens to accidentally slip and fall from three stories up, fracturing several vertebrae? As their lawyers have argued, to great success: no.
At any rate, Haruka still wrinkles her nose when they enter the men’s bathroom, wheeling her bike past the stalls. Kiryu holds the door open for her.
They find Majima crouched in front of his office, smoking a cigarette. He perks up when he sees the door open. “Haruka-chan!” he crows, stubbing out his smoke and rising to his feet leisurely as if he hadn’t been waiting specifically for them. “And Kiryu-chan’s here too, I guess.”
“Morning, Majima-san,” Haruka replies shyly. Kiryu knows better—he can see the excitement in Majima’s eye and the restraint in his gait as he approaches, even though they just saw each other yesterday. Majima stops short just a few paces in front of him, making a show of stretching his arms. If Majima had a tail, he’d be wagging it.
So Kiryu closes the gap and gives him a peck on the lips, complete with a tiny smooch sound. The smell of Hi-Lites clings to Kiryu’s mouth when he pulls away. “It’s nice to see you, Goro,” he says.
Majima sways on his feet, his eye saucer-wide. Haruka smothers a laugh behind her hand.
After a moment, his frozen expression snaps, replaced by a furious blush. “What the fuck was that?” he growls.
“Just saying hi,” Kiryu says innocently.
A strangled noise comes out of Majima’s mouth. “You are so—unbelievable.” He pointedly turns his back on Kiryu, directing his attention to Haruka. “Ya didn’t see that, okay?”
Haruka’s eyes go big. “Didn’t see what?”
“Atta girl.” He pats her on the head and casts a surveying glance over her bicycle. Kiryu didn’t dare tinker with it, clueless as he was with bikes, but he’d brushed the dust off and pumped air into the tires ahead of time. Though old, the bike’s white paint had held strong, and as far as Kiryu could tell, all the parts still worked.
“Could use some decoration,” Majima muses, “but we can fix that later.” He scans Haruka up and down. “Where’s yer PPE?”
Haruka tilts her head. “Peepee…?”
“Here,” cuts in Kiryu, showing Majima the bag of accessories he’d brought along. He produces a bicycle helmet, along with elbow pads, knee pads, wrist pads, and a comically overstuffed first-aid kit. Haruka accepts the helmet without complaint, but her mood visibly sours when Kiryu hands her the knee pads.
“I don’t wanna wear the pads,” Haruka grouses. “They look stupid.”
“They’re not supposed to look cute, they’re supposed to protect you,” Kiryu replies, calmly repeating the argument they’d had before.
“I’m almost ten! I’m not going to die just because I scraped my knees.”
“I’d rather you didn’t get scrapes in the first place.”
“I’ll be fine! I don’t need to be bubble-wrapped like a little kid.”
“It’s not bubble-wrap, it’s just a bit of protection.”
“Ugh…” Haruka growls in frustration. She throws a helpless look at Majima, who had politely backed away from the conversation and seemed content to let them squabble on their own. “Majima-san, will you help me?”
Majima startles like a cornered animal. “Haw?”
Kiryu scowls. “I think Majima would agree with me, actually.”
They both turn and stare at him expectantly. Majima’s eye darts between them, his posture stiff and ready to bolt. “Why are ya both lookin’ at me?”
“You’re the only one who can help us settle this,” Kiryu says. Haruka puts on her biggest, wettest eyes, silently pleading.
“I didn’t ask for this!” Majima shrieks. He pinches the bridge of his nose and screws his eye shut, mumbling, “Ya gotta be fuckin’ kidding me…”
Groaning loudly, he finally opens his eye. “Fine. How about Haruka-chan wears the pads…” Haruka’s face falls, “...until she’s able to balance on her own,” he finishes.
“Deal,” Haruka says, ignoring the disgruntled expression Kiryu levels at her and Majima.
“You were supposed to take my side,” Kiryu grumbles.
“Ya put me in a no-win situation!” Majima yells.
“Can you guys fight after we’re done?” Haruka asks, buckling her helmet and beginning the arduous task of strapping the hard-shelled pads to her arms and legs. “Help me put these on, oji-san.”
Momentarily cowed, they both shut up and crouch down to assist.
Once Haruka is suitably outfitted, Majima walks her through the parts of the bicycle, showing her how to pump the brakes, guide the wheels, and even replace a slipped chain. Of course, Majima being Majima, he peppers in “fun facts” of dubious veracity and legality.
“And that’s how ya take off the wheel,” he says with a smile, detaching the front tire from the frame in seconds. “They don’t go for much, but if ya don’t have time to steal the whole thing, they’re the next best parts.”
Kiryu sighs. “Nii-san, don’t teach her how to steal.”
Haruka nods seriously, undeterred. “Majima-san, how do you break a bike lock?”
“Haruka!” Kiryu scolds.
Lifting a hand to his chin, Majima hums. “Bolt cutters, mostly. But it’s more trouble than it’s worth, ‘cause there are a lotta idiots who just leave ‘em out for anyone to steal. Right, Kiryu-chan?” He grins.
Kiryu looks away, ears reddening. “It’s not stealing,” he mumbles. “I put them back.”
“Yeah, in a million pieces!” Majima cackles. “Get off yer high horse, Kiryu-chan, you’re no better than a bike thief.”
Kiryu grumbles but concedes defeat. “Still, no stealing bikes,” he repeats stubbornly.
“Yeah, yeah,” Majima drawls. “C’mere and grab the other side for me. Haruka-chan, hop on.” Majima stands next to the bike and holds onto its right handlebar as he flips the kickstand up, gesturing for Kiryu to take the other. As Haruka clambers onto the seat, Kiryu and Majima hold fast, keeping her upright.
“Now pedal,” Majima orders. “Go slow, now.”
Haruka takes the handles and starts to move her feet, the two of them walking alongside her as she trundles along. They carve a straight path from one end of the construction site to the other, aiming for the chain-link fence on the far side. She wobbles uncertainly, but between both men, they easily steady her.
“You’re leaning to my side,” Kiryu tells her, gently correcting the list of her bike.
“Easy does it,” says Majima. “When we get to the fence, pump the brakes.”
Though she stumbles a few times, they make it there without incident. Majima orders Haruka to turn around and head straight back to where they started, and so it goes until eventually Kiryu and Majima are hurrying to keep up and applying less and less force to keep her upright.
By noon, they’re all sweating and Haruka can do a straight lap with only the occasional stumble. Of course, she falls a couple of times, but thanks to Kiryu’s safety precautions she always gets up, no worse for wear.
Kiryu sighs, looking up at the sun and feeling sweat bead at his collar. “Why don’t we break for lunch?” he suggests.
Seeking shade, Kiryu doles out their lunches and shyly describes the food as they open their bento boxes. “Simmered anago and kabocha with rice,” he says, with a gesture at the main compartment: golden fish fillets and squash chips sit atop a bed of white rice, drizzled with mirin and sake sauce. He points out the side dishes, pointing to one—“Pickled cucumber and myoga,” and then the other—“salted edamame.”
It’s simple compared to past meals, and it doesn’t even feature any new cooking techniques, and it really shouldn’t be a big deal, but damn it if he doesn’t feel a little rush of pride every time Haruka and Majima hastily blow through the thank you for the meal routine and plow into the food he made like starving animals.
“It’s delicious,” Haruka says, cheeks stuffed with fish and rice. “What fish did you say this was?”
“Saltwater eel,” replies Kiryu. “It’s a bit different from unagi.”
Haruka hums thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anago before. It’s less greasy than freshwater eel. I like it.”
“More sustainable, too,” Majima adds, working through his meal at a slightly more measured pace. “Unagi population’s plummetin’ from overfishin’ and climate change.”
She nods, looking solemn. “I guess being environmentally conscious applies to food, too.”
Kiryu frowns at him. “Nii-san. Time and place.”
“What? I’m just bein’ honest!”
“You’re the one who asked for eel in the first place! What would you have done if I’d made unagi instead?”
Majima pauses. “I would’ve eaten it and then lectured ya on its environmental impact.”
“You’re such a hypocrite.”
“There’s more than one kind of eel I’d put in my mouth,” Majima teases, wiggling his eyebrows. “Maybe—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” Kiryu hisses, glancing over at Haruka.
Quietly, Haruka sighs and picks through her food as they continue arguing.
After a satisfying meal and a few cold drinks (beer for the adults, water for Haruka), they return to their lesson with renewed vigor.
“I think yer ready for the real thing,” Majima declares. “This time, ya ride by yourself, no hand-holdin’.”
“Really?” For the first time, Haruka looks nervous.
“You can do it,” he says matter-of-factly. “I know ya will.”
Kiryu frowns. “Nii-san, what if she falls?”
Majima waves him off. “Let her fall! Kid’s gotta learn somehow.”
“But—”
“I’ll do it,” Haruka replies, steel in her voice. “Let me try, Uncle Kaz.” She swings her leg over the frame and sits down.
Kiryu falls silent. “...Alright,” he reluctantly agrees, though worry continues to prickle at him.
“Hardest part is gettin’ started,” Majima says, circling around until he’s behind Haruka and the bike. “So let’s give ya a boost!” he hollers, planting a steel-toed foot against the cargo rack mounted above the rear tire and pushing.
Haruka yelps at the unexpected motion but pedals, and miraculously holds steady for a few seconds before tipping over and falling to the ground.
“What the fuck was that?” Kiryu snaps at Majima, jogging over to her.
“I toldja you could do it!” he calls, strolling towards them at a much more leisurely pace.
Haruka turns to glare at him, unharmed. “Was that really necessary?”
“When you’re movin’ that fast, ya gotta be prepared for anything!” Majima chirps, pulling the bike upright. “And now ya know what it feels like to ride on your own.”
Kiryu pinches his brows. “Nii-san…”
“Look me in the eye and tell me that ya wouldn’t have jumped in as soon as she started,” Majima says sternly. “Ya gotta stop coddlin’ her or she’ll never get it.”
Kiryu lets out a long and tired breath. “I know,” he admits. “But don’t do that again.”
With an indignant huff, Haruka takes the bike from Majima and hops back on. Pushing off the ground, she manages to roll a few meters before losing balance and sticking out a foot to catch herself. Kiryu watches her struggle and concedes that maybe, just maybe, Majima was right about the difficulty curve.
After a few agonizing attempts, Haruka whoops in excitement as she finally nails the timing and balance; pushing off with one big burst of energy, she coasts along the concrete in a steady line, legs held stick-straight.
“You’re supposed to pedal!” Majima yells.
“I can’t!” Haruka cries, keeping her feet away from the pedals as if she’s afraid to touch them. “I keep losing my balance!” She pumps the brakes and skids to a halt, turning the bike around. She pushes off again, paddling weakly back to them.
“Stop flailin’ your legs,” Majima says, turning her around. “Take it easy.”
She hesitates, looking to Kiryu—for what, he doesn’t know. He tries to look reassuring. “You’ll be fine, Haruka.”
One more time, she pushes off, gingerly folding her legs to place her feet on the pedals. She pedals slowly, putting just enough effort to keep the bike moving and upright. She straightens in her seat, picking up speed.
Kiryu sees the moment that it clicks for her: holding the handlebars perfectly parallel to the ground, she smooths out the shakes in her posture before she even consciously notices them. Her outline recedes from them, and Kiryu feels an soar of relief.
“Uncle Kaz, I’m doing it!” she squeals.
“Go, Haruka!” he yells back, beaming.
“Told ya she could do it on her own,” Majima says, a tinge of pride in his voice.
Haruka’s voice grows smaller in the distance as she careens toward the fence. “Wait, how do I brake again?” she says in alarm, before promptly crashing into the wall and landing in a heap.
“Are you okay?” Kiryu calls, but she’s already struggling to her feet.
“I’m fine!” Haruka replies. She rights herself and pedals back, a big smile on her face. “Majima-san, did you see that?”
“I sure did,” he grins. “I knew ya had it in ya. Good job.”
Haruka visibly brightens at the praise. “Thank you for teaching me.”
Majima looks taken aback. “What’re ya thankin’ me for? This was all you.”
Haruka rolls her eyes. “Sure, Majima-san. Uncle Kaz, can I take off the pads now?”
Kiryu eyes the scrapes on the plastic doubtfully, but concedes. He did agree to compromise, after all. “Okay.”
As soon as he says it, she rips off the velcro around her elbows and knees, tossing them into a pile. “I wanna practice steering.”
Kiryu and Majima sit on the office steps and watch her pedal in ever-widening circles around the concrete expanse, sharing a cigarette. Sighing, Majima stretches his legs and passes over the smoke.
“Sorry about earlier,” Kiryu says, pinching the filter between his fingers and taking a drag. “You were right.”
Majima gives him a strange look. “Eh?”
“I was being overprotective,” Kiryu clarifies. “I don’t always agree with your methods, but you were right to push her harder.”
Majima visibly relaxes. “S’what I’m here for, ain’t it? You’re the helicopter dad, and I’m the kyōiku mama.”
Kiryu raises a brow, amused. “You, a kyōiku mama? Since when have you cared about Haruka’s education?”
“It’s about the methods, Kiryu-chan!” Majima drawls, snatching the cigarette back. “The kyōiku mama is always pushin’ her kid to do better, right? It’s for their own good.”
Kiryu smiles shyly. “Do you really feel that way? Like you’re a parent to her?”
Majima freezes, smoke halfway to his lips. “Well—not exactly…” he flounders, reddening. “It’s hard not to feel invested…but it’s not like I’m her dad or anythin’! I just…”
Kiryu sighs. “I’m glad,” he interrupts. He pulls up a knee and rests his chin on it, giving Majima a soft look. “I’ve always wanted you to feel welcome around us, nii-san. You’re part of our family too. If you want to be, of course,” he adds hurriedly, averting his eyes.
Majima is silent. When Kiryu finally plucks up the courage to look him in the face, he’s wearing a pensive expression Kiryu only sees when he’s recounting a bad memory. He knows better than to point it out.
“I always wanted a family,” Majima muses. “A real one.”
Very slowly, very carefully, Kiryu reaches out and lays a hand over Majima’s, cigarette still smoldering between his gloved fingers. “It’s yours if you want it.”
Majima turns his hand, grinding the stub into the metal step with a hiss. Then, he flips his palm, lacing their fingers together.
“Ack!” A shriek snaps both of their heads toward Haruka, tumbling ungracefully to the ground with a rattle of metal.
Kiryu is on his feet in an instant. “Are you hurt?” He starts in her direction, belatedly noticing that he hasn’t let go of Majima’s hand and Majima hasn’t let go of his. So he drags them both along until they’re knelt at her side, inspecting the damage.
“I’m okay,” she says, sitting up with a wince. A fresh set of scrapes adorn her knees, angry and red. “Ow…”
“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Kiryu says, getting to his feet.
As he goes to fetch it, he hears Majima talking to Haruka. “Why don’t we call it a day?” he asks her. “I’m starvin’.”
Haruka sighs. “Me too.” In a stage-whisper, she adds, “Uncle Kaz said he’d make katsudon if I could ride on my own by the end of the day.”
Kiryu startles. “You weren’t supposed to tell him that!” he huffs, sprinting back with the bulky box under his arm.
“Bribery! Ya stacked the deck on me!” Majima shrieks, outraged. “No faith in yer nii-san at all!”
Kiryu dodges a punch. “It was just an extra incentive—ow!” He nearly drops the kit when Majima’s fist connects with his bicep. “You’re not getting dinner if you keep hitting me,” he glares.
Majima grumbles but relents, plopping down at Haruka’s side and rooting through the first aid kit as Kiryu sits down. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” Kiryu asks Haruka.
“I scraped my hands a bit, but I don’t think they’re bleeding,” she says, showing him a few pink abrasions on her palms.
“Hm.” He digs through the box for suitable bandages, finding them all slightly the wrong size, then giving up and settling for gauze and tape. “Those scrapes are a bit too big for the regular plasters.”
Haruka sighs dramatically, then jolts with a squawk of pain. “That hurts!” she hisses at Majima, who’s ripped open an alcohol wipe and is dabbing at the raw skin on her other knee.
Majima snorts, holding her knee firmly to prevent any escape as he picks at any debris clinging onto the scrape. “And that’s my fault somehow?”
Kiryu snaps out of it, turning his attention back to the task at hand. With a smear of antibiotic ointment, he sticks on a square of gauze and tapes the edges down. On the other side, Majima winds a compression bandage around Haruka’s leg, securing the edge with a small piece of tape. Haruka eyes both dressings critically. Kiryu’s looks noticeably slapdash compared to Majima’s, to his embarrassment.
Haruka frowns at Majima. “How come you never patch yourself up this nicely?”
Majima laughs. “Ya pick up a thing or two from the people who do it for ya.” He gets to his feet and extends a hand to help her up. Kiryu collects the wrappers and starts to gather the rest of their things. “My kyoudai’s kid sister always fixed us up after scraps, and every time she said it was the last time she’d do it.”
Kiryu snorts. “That was Yumi, for us. She was a bit nicer about it, though.”
Haruka shakes her head. “Boys are dumb.”
“No kiddin’.” Majima bounces on his heels impatiently. “Hurry up, Kiryu-chan! I’m hungry!”
Rolling his eyes, Kiryu shoves his bulging tote bag into Majima’s arms. “Pull your weight, then.”
Haruka gingerly, exaggeratedly, tests out her weight on the superficially-skinned knees. “I think the bandages will come off if I walk on them too much,” she says, giving Kiryu a meaningful look.
Kiryu sighs, but can’t suppress a long-suffering smile. “If you wanted me to carry you, you could’ve just asked.”
“You picked up on the meaning, didn’t you?”
He crouches, showing his back to her and allowing her to clamber on. “It’s the principle of the matter, Haruka.” Kiryu hefts her slightly to test the weight and finds her just a bit heavier than the last time he’d picked her up, the realization tugging uncomfortably in his chest. He dreads the day Haruka no longer wants to be carried home—or worse, the day he finally grows too frail and weak to hold her.
Haruka turns her head at Majima, beckoning imperiously at him. “Majima-san, bring my bike,” she demands.
Majima bristles on instinct at the order, but instead of snapping or pouting, just rolls his eyes and plods over to the bicycle still lying on the concrete, hefting it upright. “Ya raised a real princess, Kiryu-chan.”
“I think she gets it from you, actually.”
Majima throws up his hands—well, a hand, as the other one is occupied. “Who knows? Maybe she got it from both of us!”
“Hooooome,” Haruka moans, nudging Kiryu’s side like a horse. “Hungry. Home now.”
Kiryu turns and starts on the long journey home. “You heard the princess. Let’s go home, Goro.”
Majima goes quiet, cheeks turning pink. “...Yeah, okay. Home.”
Shouldering their respective burdens, they walk with the sun warming their faces, casting long shadows on the pavement.
Notes:
-This whole chapter stemmed from me going "wouldn't it be funny if Kiryu, the bike-thrower, doesn't actually know how to ride a bike" and spiraled out of control
-Anago is a great summer food! What Majima says about it is true, unagi are overfished :(
-Haruka is so, so tired of the arguing. Don't worry about her innocent ears, she dissociates the moment they start getting into it
-I debated about keeping the part where Majima shoves her, but then decided that yes, it's the kind of asshole move he would pull
-"kyōiku mama" = mother who pushes her children to succeed in school. The idea of Majima being that kind of mom is funny to me
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