Chapter Text
Kiryu lets go of a pent-up breath, and relaxes into the shower. He breathes
In.
Cool water rushes down his front.
Out.
It mixes with the water at his feet and flows down the drain. He plucks a small bottle from the shower rack.
In.
He wraps his hand around it, and holds it a moment before popping the lid.
Out.
Even though it’s glass panel, the world feels more stable with four walls around. The water is rejuvenating; Kiryu welcomes the chance to freshen up.
He squeezes a dollop of cream-colored shampoo into one hand and sets the bottle down. His palms glide over one another, lathering silk into suds. The weight of his tired arms adds a heaviness to the motion.
In.
A clean scent fills his nose. It's a familiar smell; he's been to this hotel enough to learn it.
Out.
His lungs and head are emptied. He scrubs his hair, and rinses it down through the roots.
"Cold shower, Kiryu-chan?” The voice trickles down his back along with the water; he isn't sure which is more bracing.
Kiryu's eyes snap open. "Majima."
He starts to turn. A quick tsk and a hand at the small of his back keeps him in place.
"Stay put, ya meat wall.” Majima's other hand darts out to seize the shower handle. He spins it with a flourish, and the water begins to warm.
Kiryu is still trying to process that he has company at all. Should he say ‘hello’? ‘Get out’? Something else?
He says: "Cold water is better for your hair."
So close-by, the cackle sends a shiver down his spine. Majima claps him on the shoulder. "Yeah? Ya read that in one of your manly-man magazines?" The hand drops from his shoulder to take a shot at his ass. On Kiryu's wet skin, the slap is especially loud— too loud for the small space— and so is Majima's hollering. "Hot damn! Beef and buns!!"
Again, Kiryu tries to face him. Majima snares his hips and stops him before he starts. "Wait a sec and lemme have a look at the goods, huh?"
"Hmph." Kiryu lets out a grunt, but indulges. He needs to catch up anyhow. Sometimes— and especially in close quarters— Majima makes him feel slow to the draw in comparison.
"Just look atcha— yer a fuckin' slab, Kiryu honey."
A hand trails up his ribs to grab at his chest. Kiryu shrugs it off, and finally turns around.
Majima's face is waiting just inches from his. Kiryu can't help staring at the non-eye first. Not with disgust, only novelty— the patch seldom comes off. Kiryu takes in a rare glimpse of soft pink tissue, nearly obscured by a drooping lid. The other eye, lidded by alcohol and the late hour, stares back.
Majima wears a droll smile. “Here I am,” he announces.
Majima's hands slide around his back and join together. Theatrically, he drapes himself on Kiryu's broad shoulders. “I’m beat,” he sighs, hanging limp. Kiryu has just enough time to catch an arm around his partner's waist before all the weight is on him.
Hot water pounds on Kiryu's skin. He's as hazy-headed as he was before he got in.
"You could learn to keep your hands to yourself," he mutters.
Majima’s response is demure. "I don’t hear ya tellin' me to stop."
"This is what got you in trouble tonight."
"Got us in trouble,” Majima corrects. “Don't deny your part in it, Kiryu-chan!"
“You started it. And made a mess." Kiryu pushes him away, and lets go of him once he's found footing on the wet tile.
Majima scoffs; Kiryu hopes the indignation is just for show. "Yer record ain't so spotless! Hell, I practically rolled out the red carpet for ya tonight, and ya didn't even invite me to come clean up!"
"Before I got in, you told me I could shower first."
"And ya got in first, didn'tcha?" Majima shrugs, wearing the look of a put-upon philanthropist. "You're just hoggin' it now. 'Sides, I made improvements: hot water, and company that can’t wait to get slippery with ya. You're gettin’ the true Majima Experience, free of charge! I’d be grateful. Now share." He bumps Kiryu aside to stand with him beneath the showerhead.
Kiryu rumbles in his throat. "The way you said it, I figured you’d get in when I was done."
"Ya sexed up my hair, Kiryu-chan," he chides, "and I gotta stay primped, polished, ‘n’ lookin' my sharpest!" Majima vogues for emphasis.
Kiryu scowls and points in his face. "You came in my hair," he snaps. Majima bats his hand away with an expression more mischief than remorse. "Ya had me shootin' like a rocket! Not my fault— that ass'd drive anybody wild if they knew what you were packin'."
Kiryu thinks back to the rounds they went before the shower— his face in the sheets, sweating everywhere, and Majima's dick enthroned on his burly buttcheeks. He remembers Majima jerking himself to finish; the high, tight moan bursting from his throat; hot droplets spattering Kiryu’s back, landing in beads or drizzling down from his crack to the base of his skull.
The universe must be a little merciful— Kiryu's blush goes unnoticed in the steaming shower. "Fine," he huffs. "But if you stay, you're actually going to wash off."
"Mmmn." Majima taps his finger to his lips, thinking. "I'm seein' this as a two-for-one special, myself. You get what you want and so do I."
Kiryu puzzles over the offer. "What I want?"
Majima brings a hand to his own chest and presents himself glamorously. "A crisp and clean me, as requested!"
"Hmm.” Kiryu’s not sure what he expected, but plays along. “I guess that's fair. What do you want, then?"
"Just some soap and a hand from my best boy. Whaddaya say?"
He shrugs. “Sure.”
Majima makes a spectacle of himself… often. Kiryu’s known him long enough to learn that, after the show, the actual requests are simple. They’ve done this dance before— so he doesn’t skip a beat. He scans for body wash and hands the bottle over once he finds it. "Do your face, then I'll start on your back."
Majima hums with approval, and gives him a once-over before turning away. He hands the liquid soap blindly back to Kiryu after taking his share.
Kiryu soaps both hands and sweeps them over Majima's tattooed shoulders. He massages downward, following patterns across his back. The pale-faced hannya glares at him through storm clouds and soap bubbles. The ink is strangely dark in places; up and down Majima’s side, bruises hide in the blooms and contours of color.
While Majima’s busy washing off, Kiryu checks him out. He isn’t thrilled with what he finds. “You got banged up.”
Majima chuffs. “Li’l bit. Butcha saw how it turned out for those poor fucks.”
“They wouldn't have gotten you at all if you didn’t mix your drinks and fighting.”
“The bar’s for drinkin’, Kiryu-chan. Can’t help it if some ornery bastard who’s drinkin’ there with us decides he wants to take a swing.”
Kiryu makes a disapproving noise, but moves on.
Majima turns around to rinse, and Kiryu starts from the top. His hands glide over serpent jaws and come away unharmed.
He soaps up Majima’s arms— first one and then the other. Noticing an especially dark spot, he brings it closer to inspect.
Kiryu matches his fingertips to a rosette of bruises on Majima’s wrist. Majima closes his fist; as he clenches, the flesh beneath Kiryu’s fingers turns to wiry steel.
“Admirin’ your handiwork?” he taunts. He twists and turns in Kiryu’s grasp, pantomiming their wrestle for a knife back at the bar.
Kiryu holds onto him lightly. “No one in there was worth carving up.”
Majima slips out of the loose grip. “I know that, ya old nag.” His tone is sour but without venom. “Coulda scared ‘em straighter, though.”
“They needed an ass kicking,” Kiryu admits. "But we smashed up the bar. I don't think we can go back there." He scrubs extra body wash into the musky pit of Majima's arm.
Majima sneers. "Bah. Sons-a-bitches had an ax to grind from the get go, so good riddance. 'Sides, you and me both agree on bustin' a guy before his mouth gets too smart."
"We don't agree on that—" Kiryu counters, working up a fresh lather— "or I'd bust yours too." His soapy hands scour Majima's chest with a touch as firm as his words.
Majima revels in the rough attention; his voice turns slow and dreamy. "Ooh... Kazzy, y'know you can bust me any time ya want." He sighs, and they settle into silence.
One advantage of giving Majima what he wants is that it shuts him up. To Kiryu, it's a private challenge: to make him too relaxed to sass; to let him enjoy the moment and be still; to come with an open hand and not be bitten.
He works his way down the flat plane of Majima’s belly, pausing mid-scrub to settle on his slender waist. Kiryu’s hands make the journey often— to pull him close, pull him down, crush their bodies together. This time, they simply appreciate his shape— graceful, tough and trim. Hard shapes cut from a hard life.
Kiryu’s hand lingers beside his navel, and he checks in before moving further down. “Do you want me to wash here, too?” Majima follows his gaze; he feels for the shower bar behind him and answers mellowly. “Have at it." He tilts his hips toward Kiryu.
Kiryu takes the invitation. He massages soap into the thicket of trimmed curly hair, then drags suds downward over Majima's sex. Kiryu scrubs him without friction, front and back, between his hands. His touch is measured, careful not to pinch or pull while he washes every crease of skin.
Majima hums as Kiryu pampers him, watching with a sly grin. "Bein' awful thorough with this one, bud."
Kiryu tosses him a look.
"You wear leather pants. Thorough's what you need."
"Fair enough," Majima snickers. "Y'know damn well where it's all been!"
His laughter gives way to a throatier response as Kiryu smooths two soaped-up fingers over his asshole. "Ah— tell ya what," he huffs, "you be as thorough as ya like."
For a moment, Kiryu mulls the possibility of coaxing the softness out of Majima's dick. Pressing on the bundle of eager nerves tucked away behind his balls. Teasing a finger inside him. Pulling him with skillful strokes, urged on by Majima's filthy words, until he spills in Kiryu's hand and thrusts himself into a slick, rewarding finale.
Kiryu chomps down on the flesh inside his cheek, determined to find focus. Majima's eye follows him as he leans in. Kiryu spreads a palm over his dick, promisingly, and speaks with sultry softness. "You can wait for my best."
His hand retreats to his side and he stands back. “You’re shittin’ me,” Majima complains. Kiryu catches a flash of disbelief on his face as he turns for more body wash.
For once, Kiryu gets to be the tease; he can see the appeal.
Kiryu wraps both hands around one of his thighs and spreads soap in long, reverent strokes. Majima's legs are columns of pure muscle, and even paler than the rest of him. Each bruise and scrape stands out on their surface— vandalism on carved marble. Kiryu reaches for the tattooed side, appreciating the taut shank and the way it joins to his sculpted ass. He’d pay to see this body— but for his wallet's sake, Majima had better not find that fact out.
Kiryu kneels to wash his feet. Majima props a foot on Kiryu's thigh so he doesn’t have to bend as far.
“Thanks,” he says.
Majima dismisses him. “You’re the one doin’ all the work.”
Kiryu runs a thumb along his instep. “You painted your nails.”
“Finally noticed, haw? I put it on for tonight. Musta been too busy with my ass and titties to scope out the finer parts-a this ensemble.”
He’s not wrong— and Kiryu atones for the oversight. “I like them. You always go to the effort to make the night special, Majima-san.
Majima points his toes to show off. “This shade’s called ‘Stripperfection.’ ”
Kiryu's seen it before.
On his birthday last year, Kiryu got a text: a club he hadn’t heard of, the street it would be found on, a time, the promise of a ‘special show’— and Goromi’s name, signed with a heart emoji.
He picked a shirt that was nice instead of a shirt that breathed. By the time he arrived, the June weather had his collar hot and sticking.
No sign of her— only a familiar-faced bouncer who waved him through. He dipped down the short flight of stairs, hearing music before he’d even cracked the door.
Inside, the music pulsed with a beat that hammered his bones. Kiryu scanned the room from the entrance: an empty front counter; a stocked bar with no tender; rows of vacant seats around a center stage outfitted with a pole; open for business and no one there, he guessed, but him.
Disco lights flashed across the dark polished floor and red curtain backdrop. He approached the stage. One booth in the VIP section was furnished; a table card bearing his name and bottled champagne on ice invited him, and he sat.
The music thumped, the curtain waved— and she emerged.
Goromi crossed the stage in a few long strides. Every part of her enticed, every piece stunning: a bright-colored thong and matching mesh top; platform heels; styled hair and glittered skin; a cloth patch sewn with a ruby-sequined heart; and legs on full display apart from a lattice of fishnet.
She stood, gorgeous and imposing, at the pole. If the bar were packed, she’d still command attention. She ruled the stage, taking charge of the space, spreading her dominion with threat and allure. And now she laid claim to Kiryu, holding him with a look that smoldered beneath glistening eyeshadow.
Her manicured hands curled around chrome and she pitched into a slow spin. Hanging weightless, legs fanned, she lifted her head; the heart on her patch sparkled and burned.
He watched as she wound the pole, intent on the dance made perfect from practice. Her body moved with the driving music. Kiryu swallowed dryly, feeling the rhythm of her in his head, his chest, the soles of his feet— Goromi everywhere.
The song drew to a close and another pounding beat took its place. She stepped down from the stage, poised and placid, to join him.
And she came without introduction, kicking a foot beside his head onto the booth upholstery. The open toe of her heels flashed with brilliant painted nails. Kiryu caught a shine of metallic purple before the heel moved to press flat against his throat.
Sweat pooled under his collar as he drank in what was presented: long legs that made Goromi tower over him; a G-string barely holding her in; and— though just a peek from his angle— a jewel plug, glinting in the florid light.
A view he’d remember, a special show, and a night he’d commit to memory forever: the night he got to touch the dancer.
Kiryu really does like this shade of polish.
He soaps between Majima’s toes, and squeezes his heel when finished— a sign that he’s done.
"How much do I owe ya?" Majima jokes. Kiryu switches to his other leg without comment, as tender-handed with it as he was with the first.
Majima washes his hair himself, and Kiryu leans back for some downtime. After a quick shampoo, Majima tilts his head into the spray. Kiryu studies the bare angles of his upturned face.
Another summer, years ago, they had thrown punches in the street. Hours after sundown, the night was still sweltering. Heat prickled the city until it turned mean. Majima must have been feeling that heat, too— after chasing him down, he greeted Kiryu with a ruthless attack.
Just as they were really starting to tear in, a fat drop of rain pinged on a nearby street lamp. More drops fell in rapid succession, drumming flatly on cardboard and concrete. A ripple of lightning strobed and was gone. The sky opened with an explosion of thunder, enough to make them both jolt as they grappled on the steaming pavement.
By the time Kiryu had clawed a narrow victory, they were soaked and grimy. One hand trapped both of Majima's wrists in an iron vise, and held them to his side. Majima only stopped squirming when Kiryu's other hand collared his neck.
Kiryu felt a pulse running quick beneath his fingers. Majima bucked, buying freedom and elbowing him in the chin. Kiryu slapped him across the cheek— only hard enough to sting— and replaced his hand at the other man's throat. He pinned Majima with his full weight. "Stop," he warned. "It's over." Majima's chest heaved along with his as they caught their breath; dazed and outrivaled, he nodded in concession.
Majima turned his head to spit a little blood, and laid there. "Ya fuckin' got me," he panted— half exhaustion, half relief. Mercury vapor lamps and neon signage painted his rain-splashed face.
Kiryu saw him then, really took him in: the jut of his cheek catching bursts of pink and yellow; his jaw, elegant but strong, awash in a ghostly blue; a black band crossing his forehead to hide in matching satin hair. Majima closed his good eye. The sleek surface of his eyepatch undulated with colors, in contrast against the dull dirt caked on his skin. His throat bobbed as he swallowed— grit, spit, blood— whatever was in his mouth.
Kiryu often struggled for what to say, but the language he needed came bubbling to the surface at once: Beautiful. Majima was beautiful, lethal, radiant, precious, vicious.
Kiryu felt a pang then, seeing him scraped up and subdued. I'm going to protect you, he thought silently. Goro Majima. You are going to live.
He freed his hold, rose, and stretched out a hand. Majima took what was offered, and Kiryu lifted him to his feet.
Done rinsing, Majima leans against Kiryu with a tired sigh. "Glad you're built sturdy," he mumbles; his lips and neat mustache graze the skin of Kiryu's shoulder as he speaks.
The walls of the shower, now entirely fogged, create a small and secluded space.
Kiryu wraps his arms around Majima, thinking a thought too soft to shape into words, and cradles the back of his head. Majima's short-shaved hair is velvet in his palm.
"I've got you," he murmurs.
Majima freezes at the touch and pulls back after a moment. "Yeah?" he says suddenly, "Well I got you too, gorgeous."
Majima grabs Kiryu at the base of his dick. He slowly pulls along his length and lets Kiryu slip from his wet hand. Heat trickles down from Kiryu’s core.
Majima gets on his knees.
"You’ve been so good tonight, Kiryu honey. Lemme return the favor, huh? Gonna thank ya proper."
He grabs two handfuls of ass and kisses Kiryu’s stomach.
"You can stick me wherever ya want, big guy."
Majima moves down. Each kiss inside Kiryu’s thigh electrifies him; his blood pumps insistently.
Majima’s tongue runs up his leg, and stays busy as he buries his nose between Kiryu’s hip and cock.
Kiryu braces himself against the wall. Blood rushes from his head, drawn by gravity to where Majima moans against him. He can only stare.
Water drips down Majima's brow and onto his lashes. He opens his eye, flicking the droplets off with a blink, and shoots Kiryu an impatient glare. The charm is working; Kiryu throbs beside Majima's mouth. He's hot. He's hard— but not too hard to see the scrapes that shine, red and raw, on Majima’s drenched face. Or the purpling bruises that mark his tired body. Kiryu struggles around a thought only beginning to take shape.
Patience gone, Majima punishes him with a bite. A burst of pain and intense pleasure blossoms from Kiryu's thigh. His hand leaves a desperate streak through the fog as it flies to his gasping mouth. His teeth latch into the heel of his palm. It'll leave a mark— but he just needs to bite something back.
Majima smoothes his tongue against the place he bit; its pressure is a balm for Kiryu's stinging skin. Once he's played nice, Majima begins to lick his way back up. Closer, this time, to his prize.
Kiryu swears. He can't think straight— but that's Majima's aim.
He seizes Majima by the hair and pulls him away, a motion fluid from years of experience: just enough to tug, not tear— just enough to mean it.
Majima's good eye flutters and he cries out in delight."That's the shit, Kiryu! Kiryu-chan! What are you gonna do to me?!"
Kiryu fixes him with a stern gaze. Majima stares back, brazen, huffing through parted lips. And again, Kiryu's train of thought jumps the tracks. He thinks instead about those lips. Pink, satin-soft lips that moan and curl into profanity. Lips that suck and cling, and— if he's lucky— seek his own for coveted tastes. Majima glosses over them with a slow and pointed tongue. It's a compelling performance.
Still, the urge to care is stronger than the throb between his legs.
"I'll fuck you right in the mouth," Kiryu vows— but relaxes his grip. "Tomorrow. Tonight, I'm giving it a rest."
Majima gets the hint and backs off. "My knees are old as shit anyway," he grouses. He takes Kiryu by the arm and hoists himself up.
He's got an excellent poker face; Kiryu doesn't know what's behind— only that he isn’t allowed to see. Majima yawns and stretches his neck. "I'm gonna lie back on the pillows when ya slip it to me. Let you do the work."
Kiryu nods and encourages him. "Sounds good. You deserve to let your body rest."
Majima slicks back a lock of wet hair, and turns aside. He clears his throat. "Hey, I'm startin' to prune up in here. We almost done?" The bluster in his voice is a poor match for his body. Kiryu would never tell him so, but something about him here and now— lean, naked, and wary— looks small.
His heart goes out to Majima— but he does them both the service of reeling it in.
"Yeah," Kiryu says. "We can be done."
Kiryu steps out of the shower first, and hands a towel in to Majima. He pats his face dry and moves on to his hair. When he looks back, Majima is roughing the towel over his head. He thinks of Pochi— exuberant and reckless, shaking out his fur— and chuckles to himself.
Majima catches him staring. "Ya like the show that much?"
Kiryu ignores the remark and goes back to drying off. "I'm going to look at those cuts and bumps after this," he says.
"Oh yeah?" Majima sounds surprised, but not opposed. "Whatever floats yer boat. Where we doin' this thing?"
Kiryu shrugs a shoulder. "Anywhere works. Pick somewhere comfortable."
Majima peels his jacket off the bathroom floor and retrieves his cigarettes from an inner pocket. He waves the pack at Kiryu. "How ‘bout a little break first?"
"Yeah. Hang on." Kiryu hunts for his lighter, then goes on the prowl for an ashtray. Majima follows him out of the bathroom and sits at the edge of the bed.
Kiryu joins him, setting the tray between them. Majima already has a cig in his lips. Kiryu strikes a light, holding it steadily to the unburnt end, and Majima sucks the flame through. Once the end is red hot, he leans back. Kiryu relaxes next to him.
Majima puffs. "You quittin'?" I only see ya bummin' one off me these days."
Kiryu takes the cigarette and answers, "Trying to cut back."
"Fair enough." Majima doesn't press him for more.
Kiryu takes a long but shallow drag. He holds most of it in his mouth, and hands the cig back to Majima. Smoke pours from his nostrils in two silver plumes as he exhales. From then on, every breath smells and tastes the same.
It tastes like disappearing down an alleyway with new bruises and an old friend.
It tastes like the dark corner of a bar and his hands on bulging leather.
It tastes like frustration and satisfaction— fullness that drives a deeper hunger.
They sit together, naked and still a little buzzed, sharing the quiet moment. A thin haze of smoke gathers at the ceiling. When he hits the filter, Majima stamps out the cig and sets the ashtray aside.
Kiryu breathes tobacco-tinged air. It's a taste he has known for half his life:
In his mouth and down his throat, it tastes like Majima.
He's always gone back for more.