Chapter Text
The room’s spinning— so when Kiryu says to get comfortable, Majima takes the suggestion. He flops back in bed as Kiryu vanishes into the bathroom. His legs hang over the edge and he grounds himself on the floor. After a long exhale, he shuts his eye.
Majima takes in the noises of their hotel: a running faucet; Kiryu fiddling with stuff on the bathroom counter; traffic from the expressway, creeping inside past the whoosh of the window air conditioner.
The bedspread cools his sore and lightly-scalded back. He flattens his palms on its threaded surface, scratching a fingernail over the ridges of embroidery. They’ve been here so many times that he can picture the pattern with his eye closed.
His knee pops as he slides a foot over the flatweave carpet. He winces.
Gettin’ too fuckin’ old, Majima thinks to himself. How the hell do those martial arts geezers do it? Legs feel like crusty rubber band— no snap in 'em.
Goin’ soft, too? He sours at the thought. Half the night, Kiryu’s been playing with his hair and kissing him and trying all sorts of other nonsense. Trying his patience with that precious bullshit.
Been a fucking blast otherwise.
Time flies with Kiryu. It feels like they've only just checked in— but the cab brought them here hours ago.
Hell, Kaz, ya even made the cab ride fun.
Majima gathers his package in one hand and holds it against his body.
The night’s no longer anywhere close to young. They stagger out to the avenue for a cab. Majima chats with the driver and then they load into the back seat. The engine sputters, turns over, and roars to life.
Once the car is moving, Majima slides next to Kiryu. After looking him up and down, he clicks his tongue.
"Those bar bastards hardly worked ya over at all."
He grabs Kiryu by the thigh. "Lucky I'm here to pick up the slack." Leaning in, he touches his lips to the shell of Kiryu's ear. His voice is a seductive snarl: "Y'know where we're going, after all."
He feels a shudder pass through Kiryu's brawny thigh. Kiryu's staring at his lap like it's a problem; Majima, of course, is happy to lend a hand.
"Excited, huh?" he purrs. "I can read ya like a book, Kiryu-chan."
The cab rolls to a stop at an intersection; red light filters in from the tinted windows. Kiryu looks him in the eye and swallows mutely.
"Ya got every reason to be jazzed—" he tickles the tuft at the end of Kiryu's chin— " 'cause I'm about to be real good to ya."
Kiryu smoothes a palm over the fabric of his trousers where Majima's hand had just been.
"Majima…" he starts. The cab begins to move and turns onto a darker road. Kiryu's features disappear as they slip into the shade.
Whatever thought he was starting, Majima hushes. "Don't worry, Kaz— I'll keep it in yer pants. For now. Driver's no worse for it, and he's happy with the fat tip I gave him. But,"
He runs his hand up the curve of Kiryu's dick, and squeezes.
“I'm gonna need more than just a tip to be happy."
Kiryu's hand balls into a fist.
Majima loves this game, but only if Kiryu wants to play; Kiryu doesn't always care for the idea of an audience. Majima lightens up on him. "We don't gotta do anything ya don't want to, got it? Call it quits, any time."
Kiryu nods a quick and eager response. "Yeah. Same for you." He grinds into Majima's hand, stirring to life against his black glove.
Majima grins wickedly and rewards him with pressure.
"Yer such a fuckin’ treat, Kiryu honey."
He reaches into Kiryu's deep-collared shirt and draws tantalizing circles over one nipple. Kiryu grits his teeth— fighting to keep quiet— but throbs with appreciation.
"Holdin' back on me, Kaz?"
His fingers stop teasing and start pinching. "Y'know I ain't gonna hold back on you."
Kiryu curses— "Ah, fuck—" as the fingers twist.
Majima ups the ante. He sinks his nose into Kiryu's long sideburn and fills his ear with whispered obscenity.
"When we get there, I'm goin' straight for that sweet dick. I'm gonna swallow you down to the balls, every thick 'n' tasty inch. Gonna suck you 'til ya bust in the back of my mouth."
He feels up Kiryu's hardening dick, pressing, teasing. Hoping it sets off the same fireworks in his gut that Kiryu's touches do for him. "I'm gonna lap you up like a fuckin' milkshake. Ya want that, big guy?"
Kiryu doesn't try to hide his growing bulge— only huffs, "I want it."
Majima's practically jerking him through his pants. Kiryu lolls backward on the head rest, panting humid breaths at the roof. Majima goads him on. "Yeah, that's it… That sound nice, babe? Some first-rate cock lovin'?" He nips the soft skin of his earlobe and clutches at his dick. "I make good on my threats, don't I?"
Kiryu strains in the brutal grip; some exclamation— surprise, enthusiasm, pain, maybe all three— dies as a gurgle in his throat.
Majima leans back to admire the fruit of his labor. This one's a real masterpiece: bands of street light flick over Kiryu's face in the dim cabin; he looks as turned on as he sounds, glowing beneath a sheen of sweat.
Warmth spreads in Majima's clenched belly. His cock twitches against supple leather.
"Ya get me so hot, Kiryu baby," he says— and means it.
Majima squeezes himself. He bites his lip, feeling the rush of blood, remembering the heat and constraint during their time in the backseat. He rubs at the base of his dick— just a little, just to kill time— and he remembers more:
Majima flicks the end of Kiryu's belt out of its loop and starts on the buckle. His other hand stays glued to Kiryu, keeping him distracted as the belt comes undone. He adds an extra dash of nasty to the mix: "I'm gonna play with yer ass just the way ya like it."
With a trick of his thumb, he unbuttons Kiryu's pants.
"Gonna getcha nice and slippery, and then I'm gonna fuck yer juicy little asshole."
He pulls the zipper and snakes inside. Kiryu gasps as Majima finds bare skin; his hands crush the edge of the seat cushion.
Majima growls at his ear. "I'm gonna fuck you deep. Make ya hard as a rock…"
He massages Kiryu in his hand, pushing, pulling.
"Gonna let those tight buns a-yours squeeze me 'til I pop. Then I'm gonna flip you over and suck ya dry."
Kiryu's already a rock.
It's a challenge to grab him still— no spare room in those pants. Majima pictures how good it's got to feel being Kiryu right now. He pictures roles reversed: his dick in Kiryu's hand, and getting wrung the fuck out. World-class manhandling— the sort that only Kiryu can provide.
Majima isn't feeling too soft, either.
Not then, not now.
Instead of springing him out, Majima lets go. Kiryu hisses through his teeth at the loss. Majima teases him— "Hey stud, save it for when we get there—" but makes a promise. "Soon. I'll give it all to ya real soon."
Kiryu grunts, scraping for the brainpower to respond. He adjusts himself and, after a sulking moment, zips his pants.
Majima sits back, watching cars shoot past them on the expressway. The driver took it nice and slow, as arranged. He hears the rustle of cloth and metallic clink of Kiryu fastening his belt.
Majima smirks out the window while Kiryu's eyes burn him from behind.
The cab drops them at the hotel. Majima swipes them into their room. Kiryu shuts the door behind them— then Majima pounces.
Fresh air churns from the window unit, but beneath the wafts of cigarette and soap, the room still smells like sex. All together, it's the smell of a night with Kiryu drawing to a close.
Been a whole night, though. What a fuckin' workout.
He pumps his dick, and his dizzy head floats in the clouds.
Further up the bed, and despite Kiryu's efforts to towel up, the rumpled sheets are still soggy— the spot where Majima made good on his threats.
Most of them, anyway.
Kiryu was a hot mess— ready to blow his load as soon as Majima got him down his throat. He was a mess while Majima worked him back up for round two, moaning his way through the rimming, the fingering. A mess as Majima put him on all fours and stuck it in.
That Kiryu was virtually cool and collected next to this one.
Kiryu struggles against the wobble in his limbs but keeps his ass in the air. Majima spanks him, and Kiryu lets out a throaty ‘yes.’
He shoves himself backward on Majima’s dick. “More,” he pants, meeting each thrust with sheer enthusiasm.
Majima nearly slips out. He digs his fingers into Kiryu’s hips, holding him in place for the second he needs to push back in. He masks his amusement behind a sterner voice. “Keep bumpin’ around like that and ya won’t have any.” Majima swats him for good measure, adding another red handprint to the round of his ass.
Kiryu whines— at the warning or at the spanking, he isn't sure. “Majima…”
Majima slows them to a steady in-and-out. Below him, Kiryu sighs— but behaves.
It’s a private challenge to Majima to take the quiet, reserved Kiryu and turn him into this. Deep down— and done right— Kiryu's a noisy fuck. Majima knows the secret formula: a little admonition plus a lot of teasing.
Kiryu calls his name, louder this time. “Majima.”
Majima's hum in response is as leisured as their pace.
Kiryu feels for one of Majima’s hands at his hips, and pulls on it. “Come on,” he gripes, “please, Majima, will you just…”
Majima knows what he wants. "Cool yer juice. I gotcha." He shakes Kiryu’s hand away and reaches for his needy penis.
Kiryu thanks him with a gratified gasp. Majima isn’t any quicker with this than he is with his ass, but Kiryu’s more than eager for it. Majima treats him to a lazy tug while he stuffs him from behind. Kiryu is getting what he wants— and trembles at the touch.
“Aw.” Majima tilts his head. “Ya like it better with the gloves off, don’t ya?”
Kiryu nods vigorously. “God, yes.” The tremble carries in his voice. “Squeeze me. Please, harder please—”
Making demands, but remembering his manners. Only Kiryu could be such a good bottom and brat at once.
Majima savors it. "Y'sound like a bitch, Kiryu."
Kiryu throws a desperate look over his shoulder. "Give it to me for real," he implores, "and I won't have to."
"Hell nah," Majima laughs. "I been likin' what I hear. Beg me and then I'll give it to ya."
The desperation sets up into something resentful. Kiryu's stubborn streak is rearing its head. "Fuck me," he grumbles.
Majima clicks his tongue and spanks him. "C'mon."
He's a little more earnest this time. "Please, Majima."
Majima dawdles with Kiryu's dick in his hand.
"Majima-san." He rocks back as far as he can, pressing himself to Majima's hips, pleading again with his eyes.
Majima holds him still at the waist. "Gotta use yer words, Kiryu honey."
"Please. Please, I was almost there."
“Oh, musta been real fired up, then, huh?”
Kiryu grimaces; he'd do anything right now other than sit still or talk. “You’re driving me crazy...”
Majima smirks. "So dramatic. But ya got a point— it's me drivin'. Remember that." He gives a little incentive, sliding halfway out then pulling Kiryu back onto his dick. He's hit just the right spot; the words that were starting to take shape on Kiryu's lips dissolve into nonsense.
Kiryu arches his back and shows his ass. Shows Majima how a dragon can writhe.
Majima's digging the show— and the way Kiryu's body holds on to and flutters around him. He licks his lips. "Someone knows their good angles."
With difficulty, Kiryu cobbles a response. "Please, Majima. Your hand… Touch me. Please." He hardly has the words for everything on a good day; right now, he must be trying his best. So Majima relents: "Tch… Fine."
Majima reaches for more lube, squeezing out enough to make his hand a dripping mess. “Just you wait, Kiryu-chan. I’ll make sure ya get those luxury strokes.”
He works the lube until it’s warm, then slathers it along the underside of Kiryu’s ready cock.
"Oh fuck," Kiryu groans.
Majima drizzles leftover lube from the packet onto Kiryu’s ass. Kiryu shifts at the coolness; he watches with filthy pleasure as it drips down Kiryu’s hole and onto his dick. Majima pumps inside of him. He wraps around Kiryu’s shaft, granting his wish with a firm hand. Kiryu yelps at the sudden pressure. He whispers Majima's name through a shiver as Majima moves, back and forth, over where he needs it most. They settle into a rhythm, and Kiryu keeps the tempo with hot gasps for air.
As roughly as Majima grips and fucks, it all stays slick. Kiryu is tense and twitching in his hand— the kind of hard he gets when he's near the edge. He’s more turned on than Majima realized.
"Please," he utters. "Please… please."
"Not yet," Majima tells him. "Gonna catch up with ya."
Kiryu nods, half listening; he pulls fistfuls of the sheets.
Majima lets up on his dick but rides him harder. For a while, Kiryu hangs on— but he can’t keep still. He contracts around Majima and gasps at his own tightness. “Fuck me,” he begs. “Fill me.” He bitches and moans and grunts like an animal, craving satisfaction. Kiryu pistons into Majima's hand and takes his cock. Each surge backward is punctuated with a soaking-wet slap where their bodies collide.
"So close," he grits out.
Majima curses. "Hold on a sec, dammit."
Kiryu frets and shakes his head. He really is desperate— so Majima has to be at least a little sweet. "C’mon, Kiryu, hang on just a little more. You're squeezin' me right back— it's heaven. So good. Yer so fuckin' good."
Kiryu can't handle sweet. He drops his head and seizes up tight with a guttural cry. Majima feels it deep inside him; it's obvious he's past the point of no return.
"Damn! Arright." Majima slows down and strokes him indulgently. Kiryu throbs in his hand in that telling, rapid-fire way. Majima would know he'd busted even without the release dribbling hot over his fingers. He eases him through the rest, emptying him onto the bed below as Kiryu sobs in ecstasy. Kiryu’s legs quake with each final firm pull.
Majima lets go. Kiryu drops the tension in his limbs. Still buried, Majima can feel the wave receding, a little less intense with each draw of Kiryu's muscles. The big one just broke; time for the ebb.
"Couldn't hold it," Kiryu pants, shameless in arousal. He shudders as Majima slides out of him.
"No kiddin’." Majima might be smug about that. "Can't blame ya."
He drinks in the display: Kiryu’s big, strong body heaving with exertion; Kiryu pouring sweat; Kiryu gulping air, eyes shut, and the pleasure that wracked him still glowing on his face.
Majima slips the condom off and tosses it on the floor. After the furnace of Kiryu's guts, the air is downright chilly. But the sight of him, well loved and fucked out, keeps Majima running hot. "Can I come on yer back?"
"Yeah," Kiryu huffs, in no hurry as he drifts back down.
Getting off is going to be a cinch; he’s got all the eye candy he could want and the world’s gooeyest hand. Majima runs it up and down his dick. Coated in lube and Kiryu’s ejac, he's primed for a last little bit of nasty fun.
Majima tingles all over. Everything is so sensitive, so slick, throbbing with blood. His nerves spark and blaze. Fireworks light in his belly and start their explosion outward. He props his dick on Kiryu's ass, slotting the head between his cheeks, and beats off like he means it. His own grand finale is just around the corner.
Lucky him, fucking Kiryu into a mess like this. Eating up the eye candy. And jerking.
...and jerking. Majima pictures Kiryu in front of him, remembering the feel of his body, reentering the moment.
It’s Majima’s turn to catch his breath. He holds his messy junk, gazing down at his messier companion. Kiryu drops the ass-up pose and collapses into the sheets.
“Augh."
Majima can tell he regrets the move; Kiryu jumps back up, then hesitates. Nowhere to go with that sticky back and spunk below him (and now, Majima correctly guesses, on his front as well).
Majima laughs, but hops up to grab a hand towel from the bathroom. Kiryu takes it gratefully and starts to wipe off. He struggles over his own heaping muscle to reach a spot on his back.
"Hey." Majima nips that silly business in the bud, snatching the towel from him. "I got it. Nevermind."
Kiryu hides his face in his hands and mumbles out a “Thank you, Majima-san."
Majima whacks him with the towel. “Don’tcha go bashful on me. Remember how you were lovin’ all this a minute ago?”
Kiryu’s hands drop back down to his sides. He remembers. “Yeah.”
“Focus on that— that’s the good shit. Had each other goin’ this time.” Majima finishes wiping up what he can.
Kiryu glances back at him. “You liked it?” Majima gives him the assurance he’s after. “Damn right I did. Ain’t busted that hard in a minute...” He can’t help tossing in a light roast: “...Even if ya were a total quickshot.” Kiryu hangs his head and Majima brays with laughter.
Majima towels off his own junk, then throws the used cloth aside. "Whoof," he sighs contentedly. "Ya really jump bones, though."
Kiryu sits up. "You, too. You know what you're doing… You get to me."
Majima raises his shoulders in a casual shrug. "Y'got simple tastes, Kiryu-chan. Makes ya easy to please."
"Still," Kiryu says. "You remember what I like." He reaches for Majima, and looks into his eye. Kiryu is searching; whether he sees what he's looking for or not, he comes closer.
Kiryu squeezes Majima's hand, and kisses him. His lip is plump from biting— snared between his teeth as Majima rode him rough, no doubt— and his kiss is soft, exploratory. He invites Majima for more, but doesn't insist.
Something weighs on Majima down in his chest. The flush over his cheeks deepens a shade. For all the color that pounds in his face, his head feels way too light.
He breathes deep for air— for relief— but all he gets is Kiryu's smell: his sweat, the product melting in his hair, the sex on him that hasn't had time to grow stale. Nothing about it is fresh, either, but Majima would rather stick his nose in this than any flower, any day. His blood races at the scent.
Kiryu’s too close for Majima to take in all at once, and Majima’s eye flits from piece to piece of the startling, intimate exhibit.
Kiryu smiles at him. The corners of his mouth are peace and pleasure— shapes from simpler times.
Other parts are frightening. Kiryu's dark eyes and strong, straight face call him back to an old house. Majima remembers the door that slammed behind him all those years ago... Now along comes Kiryu, opening windows. His new inlet doesn't light the rooms; it doesn't reveal so much as it showcases all that remains hidden away.
The dark interior refuses him. Majima is out of place here; he’s trespassing— and if he sticks around too long, he’s bound to get caught.
Kiryu’s hand covers his own, inviting as ever. The touch is light, but the feeling sits so heavy that Majima struggles beneath it. This weight is painful to call by name.
Majima can't look at him. Instead, he rolls his eye in feigned exhaustion.
"Damn! I'm steamin' up in here," he complains. "Worked up a real sweat with ya, Kiryu-chan!" He leans away and Kiryu’s smile sinks. "Why don'tcha crank the A/C for me?" Majima nods to the window.
"Sure." Kiryu gets up to do the favor; Majima takes respite in the bought moment, and drags his hands down his face. His heart pounds— but it won't for long, he tells himself.
This tender relationship BS is a recent development, considering. The fucking started practically as soon as Kiryu walked from prison. Everything else built up after that first year— the year of sparring, screwing, and skulking after Kiryu until he was ready to play. A full-blown trip around the sun.
Majima reels. Feelings from before the shower are bleeding into now; some have been dogging his steps since he and Kiryu met. If he didn’t have the spins before…
Majima thinks while Kiryu plugs a new temperature in.
"This place smells like a sex zoo." He checks out Kiryu's back and ass. "And yer lookin' like one of the sticky exhibits. Y'got first dibs on the shower."
Kiryu considers the offer; it seems to please him. "Are you sure?"
"Yer my guest, ain'tcha? I insist." Majima waves a hand toward him with pleasure’s-all-mine pageantry.
Kiryu goes to wash up. He's out of sight, but Majima's heart hasn't slowed. It hammers on him, morning construction: too loud, too relentless for peace or quiet.
Majima listens to the shower running in the bathroom. He spends a minute by himself, but he won't stand that for much longer; the alone time isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Like always, he goes after Kiryu.
His thoughts are too jumbled to focus on the task in hand. Maybe it's the booze, or the fighting, or the full course fucking— but Majima is spent. Half-chub is all he can muster.
Majima blows a lame raspberry and lets go. Whatever. Back to that some other time.
He folds his hands behind his head, and starts to cool off. Boredom wastes no time moving into the room that horny checked out.
He wants Kiryu here. For what, exactly, Majima isn't sure— but he's still got time to work out the details.
"Kiiiiryu-chan," he beckons. "Y'almost done?"
Kiryu pops his head out from the doorway. "Almose," he mispronounces around toothpaste. He disappears back into the bathroom. Majima hears him spit and the trickle of the sink.
Kiryu emerges with a handful of supplies. He’s still ruddy from the hot shower, and still naked. His hair, dark and soft without its daily swipe of gel, rests beside his temples. Majima’s eye wanders down from there.
At the start of this affair, Kiryu would get dressed again right after they were done. He wasn't shy as much as he was closing up shop, putting away the displays. Done with the sexy strip-down and on to the next thing. Majima’s grateful that he ditched the habit; the view is magnificent.
Unlike Majima, he hardly picked up any new scrapes that night. Kiryu is sporting a few busted knuckles— and one reddened spot up in his thigh where Majima had bit him in the shower.
Majima’s eyepatch is looped around one of his fingers. Kiryu raises it up to show it off. “You want this?” he asks.
Majima shakes his head. “Nah. Nightstand’s fine.” Kiryu sets it down as directed, and comes back to him.
“Here.” He’s holding out a glass of water this time. Majima sits up and takes it. Two tablets— for pain or hangover or who knows what— come next, a little surprise waiting in Kiryu's opened palm. “These too,” he says.
Majima shrugs and swallows them dry; Kiryu taking charge always gets him a little contrary. “You get off on nurse shit now?”
Kiryu is unfazed. “Drink the whole glass,” he says, “or you'll be up later with a whisky headache.” Majima rolls his eye. “Chill on it. Here, look.” He takes a drink; Kiryu turns from him, satisfied.
Majima sips and watches him throw a fresh towel over the wet spot in bed. Kiryu sits next to him when he's finished. He holds a tiny brown bottle and carefully pulls its stopper; Majima recognizes the Kotobuki Drugstore logo on the label. “When'd ya find time to pick up this crap?”
Kiryu sifts through his supplies with his free hand, and he answers. “Haruka said I should start packing ‘Majima Kits’ before going out with you. It was a joke... but I thought about it some more, and it seemed like it'd be useful.”
Majima snickers. “Bet it did, ya big boy scout. What’s in the kit? Ya gotta show me now!”
“It’s first aid. Mostly.” Kiryu hands him the kit: a thin, pocket-sized metal tin with a latch. Inside is meds, hangover stuff, tissues. A cheap toothbrush. “That one’s for you if you want it,” Kiryu mentions.
Majima glances sidelong at him. “You sayin’ I got a nasty mouth, Kiryu-chan?”
Kiryu only shrugs. “Sometimes.” Majima blows him off and keeps looking: extra condoms; cotton balls; disinfectant; a needle and suture string; gauze; and...
He spies a pop of color in the pack and digs in to inspect. "Bunchan bandages?!"
“Haruka put those in. ...We're out of plain ones at home.”
Majima cackles with delight and returns the pack to him. "It’s all too fuckin’ precious! ‘Majima Kits’!”
Kiryu looks a little redder, and reaches for a cotton ball instead of firing back.
Majima decides to give him a break. “How's the kid doin' these days, anyhow?" Kiryu's expression softens as he mulls the question. "Growing fast. Still making the world a brighter place. Finding new ways to amaze."
Just a whiff of the family-man pride makes Majima scrunch his face. "Yer a dad, alright." He finishes his water and Kiryu takes the empty cup from him.
Kiryu dabs medicine onto cotton; his bashful look is gone. "I am who I am." He lifts Majima's chin with the tips of his fingers and looks him over, left and right. Majima feels color creeping up his neck; it’s his turn to be inspected now.
They're so close. He doesn't have anywhere to look except at Kiryu, who is dazzling— so he shuts his eye instead.
"It's going to sting," Kiryu says.
Majima snorts at the warning. "Do yer worst."
Kiryu taps the soaked cotton on one of the cuts over Majima's brow—
"Ow! Fuck."
—and Kiryu is right.
Majima is prepared for the next sting. He's less ready for Kiryu's smart mouth: "Told you."
Majima pouts a little. "That's insult to injury, Kaz."
Kiryu works around his face, zapping all the little cuts and bumps as advertised. With nothing to do, Majima's idle hands fig-leaf on his lap.
Kiryu pays special attention to the gash at the bridge of his nose. "This one." He touches close to where the skin split open and, without seeing it, Majima can hear his frown. "Glass?"
"Haw?" Majima thinks for a second. "Prob'ly. More than one-a those asswipes were wavin' broken bottles around."
"Mm." Kiryu dabs the medicine on and blesses Majima under his breath. "Feel better soon."
When he’s done, Majima opens his eye; medicine vapor makes him blink. "You're fulla surprises anymore, Kiryu-chan. Can't tell when ya wanna scold me or spoil me."
"It's a coin toss," Kiryu teases. "You almost always deserve both."
He rubs medicine into places that sting. The burn reminds him how those scrapes were earned. Kiryu had scolded him over messing up the bar, but Majima brought them there to do it. He'd been dying slowly for a night with Kiryu and the chance to mess shit up.
Kiryu returns from the bar with a fresh tumbler in each hand. He holds one out for Majima. "Here."
"Thanks, doll." Majima brushes gloved fingers over Kiryu's knuckles as he takes the glass. "Bottoms up."
They clink, they drink.
Majima leans on the pool table, watching Kiryu rack up. "Ready for round three?" Kiryu asks.
"You bet." Majima takes another sip; smooth bourbon coats his tongue. "Hopin' you'll gimme a few rounds later, too."
A muttering at the next table draws his attention: "...see that shit."
Majima listens, but doesn't look. He knows who it is: another roughneck bastard who can't leave well enough alone. A bastard who's only gotten louder and surlier since they showed up. Now, more than a few drinks in, the vibe is absolute shit; no shortage of tough guys at the Tough Guy Bar.
Kiryu sets the cue ball down to break. Majima sips and scans the room. One of the bastard's drinking buddies nods their way. Majima can't hear the words, but gets the message. The bastard gestures at Majima and pipes up. "Get a loada the freakshow, boys."
Majima rolls his eye. The crack of polished resin brings him back to their game. Kiryu tsks as the balls— none of them sunk— roll to a stop.
Majima takes a good swig and sets his glass down. He may not get to pick back it up.
"Hey, you!"
He ignores the shout and puts the five-ball in a corner pocket. Majima aims again.
"I'm talkin' to you, eyepatch!"
The next shot misses.
Kiryu joins him at the side rail. He chalks his stick and mutters, "I'm going to go chat with him."
Majima sniffs. "Don't bother— choad's gonna smoke himself. Just line that shot up, Kiryu honey."
"Hmph." Kiryu props on the rail and takes aim.
A bastard friend joins in the shouting. "Hey, asshole!"
Majima gives them the attention they crave. He stares at the bastard over Kiryu's lowered shoulders. The bastard stares back; deep-set eyes glint in the middle of his shaved head. He's a hulking, mean-looking pig— but nothing impressive. Still, Majima has to work with what's been given.
Majima slaps Kiryu's ass so hard it rocks the balls on the table.
Kiryu turns and scowls. "Seriously?" he says through gritted teeth. The bastard's already on his way over.
He stabs a finger at Majima. "This ain't the fruit bar, cyclops. You're pushin' your luck."
"Please, baby," Majima drawls. "Don't be like that. I got plenty to go 'round."
The bastard sets his jaw, steaming. "You're about to get your ass beat—!"
"Sign me up!" Majima crows. "I love that shit!" The bastard yells something unintelligible. He’s red in the face. His bastard buddies file in and he steps up.
Kiryu moves in front of Majima, blocking the way. “Hey—” His voice is even, but tension squares his shoulders; he’s ready for what’s coming— "You have a problem, let's have it outside."
The bastard spits in Kiryu’s face. Kiryu wipes his eye and glowers.
Majima flies forward and knocks the bastard over. He shrieks with laughter as they both tumble to the floor. Finally!
The bastard’s buddies swing on Kiryu; Kiryu swings back. Someone kicks Majima in the ribs. The bastard is clawing at him from below. He jams his thumbs into a pair of mean little eyes and rolls away. Back to his feet, back-to-back with Kiryu.
The bar bursts into violent motion. Some clear out. Plenty of tough guys stick around for a piece of the action.
Majima's hair falls in his eye. Someone reaches for him and he breaks their finger. Someone else clubs him from the side. Kiryu puts his body in the way of the next blow. There’s shouting, crashing, barstools, cues, billiard balls, blood.
More bastards close in. More blood. Bottle glass. Knives. Fists. Majima attracts the chaos; he whips around in the center of it, invincible.
Police respondents start pouring through the front door. Kiryu grabs Majima’s arm and yanks him from the brawl. Time to split.
They burst out the back door, taking the alleys out to the main drag. Majima wipes the blood and grime off his face and waves down a taxi. They slip away unseen.
Majima’s body aches; his blood rushes; he’s a little jacked up, and he’s alive. Kiryu breathes heavily beside him. The cab is driving slowly, nice and slowly, toward the hotel district... Majima slides next to Kiryu on the seat.
It’d been a treat to rack up some fresh scrapes and scuffs with his number one guy— and after the bar, he’d been too busy to think much about them. Now, Kiryu punishes those spots with disinfectant. To Kiryu, they’re just scrapes. The twinges of pain are sterile, utilitarian. Majima’s already bored.
“Hold still,” Kiryu tells him; then Majima is bored and surly.
“I don’t get why yer sweatin' it,” he yawns, “since we both seen way worse. Ya done me up worse all by yerself.”
Kiryu uses his own words against him: “I don’t hear you telling me to stop.”
“Hey, fuck you.”
Kiryu shrugs. "If you plan to rope me into a nasty fight every other week, I’m making some changes. Starting with this." He fetches a new wad of cotton.
"Y’mean play nurse every time?” Majima scoffs. “No way."
Kiryu leans back, giving him room. "I know you can take care of yourself— but I want to help. This is me asking. Will you let me? Or do you want me to stop?" His eyes are intense as he waits for the truth.
Like Majima would have the answer, anyhow. He turns aside. "Every damn time, though?" he mutters.
Kiryu moves past the dodged question to rib him: "Don’t get beat up if the consequence stinks."
"You stink," Majima pouts.
Kiryu chuckles lightly, then gets serious. "No I don't. I'm fresh." He sets the medicine down.
Before Majima can react, Kiryu's got an arm locked around his neck. Kiryu pushes his head toward a hairy armpit. "See for yourself," he growls. Majima stiffens in defiance and claws at his arm. "Bastard!" he hollers. "Yer a stinkin’ rat-ass bastard!"
Kiryu just laughs. Majima leans into him and bites right below where Kiryu was going to stuff his face. The laugh becomes a wince and a gasp. "Hah—! Okay, off."
Majima only lets go of the meaty mouthful once Kiryu sets him free. He sits back up and smoothes his ruffled hair; Kiryu's eyes twinkle with mirth as he watches.
Majima didn't know him when they were young, but moments like this are a rare, marvelous glimpse of what must have been. Kiryu shines bright in that boyishness. In the blaze of it, Majima sees a ghost— a light, laughing shape— a figure that is no longer there.
He couldn't tell Kiryu what he's seen. And he certainly can't encourage him.
"Fuck off," he fusses. "Go back to bein' nice so we can get this over with."
"I will." Kiryu is still amused as he grabs the supplies. Majima retreats behind his eyelid to sulk. Kiryu rests a gentle hand on his knee, and they pick up where they left off.
He feels Kiryu traveling over his body, methodical, thorough. His fingertips tally each injury. He reads the bumps, the bruises— the braille of Majima’s body— and takes note with considerate touch. Kiryu is studying, and Majima is subject.
All together, those sore spots recount the night’s events. Some marks will stay with him for weeks.
Kiryu’s hand finds a long, tender welt— struck there by a pool cue— and follows the risen flesh along his ribs. Majima saw that one earlier and knew it was already turning colors. Even with Kiryu’s feather-light touch, it aches down to his bones.
A bruise like that isn’t going anywhere soon. When he sees it, he’ll remember how Kiryu ripped the cue from the hands of the man who’d used it— how Kiryu turned it to splinters evening the score. Majima is sore, but anyone who'd laid a hand on him tonight has got to be regretting their choices much more deeply.
Kiryu went after a motherfucker twice as hard if they came for Majima and managed to hit. He’d get a different look in his eyes— he would cut loose, really drop them hard. Majima stood somewhere between flattered and jealous; he would have to bust his back pissing Kiryu off to get that same force, that same fire.
There's nothing like it, though.
Nothing like dancing that dance— tearing into Kiryu, or being ripped apart. The push, the pull, the sport of it. The ritual. The rules… and riling Kiryu up enough that he breaks them.
There is nothing like Kiryu coming for him.
Coming into him.
Coming to throw down.
Coming in his hands.
Coming with fists closed around pure anger.
Coming without pity or fear.
Coming with his hardened jaw, his sweating brow, and eyes dark with fury.
Not a goddamn thing like being on the business end of that shotgun.
But when Kiryu's feeling more reserved, Majima can always take them somewhere with bad vibes and let the magic happen. He can watch Kiryu explode on another lucky bastard or five. Stand in the splash zone. Indulge in the taste of Shotgun Lite.
The soreness is a souvenir; it helps him remember that taste. It might even last until their next night out.
Kiryu brings his focus back with a throaty grumble. Majima can tell he’s not as fond of the physical aftermath. “You’re really tense,” he mentions. “I want to rub you some. Is that alright?”
Majima opens his eye and perks right up. “Ya gonna charge me extra for that, doc?”
Kiryu plays along. “It’s included with the visit.”
“Shit, then I’d be a sucker ta pass it up.”
Kiryu smirks sedately, then gets back to first aid. "Almost done here.”
So the examination’s coming to a close. Majima would call this feeling relief, except that the restlessness lingers, unchanged.
It's strange when Kiryu isn't up in arms. Strange that he's here, kneeling— giving in to the pacific soul that Majima’s been reluctant to meet. This Kiryu scares him in ways the brawler never could.
Kiryu picks up a Bunchan bandaid. He peels back the adhesive and places it over a scrape, decorating Majima's sharp shin with pink and green. "Odaiji ni," he says quietly: Feel better.
The act is so soft that the rest of the moment seems harder in comparison. Air comes laggard into Majima’s lungs. If he wanted to form a snappy comeback, a jab, it isn’t there. His breath, unburdened by words, passes from him. He doesn’t move from the spot until Kiryu asks him to lie down.
Majima nearly regrets saying yes to more attention. He wants it and he doesn’t. It’ll be good— he knows that much. Hell, he’s used to being gawked at... but not the way that Kiryu looks at him.
He rolls onto his stomach. Now, at least, he can bury his face in the sheets.
He feels Kiryu's weight on the bed beside him, then his hands. Kiryu starts at Majima's shoulders and presses down with his palms. He moves in short strokes, easing up when the skin loses its give. Somehow, it's never too hard or too far; he works with an attentive touch. Majima sighs, relaxing into the slow push and pull.
Majima's used to a little bit of this. It's usually just Kiryu kneading at his shoulders after a fight: quick and inelegant, no five-star massage, but still a nice way to wind down. For Kiryu, it’s a checkup— making sure Majima's not too worse for wear. Usually it'd happen right then, or in the taxi on the way here. But tonight, other things had come up.
Kiryu works deeper, pacing across the expanse of muscle until it yields beneath his pressure. He moves upward to Majima's neck, treading softer there. His fingertips rock over the cords of tight muscle and Majima whines.
Even with someone who knows his body and knows what to do— someone with the grip of a goddamn ox— it takes a while for Majima to let the tension go. Kiryu is patient and thorough. It's good; it's sore as hell; it's intense. His body sings at the touch.
Unless it’s on business, Majima stays out of massage parlors. He can’t get relaxed when he’s there— so he doesn’t bother with them anymore.
This is different. Kiryu’s hands remind him what his sore body has missed. When he's really smarting, sometimes it hits better than the sex.
He was waiting for this. And he thanks Kiryu with a pleasure-laced groan.
Kiryu travels down to his back. Majima can tell he's following the lines of his irezumi. The path of his hands twists along turbulent clouds. His fingertips scatter on ink breeze, and the flesh below them blooms with sensation.
Kiryu rubs him in all sorts of clever places, parts that Majima hardly remembered could get sore: the in-betweens, the unremarkable— the bundles of sinew and muscle that join the rest together. He’d been holding so much tension across that web of nameless flesh. Majima only realized its extent once Kiryu began to loosen him up.
First the shower and then the medicine and now this. It's a lot of attention, a lot of touching. Kiryu's laying it on tonight, maybe too much. But when has Majima wanted less?
Fists or no fists, Kiryu still lets his hands do the talking; Majima has never faulted him for that.
Kiryu's touches draw him out of his own head— they draw him to the surface— and Kiryu takes his time. The flame of thought that normally consumes him fades beneath the raindrop-tap of Kiryu's fingers.
Kiryu pays good attention to his back, and especially his ass. It's nice... so nice that, by the time Majima thinks to tease him about it, he's already moved on.
The whole way down, Kiryu's fingers press on his muscle and skirt his forming wounds. By turns he is firm, then gentle: firm where he needs to be, gentle where Majima needs him to be.
Firm, gentle— Kiryu is always serving up both.
“Fine if I do your front, too?” he asks.
“Mm.” Majima rolls over lazily.
Kiryu's hands skate across his shoulders, down his arms, and over the backs of both of Majima's hands. His fingers slowly pass from Majima's fingertips to a body tender with bruises. They climb Majima’s ribs and return to his chest, petting him some before Kiryu starts in.
Majima opens his eye, just a crack, to watch the man at work. Kiryu's own muscles clench and flex as he reaches over Majima's body. His big, strong hands cover Majima's belly, soothing what's been exposed to the chilly air.
Kiryu has laid hands on him so many times. His fingers are bruisingly strong; his palms are rough and warm, always warm.
His hands have grabbed Majima by the collar, crushed him, beaten him back; they have made him surrender.
They have lifted him to his feet; they have held onto his own.
They have felt him up, spread him open, wrapped around him, gone inside him.
Kiryu's hands have done all sorts of shit to him. In his head is a singular craving: for those hands to touch him like they mean it.
Kiryu's worked down his body once again. He presses his palms to Majima's thigh and tracks back and forth over long, straight muscle. He takes his calf next, starting behind the knee and squeezing him down to his heel.
Kiryu gives him the same treatment on the other side. Majima is more sore than he realized. He'll feel every little ache tomorrow, he's sure— but for now he lies relaxed and tingling beneath Kiryu's hands.
He's warm, he's calm, he's got Kiryu here. Kiryu's looking taut and super tasty. A part of Majima, swelled part-way, is growing to enjoy it.
Kiryu notices. He runs his hands up Majima's legs and along his narrow hips. His fingers brush along either side of Majima's dick, almost touching. The heat of arousal spreads up and down from where Kiryu strokes around him. He groans at the sensation, at the possibility of more.
Kiryu stirs him from the reverie with a chuckle. "I was about to ask how you were doing. Good enough, it looks like."
Majima fires back. "Ya rubbed most-a the stiff outta me, but ya missed one spot."
"I promise I'll cover every inch of you..." Kiryu's voice is low and luscious— darkened a shade, the way he speaks when he's laying on the charm. His hands close in; callused fingers capture Majima's most delicate skin. Kiryu plays with Majima, cupping, squeezing and gently rolling... pleasure on his waking cock.
"...But not right now," he says— and the hands move away.
"Ah," Majima sighs, ready to be enticed. “y’sure got me on the edge of my seat.”
Kiryu entices. "Stick around tomorrow and I'll make sure you get off."
He doesn’t even care that Kiryu’s teasing; Majima is just meat, waiting to be tenderized. "Kiryu honey, that's naughty," he purrs. "Limber me up like ya say yer gonna an' I'll show you some tricks-a my own."
Kiryu holds fast. "Tomorrow, we'll wind you up as much as you like. Tonight, you relax."
Majima listens. Kiryu makes him feel a lot of things all at once, but he tries to focus on the relaxation. Majima shuts his eye again, closes out the sights, lets his body lie limp on the bed.
Kiryu's hands slacken his muscles. They soothe his nerves, plying his brain with a gentle but emphatic message: Unwind. Be still.
He touches places that hurt, but he also touches plenty that don't. Majima's hectic mind will go like a gust of wind. Kiryu brings him back to the body he lives in. With his hands, he outlines Majima's shape, holding him in the space between his palms— in a space where he can be still.
There is nothing behind his eyelid; smooth sheets below, Kiryu beside; for a moment, he lives between their touching bodies.
Kiryu takes Majima tenderly at the wrist, massaging the bruises he'd made that night. He kisses each drab-colored spot and plants a final, lingering kiss just below his hand. The apology is sweet enough for Majima to accept; any resentment he was holding onto dissolves beneath Kiryu's lips.
"Feel better," Kiryu hums. His breath passes over thin skin where Majima's pulse pounds, unrelenting. He wonders if Kiryu feels the energy following him around Majima's body— a lonely mutt after its master.
Kiryu's touch brings pleasure. It brings pain (which, with him, still counts as enjoyment). Kiryu can make anything better just by touching it. The year before, during some petty squabble, he'd knocked one of Majima's teeth clean out; the replacement, cast from solid gold, flashes when Majima grins.
Kiryu pulls the covers up and lays them over him partway.
"Tuckin' me in now, too?"
"You should keep warm. Helps your muscles stay relaxed."
For once, Majima's not in a mood to argue. He rolls his eye. "Alright, alright."
"Give me your hand." "Haw?" "I'm going to do them, too."
"Jeezus, yer really goin' for the full service thing, aren't ya."
"I can stop here if you want me to stop."
"No backin' down, now, Kiryu-chan. Ya said you'd do 'em." Majima thrusts his hand out; Kiryu snorts in amusement as he takes it.
His thumbs press rhythmically over Majima's knuckles, delivering a brusque kind of comfort. Kiryu moves down each finger with light little squeezes. His hands enfold Majima's, massaging his joints and the thick muscle of his palm. Majima can feel the tension draining out, leaving through the tips of his fingers. Steadily, tenderly, Kiryu pulls the ache from him.
For just a moment, it's good enough that he doesn't think of anything else.
Kiryu's hands make sense everywhere on his body until they come to meet his own. When they clasp his fingers gently, when they stroke the back of each scarred knuckle, when they admire themselves against the mirror of his hands… then Majima doesn't know what to do.
He's been sly, blending the gruff stuff and the tender— in search of a mix that will round some of Majima's sharper edges. Kiryu is the king of persistence. But Majima, king of resistance, can stand his ground.
Kiryu's bad habit is broadcasting moves before he makes them. Of course it works against him; anyone who's light on their feet has time to dart out of his way. Other times, though, the moves are so bold that they just can't be avoided. When Kiryu is confident that he'll deliver, he's fucking dangerous— advance notice or not.
What kind of move is this, holding-but-not-holding hands? Even if Majima sees it coming… Well, what's his counter?
Sometimes, a quiet moment is too quiet. Some tense fiber of his being is waiting for a trap to spring.
Kiryu, pal. What are you doing to me?
And just like that, he's back to thinking too much. Booze has got him sentimental. It’s never a good sign when his heart pops off instead of his dick.
He pipes up. "Y'know I never tried a hand rub before ya gave me one?"
Kiryu glances at him with interest. "Hm?"
"Massage ladies'll do your feet and yer ass and everything ya'd ever want. Guess I just didn't think about givin' the mitts a good rubdown."
He can recall times he's swung his bat so hard, so often that his hands, hours later, would curl stubbornly around a handle he no longer gripped. Or how regular an occurrence it was to bruise his fingers on bone or blacktop. His gloves offered a layer of separation that served him well; most days, he'd only peel back the dampened leather before settling down to sleep.
Now, Kiryu holds his naked hand between his own, and he honors the task. "They do a lot of work for you," Kiryu says. "It's worth treating them well."
"Yeah." You and them both.
His mind floats in alcohol, and the current sends him adrift.
Majima deserved the night out. Lately, too many of his evenings had been eaten up by clan bullshit or spent with the boys. Done hunkering in a dingy bar, he paid his tab and left. Out into the street, and ready to make the most of the time to himself.
He didn’t even want a smoke; going solo, being left to his own devices, was proving to be a breath of fresh air.
Kamurocho’s neon was an eyesore to him sober. But deep in the hooch, Majima could be convinced that there was beauty to be had. Gleaming letters and screens blurred at their borders, and the technicolor rainbow waved with the rest of his vision.
Next order of business was a little after-bar snack. The Nakamichi Poppo was close. Poppo never let him down. Majima sauntered in that direction, light on his feet, twirling his bat in lazy arcs by his side. No rush, nowhere else to be— for once, feeling fine.
He rounded the block. The fluorescent storefront beckoned. Once he got there, Majima was heading right for the greasy, perfect pork-n-cabbage yakisoba. He was already imagining the taste of it: a veritable slice of heaven for under 500 yen.
The Poppo door slid open at his approach. He didn’t make it inside; a crash from the back street stalled him in his tracks. Majima slipped around the side of the building to investigate.
Well, well, well. It must be a small town, because he ran into Kiryu too much for it to be coincidence. There he was, the Dragon himself, tucked by the dumpsters and taking out the trash. Working late, maybe? Though the scuffle he had himself in looked more like leisure than business.
The snack could wait— Majima had found a better one out in the street.
He stole closer. Kiryu was wrapping up; he straightened his suit and muttered something to the kid he’d just knocked over. Majima caught only the tail-end: “...waste of my time.”
Crabby old Kiryu. It didn't have to be over yet... Majima was going to make it worth his while.
He announced his arrival with one loud, cheerful “Kiryu-chan!”— and then rushed in. Kiryu turned at the sound of his flitting footsteps. In a second, recognition dawned; in two, Majima would close the distance between them.
He gripped the bat low and swung wide.
The second between was where everything went wrong.
The punk reached out and snagged Kiryu by the ankle. Kiryu slipped. His last waking expression was one of surprise.
Just above his temple, the bat connected— a deep metal thunk against bone. Majima watched himself do it. With a swing of his arms, keen remorse came slashing through the brain-haze.
Kiryu’s head twisted before the rest of his body, bouncing off the pavement as he fell. He let out a weak gurgle and then was quiet. Majima cringed— but set the shock aside to make the punk regret it. Once he'd resolved the matter, he went to Kiryu.
Blood wept from Kiryu’s forehead where Majima had struck him. He'd spilled a lot already— it stained his face and was trickling into his hair— and he’d landed badly. His neck bent at an odd angle.
Majima knelt beside him. “Yo, Kiryu-chan.” He propped Kiryu up with an arm and knee and waited for him to come around. The kids Kiryu’d scrapped with had gotten the message and were pulling their shit together; Majima watched them go limping off.
He shook Kiryu’s shoulder. “Went down fast, huh? Those fellas wear ya out already?”
The taunt fell flat, unheard.
“Kiryu?”
Majima laid a hand at Kiryu’s throat, feeling the breath— diminished, but there— passing beneath. Kiryu was out cold; he’d never been out like this before, never this long.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Majima was losing his cool. And Kiryu was still losing blood.
What the fuck now? Hospital? No, too far away. Family doctor was closer. He could get there on foot, but not without jouncing Kiryu's body around more than he'd like.
He ripped his phone from his jacket and hit speed-dial, his gloved finger leaving a streak of blood on the button. Majima’s own blood pounded in his ears between each unanswered ring. Kiryu’s body sat heavy across his lap.
At last, the call connected. “Hello, boss—?”
“Nishida,” he yelled, “bring the fuckin' car!”
Nishida would find them in minutes; waiting as those minutes crept past, with Kiryu bleeding on him, felt like a lifetime.
Majima didn't have anything to stanch the flow. He'd use the shirt off his back, but didn't have the decency to bring even that. So Kiryu bled.
"I'm really fucking sorry," Majima said, stricken.
Kiryu said nothing. But he was still breathing; Kiryu was still there. Majima counted those breaths and somehow, Majima waited.
He peered through the glare of headlights and waved the car down; Nishida pulled over and hopped out. Majima gripped Kiryu under the arms and hoisted him partway up. “C’mon, grab his legs.” Nishida obeyed, no questions asked. He blanched a little as they hefted Kiryu into the car. “That’s a lot of blood.” Majima snarled at him— “Find somethin' to sop it up then, asshole!”— but Nishida was already on it.
Majima helped lay Kiryu flat across the backseat and hopped in the front. Nishida finished a quick cleanup of the wound, then darted out to close the car doors.
Majima punched the dashboard. Everything went wrong so fast, and now was moving too slow, too fucking slow. “Go, damn it!” he barked. The tires squealed as Nishida pulled away from the curb.
Halfway to the family doctor, Kiryu stirred. "Where—?"
Majima whirled at the noise. "Yer up!" he exclaimed. "Stay with me, Kiryu-chan, alright? We're goin'—"
"You!" Kiryu glared accusingly from the back seat. He touched his sticky face, then scrubbed across it to investigate. His hand came away red. "Fucking hurts," he said with a dour frown.
"I didn't mean to get ya like that," Majima babbled. "It was a cheap shot. Shit, it wasn't even s'posed to land. And shouldn't-a landed there. I didn't see the guy comin' at ya, or I woulda—"
"Shut up," Kiryu glowered. He took a swipe at him. His blood-smeared palm, clumsy but forceful, jolted Majima's seat.
Nishida jumped; his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror and the raving passenger, then stayed trained on the road. He laid on the horn before blowing through a crosswalk.
Majima turned back to Kiryu. He put on a neutral face, trying to pass as calm and collected when none of them were. "You can get even with me, okay?" he bargained. "Do anything ya want. Take a real crack at me. But fer the love-a god, please stop movin' around until we get you looked at."
Kiryu squinted through blood, unfocused, suspicious.
"We're goin' to the family doctor," Majima explained.
Kiryu only leveled an unfriendly scowl in his direction. "You and your stupid eye."
"I deserve that," Majima allowed. It was fair. Majima knew the language of someone who was hurting. From anyone else, it wouldn't have hurt him back.
Before he could think of more to say, Kiryu slipped off again and laid still. He didn't move for the rest of the ride.
Ash flaked off the half-burned Hi-Lite dangling from Majima's lips. They hadn't been there for long, but he was already near the end of his pack. His office ashtray teemed with the cooling remnants of stubs he'd smoked down.
Nishida returned with tissues but no news. "Here, sir." He offered the box. "There's some, uhh—" He gestured to part of his face and neck. "You've got some—"
Majima snagged the tissues from him without a word. He wiped, roughly, where Nishida had pointed out, until the paper came away unstained. His gloves got a once-over as well; they had a knack for hiding blood.
The first time Kiryu ever bled on him, Majima had just socked him on the jaw— one side, then the other. The second blow splattered him with droplets from Kiryu's leaking mouth. Majima had drawn that blood... and he'd chased the thrill like a hound ever since.
He couldn't count the number of times he'd gotten to feel that rush. He was looking for a taste tonight, but he'd gone and fucked it all up.
Majima had only watched as they took him from his arms. They loaded Kiryu up, wheeled him off, and that was that. Majima went to his office while Kiryu went on a shitty, squeaking stretcher into the hands of the gods.
This time might have finally been too far. He might have used up all the tricks Kiryu had left. He might have ruined the best part of his life. He might have just made another orphan.
Majima wadded up the used tissues and crammed them in the waste bin. He didn't want to see them. Until then, Kiryu's blood had never left him feeling dirty.
"He was so damn mad at me," Majima remembered dismally. His heel ricocheted off the floor with each anxious pump of his leg. Had Kiryu been truly angry with him before? He’d been stern, agitated at times, but not like this.
"He might have been confused," Nishida offered as response; Majima watched in annoyance as he sat, without invitation, on the other side of the desk. Nishida went on. "Sometimes, head injuries make people disoriented. They can act unpredictably, or even get hostile."
His subordinate’s smug antics had Majima feeling a little hostile, himself. He looked sidelong at Nishida’s round face. It would be so easy, but he just couldn't find the energy to slap him around. So for the time being, they were as good as equals. "And where'd ya hear that, now?"
"Medical school."
“Oh?” That surprised him. Had Nishida told him about it before? Had he listened? Whatever— at the least, he entertained the distraction. "You were trainin' to be a medic, huh? The hell happened to that?"
"I was doing computer work on the side then. One of my friends tipped me off about the clan needing technicians… and the pay was hard to argue."
"Shit. I knew about the techy biz. Didn't realize we poached a potential doctor."
Nishida put his hands up. "I didn't want to keep doing med school," he clarified. "It was a real drain, and lonely. No one cared how I did, either— not even my mentors. I like working with these guys. And for what it's worth, boss, I never have to wonder if you care."
"That's a real rosy outlook, pal," Majima said.
He almost wished the family business still meant something to him… But he could always counterfeit a little enthusiasm for the boys. "And y’know? Yer right!” He pointed at Nishida. “You're part-a the best goddamn family around!"
Nishida smiled; the words had encouraged him. "The schooling wasn't a waste, either. I use the emergency training a lot here."
Majima chuckled darkly. "I know that firsthand." His thoughts wandered to emergencies, to injuries and inevitably, back to Kiryu. They fell into a silence as he brooded.
Nishida ran a hand over his short buzzed hair, hesitating. After a while, he decided to speak his mind. "Sir, you could talk to Kiryu-san. He's fairly forthcoming with his thoughts on you. Once he comes to, you can ask if he’s upset or not... He'll tell you."
Majima glared; that kind of talk was bad luck. “If he comes to."
Nishida shrugged. "It looked messy… though I've seen you and Kiryu-san arrive here in worse shape, and you both walked right out." Nishida wasn’t wrong, but...
Fuck that. Majima wasn't supposed to be getting comforted (never mind that he was eating it up). Kiryu was the casualty, Majima the culprit. Majima deserved nothing. He changed topics.
“What made ya the Kiryu Whisperer all a sudden? You and Kazzy have a heart-to-heart?”
Nishida shook his head. “Nothing like that. But he... mentions things when you have me call him."
"Mentions what— juicy rumors? Insults? What's he say?" If Nishida had new details about Kiryu, he was genuinely interested to learn them.
"He just talks like he gets you, sir. I don't know how to put it exactly. Your… style doesn’t daunt him. I think, for the most part, he enjoys the arrangement." He minced. "With all respect, boss... You've gone to extremes with him, and he still played along."
"Hm," Majima wondered, puffing smoke. Compared to some of the things he’d done to Kiryu, tonight’s incident was really almost run-of-the-mill. It was a wonder that something like it hadn’t happened sooner.
"Hey. Keep tellin' me what ya think,” he said to Nishida. “It's why I keep ya around.” He cracked a smile that Nishida sheepishly returned, a dusting of pink on his soft, proud cheeks.
Majima offered his pack of cigarettes. Nishida declined. "I still don't smoke, boss."
"Eh. Get bent, then." Majima took another drag, and his leg jackhammered away.
Nishida left to check in with the doc. Majima was alone again.
He decided then— he'd be decent to Kiryu, be careful, never overdo it. He just had to see if he'd have the chance to make good on that.
The seconds crawled past.
Majima burned through his last cigarette. His stomach had twisted itself into a bitter knot, and his eye itched in its socket.
Nishida, finally, returned with news: "He's up."
Majima didn't wait to hear the rest; he ran to the recovery room and barged in.
Kiryu laid on the exam table. He’d been cleaned up, barely; a crust of red still clung at his hairline, and the blood had left his hair stiff and partly matted. His jacket, ruined with stains, hung over the back of a chair. Kiryu was a pale, disheveled wreck— but he was alive.
"Kiryu!"
Kiryu stirred at Majima's voice. Plastic upholstery crackled beneath him as he turned to face his visitor.
"You can really swing a bat," he croaked, peering from underneath a big bandage. "Could I have some water?"
Majima rushed over, forgetting himself; the moment of joy was long enough for him to throw his arms around Kiryu.
Kiryu groaned at getting jostled, but didn't flinch away— so Majima squeezed. Kiryu was there.
"Ya sonuvabitch!" he laughed. "Thought I mighta really scrambled yer egg this time! Sit tight." He hopped to his feet. His hands shook; suddenly he was high.
Kiryu watched him fill a paper cup at the sink, squinting against the light.
"Can't say it feels very good to be awake right now," he admits.
Majima was the reason. He didn't know if Kiryu was angry about that— and he wasn't going to ask. Kiryu didn’t sound mad, so why remind him?
Majima returned with the cup. "But here ya are," he exclaimed— “Kiiirrryu-chan!!"— shrill with new admiration. His arms went out to his sides, sloshing water with the motion. "What the hell are ya made outta?! Need me an armored vest made from that!"
He slapped Kiryu straight on the belly for emphasis, and Kiryu snort-coughed in surprise. He looked a little sick. Majima passed the tiny cup to him with both hands. “Here, here.”
Kiryu propped himself up to drink the shot's worth of liquid left inside. "Thank you, Majima-san," he said, savoring the paltry gift. He laid back with a pained puff of air. "Nishida filled me in. Said you brought me here. I appreciate you keeping an eye on me."
Majima giggled like a school kid. "The one's all I got, Kiryu baby! And it's gotta be on you!"
He was already planning gifts and favors to lavish on him (starting with dry cleaning… or maybe a whole new suit). Kiryu might have preferred it simple, preferred a "sorry"— but Majima would do it better his own way. To hell with Nishida's advice. They had nothing to discuss; Kiryu knew what they were about, and he wasn’t much of a talker, anyhow.
Once Kiryu could stand, Majima drove him home. Kiryu sat in front with him, exhausted, and listened as Majima blabbed about nothing the whole trip.
Kiryu said his goodbye and trudged up the steps to his apartment, where he stood fumbling with the key. Majima idled in the lot until he was sure Kiryu could get in.
Feel better soon, he thought.
Once Kiryu negotiated the lock, he shambled inside and shut the door, gone from sight.
Kiryu had made it. Majima’d spent so long anticipating the worst. Now, he was almost silly with relief. He hadn’t bothered asking any of Kiryu’s thoughts but, time and again, the man proved to be a goddamn good sport.
He prayed for speedy recovery; Kiryu was going to have to beat the silly out of him later.
Kiryu still has a mark on his forehead from that night; Majima’s got a clear view while Kiryu bows at his task. Slipshod stitchwork had left a jagged ridge across his temple. It’s not the only blemish on his face, but it’s the ugliest by far.
Head to toe, Kiryu is riddled with scars. Many have faded. Plenty more are fresh, silvery stripes on the buff backdrop of his skin. Anywhere Majima looks, he can find them: shallow scores, permanent creases, pocked flesh. He recognizes the divots from stab wounds, from bullets. All together, they weave a tattered but continuous net of old traumas.
No one else Majima knows has a body like this— one that so closely, equally, out-and-out reflects his own.
He wonders what Kiryu thinks when he sees them: those constant reminders of his struggles, of pain survived. Majima wonders how many he, himself, had made.
Kiryu reaches for him still— open-handed, not afraid to add more.
Neither of them is as indestructible as Majima used to believe. These days, he'd rather be on Kiryu's side instead of at his throat. When Kiryu holds his hand, he’s almost sorry he ever wanted it different.
Majima's got no taste for this feeling. He begrudges anything that bosses him around— and the tyrant emotion steals his attention and wrecks his shit every time it breaks in. But Kiryu doesn’t know; Kiryu’s just rubbing his hand.
The feeling is fierce and urgent. It flooded his senses back when he half-killed Kiryu. It overtakes him now, bursting from an unhinged, honest heart: Live. I want us to live.
Kiryu has slowed down. There's concern in his voice. "Is this alright?"
Majima must be throwing a vibe. He shrugs a shoulder. "No complaints, Kiryu-chan."
Kiryu buys it. "Is there anywhere you want me to go over again?"
Oh, Majima's got a few in mind: his kinked-up neck; his sore back again, every inch of it; the ankle he'd twisted; all the rough places Kiryu had made momentarily smooth with his touch. But Kiryu's spent long enough toiling for him. Time to be done.
Majima turns down the offer. "Nah, ya worked me over good. I'm all set."
Kiryu stares intently, searching. For what? Majima hasn't figured it out.
He takes Majima into his hands again. Runs his fingers through his hair then holds his head.
Kiryu's gone right back to touching, to treasuring. His thumb crosses the flat of Majima's cheek to skim beneath his bad eyelid. Gently, he explores what the patch would normally leave covered.
Once again, Majima is naked.
Kiryu traces back along Majima’s cheek; his fingers are fond of the shape. They slide below Majima's ear— that spot where the patch strap always chafes— and work delicately over abraded skin. Kiryu rubs small, careful circles, pushing relief in through the superficial discomfort.
His simple gesture subdues the onrush of wariness...
...and Majima melts.
So he doesn't resist when Kiryu kisses the nick near the corner of his mouth, then fully on the lips. Majima reaches for him. His hands constrict the flesh of Kiryu's arms— pulling attention away from his mouth, where desperation slips out along with his tongue.
Kiryu groans appreciatively. "Your lips… So soft."
Majima tilts his head, turning aside so he won't have to see the face that Kiryu's making. His response is all bluster. "Look, pal, I moisturize. I ain't a damn animal."
Kiryu chuckles against his neck. Majima has a sense that he's about to get on his nerves.
“The hell's so funny?" "Just you,” Kiryu answers, “being you."
He shoves Kiryu off. "Bite me," he grouches. "You all done fondlin' me now? Or ya wanna say more dumb shit and pick a fight?"
"All done," Kiryu affirms, leaning away. He brushes his damp hair back into place. "I'm surprised you sat still."
Majima isn't sure if he means the massage or the kiss or the rest of it. He grumbles a comeback and ends it with a tepid "Whatever." It's hard to spit venom when he's tired.
Kiryu taps a fist to Majima's chin, all for play; his knuckles barely move the whiskers there. He mouths a silent pow as the punch connects. "Ready to call it a night?"
Some other time, it’d make him smile; Majima just nods. "Yeah, let's call it."
Kiryu gets off the bed. Majima beats his pillow flatter and lies back.
Thank god Majima’s already comfortable. The booze has him dead-limbed and dopey. Moving around looks like a chore, but Kiryu doesn’t seem to mind; he hums with contentment, taking care of some final few details before they tuck in.
Kiryu gathers his underwear from the floor.
“Booo,” Majima heckles him. “Y’might be the only guy I know who puts his clothes back on to hit the sack.”
He stalls, holding the garment as he weighs his words. “...I don’t want to get in your way.”
“Pssh,” Majima scoffs. “I ain’t bothered by a little dickin’.”
Kiryu shakes his head. “Not like that. Last time I went naked, you tossed in your sleep and—”
“—Squashed the life outta yer pipe,” Majima remembers now. Kiryu’s face contorts; the memory must be vivid for him.
“S'pose a little protection ain’t bad,” Majima concedes.
Kiryu replies with a trace of sarcasm. "Thanks for seeing it my way."
He stoops to put on his boxers. His hunched, brawny outline is one of a prowling animal— one who’s been eating well. He’s filled out, healthy. He looks like he can handle himself.
Majima enjoys the view from where he lies in bed. This body is like and unlike his own— a complement in so many ways. He knows how Kiryu’s form feels pressed against him… It's a shape he wants to wrap his arms and legs around.
"Yer a goddamn hunk," Majima tells him.
Kiryu's smile is subtle, but there. "I know."
He comes back and says "Make some room."
Majima rolls over, accommodating without sass. The mattress dips behind him as Kiryu sits. After clicking off the bedside lamp, Kiryu rustles his way beneath the covers.
"Rest well tonight," Kiryu says by his side.
"Same to you," Majima murmurs. Ya earned it.
No more to be said; time to lie still.
Their night out is now, officially, over. Majima had waited half a month for this one. Kiryu always had more than one shitty job with shitty hours, and threw most of his time away making ends meet. The rest of his waking moments went to Haruka.
Family time was non-negotiable, but the honest wage bullshit drove Majima up the wall. He was ready to buy Kiryu's time, host style. He would pay Kiryu to work less— but Kiryu wouldn't take his money. Kiryu was still chasing the straight-and-narrow, and had yet to get it out of his system. Majima isn't unsympathetic; he's got hangups of his own. And now he's got a dark place all to himself to ruminate on that.
Even in a private room, the city is never truly shut out. Cold light bleeds in around the edges of the heavy-curtained window. The furniture becomes grim silhouettes; the doorway yawns into nothing; half the room disappears down the gullet of shadow. It will be this way until sunup, however far that is from now.
No matter what happens during his waking hours, the same old feelings wait for Majima in bed. Kiryu talks about fate; he treats it like a guide on their path, or the path itself. For Majima, fate is this inevitability. Fate waits for him here every night. Fate receives his head, winnowing the joy, the anger, and everything between— every event of the day— until only the hollowness and the black shapes of the room remain.
For a moment, Majima is in Sotenbori, back in the shitty little roach apartment. For a moment he's there, prying eyes all around and no fresh air. He’s there, tired— tired, but sleep won’t take him. The river takes him instead. The river oozes through warped floorboards, wrapping him in fog and fever. It wriggles in his damp skin, aches in his flesh, rattles in his lungs. The river swells its banks and plunges him into the murk.
"...jima… Majima?" Kiryu's voice filters in. It's not a Soten sound.
There's a hand on his shoulder— not sudden, not stern, but he still got caught somewhere he shouldn't be. That's how he feels now: caught, and dumb.
Majima isn’t sure what gave him away. He blows out the breath he was holding. "Mn. Just thinkin' about some old shit." His own voice is strange on his ears.
Kiryu wraps an arm around him. His rough fingers spread over Majima’s chest and press gently.
"You aren't there anymore," Kiryu rumbles against his back.
Majima gazes, unblinking, at the window. The light around the curtain blurs into a squareish halo. His heart pounds, leaping toward the hand that shields it.
"Yeah, I know."
They lie in silence. Kiryu's breathing deepens, and slows; he is starting to drift. Majima, meanwhile, feels more awake than he has for half the evening.
He wishes he hadn't come out tonight. Wishes he hadn't been so excited for it. Wishes he hadn't brought them to that nasty bar. Wishes he wasn't hurting now. No point to any of it, except for his stupid hope that it might feel different here at the end.
Hoping has never gotten him shit.
Majima is a subject matter expert on the danger of wanting things too much. Shimano taught certain chapters in excruciating detail. Sagawa reinforced the lesson: whatever someone invests in, whatever they desire, can always be snatched away…
...unless they're strong enough to hold on. And Kiryu’s strong as hell. That strength is bigger than Majima. He doesn't feel weak for admitting to that, or too naïve for trusting it to bear his weight.
He doesn't feel scared to make some room.
His inner voice mocks him; whatever he calls the feeling, it still sounds a lot like hope.
Majima clears his throat— takes a crack at casual, but his voice is raw. "Ya really got me?"
"Mm?" Kiryu rouses himself. The topic matters, and he battles to be alert. "I've got you, Goro."
On Kiryu's lips, his name is a wonder. Like line cast from the reel, his accumulated years come flying out. The semblance of Majima so purposely spun— filament by thin filament, over a lifetime— unravels all at once.
Out of that cocoon, he is soft as a worm. No more oyaji; no more -san; no 'dog,' no 'patriarch,' no precedence; neither honor nor disgrace; only, simply Goro.
He’s put himself out there now. Might as well go whole hog. "Even when we get rough with each other?"
"Yeah," Kiryu murmurs, "even then." He presses his lips to Majima's skin, leaving two kisses where his neck joins his shoulder, and he stifles a yawn. "You're a devil. You make me sore."
"Oh ho, Kiryu-chan, ya fuckin' charmer." Majima says it like a joke when it isn't.
Kiryu just grunts. "You tell me who you are. Every time we fight, and every time you come here with me after. I don't always like trading words… You know. So you give me something else."
"Yeah? What's that?"
Kiryu thinks for a moment. "Your time. Your energy. Your body..." He pats Majima's chest and teases, "You practically run to find me."
Majima has to laugh. "Obvious, huh?"
"I thought you were trying to be obvious?" Kiryu isn't kidding, and that only makes him laugh more.
"Well, ya sure take what I deal out."
"You're good at persuading me."
Kiryu's warmth radiates against him. Even if his head’s a mess, Majima's sore body responds to the touch. He pulls Kiryu’s arm closer and settles against him. Silk boxers slide over the backs of his thighs.
He isn’t surprised that they fit together like this; Kiryu has always proven himself a good match.
For right now, he welcomes the dark. It'd be too much to do and say all these things to Kiryu's face. In the light, Kiryu might even catch wind of what Majima has left unsaid.
"Let's get breakfast tomorrow," Kiryu offers, his voice sluggish with oncoming sleep. Cute son of a bitch.
“Convince me,” Majima counters.
“I'll pay.”
“Strong start, Kiryu-chan. I'm listening.”
“Hot coffee.”
“Yer losin’ me now.”
“Hmmm.” Majima can practically hear the gears grinding as Kiryu tries turning out another idea. “Shijimi and a big fried egg.”
“Huh.” That catches him off-guard— Kiryu remembered one of his favorites. He passes off the surprise as deliberation. “Maybe.”
Kiryu makes one last proposal: “You can sleep as late as you want, then we’ll have some fun in here before we go eat.”
Majima snickers. “Now we're gettin’ somewhere.”
The question is gnawing at him, so he asks. "You wanna stick around for that, though? Ain't keepin' ya captive?" One of them had real business and good people to get back to, and it wasn't Majima.
"Yeah,” Kiryu says, appreciating him with a drowsy little squeeze. “Thanks for inviting me out. There's something new to enjoy every time."
He can’t catch the next yawn; his chest presses on Majima’s back as he sucks in an enormous breath. He sighs— “Goodnight, nii-san”— and slips off.
Majima knew this was coming. It still feels too soon... but he buttons up the melodrama. “G'night, big guy.”
Once Kiryu is asleep, Majima steals out of the embrace and lies alone. The dark room swallows him again. He scrubs at his dry eye.
There's some minor comfort in the blankness of the ceiling. The A/C drones electrically in one ear; Kiryu's quiet, even breathing fills the other.
For a moment, he breathes along with him. The rhythm is simple to follow: In... Out.
Something new to enjoy, huh?
Funny. Majima likes Kiryu Time because it's habit, it’s familiar. These paths are safe to walk because they are well known. Lately, though, Kiryu’s been wanting to wander— wanting to try that something new. Wanting to hold hands so they don't get separated along the way.
In.
Majima doesn't see the places Kiryu wants to go. He’d rather bank on places he has already been. There’s comfort in knowing, even if the places are baleful and ugly.
They're holding hands on his blind side. Half his sight— half of him— will always be in the dark.
Out.
Piece by piece, night by night, Kiryu gives himself. Kiryu asks him to go deeper; Kiryu begs for more. He doesn't waste the time they get to spend together. And Kiryu hopes (dangerously, he hopes) that Majima will take what's given.
In.
Majima might take it— but whether he could give back is a whole other matter. This shit now, this TLC, isn't part of the deal. It never was. Even if he won’t give, Majima is no freeloader. He designs their evenings and, usually, they stay on track. The diversions are down to a formula: getting fighty, getting frisky, keeping arm’s length. Their arrangement isn't just good; it's good enough.
This is their life to the extent that they can live it. They're pulling in different directions, but they haven’t split yet. No point fussing with shit that’s down the road when they've got the here and now.
Out.
Kiryu has a point: it is a little new every time. If they meet in the same place, it’s fresh circumstances that bring them there. It’s never the same bruise in the same spot; never the same night together. It’s a new spirit possessing old routine. Each moment is original, worth savoring, worth exploring, no matter how many came before.
These moments with Kiryu are his preferred; he just breezes through the interims, killing time until they see each other next.
Still, he isn’t sure he'll take part in the morning entertainment. He’s more likely to slip out before the sun. Majima won’t linger in one place for long…
But for a moment, he breathes in time with Kiryu.
For a moment, he holds the air in his lungs.
For a moment, he could be held.
Kiryu has never brought up his disappearing act, never complains, and always invites him to stay. He isn't stupid; it takes a big man to keep asking. And his offer sounds nice, honestly: lazy morning, hot breakfast, a little fuck ‘n’ suck. Someday, Majima thinks, he might stick around.
Glad you're solid, Kaz. Something oughta be.
In...
Their nights on the town are rarer now. Majima can’t blame him for needing space to raise a kid, or to sort through his own shit. All the same, it’s been a bitter pill to swallow— bitter to anticipate the end. The fun won’t last forever but Kiryu, at least, is made to last.
Majima is just fucking tired.
...Out.
He takes a bet against himself: if he sleeps, he'll stay; if he can't, he'll go sneaking out as usual.
Majima closes his eye.
He breathes with Kiryu, and he waits.