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Yep, Majima thought for the seventeenth year in a row, this place is still a shithole.
It hadn't changed.
Children's park. What a reach. Small enough to spit from one end to another, dilapidated old playground equipment rising above grimy mulch speckled with used needles—he'd call the cops on any parent who let their kids play here, or, more likely, he'd step in and rough dear ol' mom and dad up a little to scare the idea right out of them. They'd never try that shit again.
Most years, the thought would be in passing. He'd come, do what he needed to do, and leave, walking out of the cold and into a bar or club, catch back up with his boys he'd driven off, you don't need to worry about where I'm goin', I'll give you somethin' else to worry about.
But this year it was approaching 10 pm, he had a styrofoam takoyaki container clenched in his fists, and for the first time in forever there were zero fucking homeless men in sight, so he was stuck standing in the cold, in the dark, in this piss-poor excuse for a recreational space for children.
Majima sighed sharply, glancing around, the styrofoam squeaking in his grip.
"What?" he muttered to himself through a half-snarl, "Did every single homeless just up and die?"
He had a tradition. No, not a tradition, that was too strong a word. He just had this thing, this thing he did that wasn't important at all, around this time of year, every year. In December and in April he would feel the mask tighten over his face, become more forced and less fulfilling. He'd be moody (well, all right, moodier than normal, he wasn't COMPLETELY blind) and snappish and distracted, alternatively distant with and then micromanaging his boys. So he'd take an evening or two during those months, a personal evening he was entitled to, and he'd do these little things to feel better.
December's little thing was to get some takoyaki from a stand—not that stand, that friendly little oba-san he never saw again, any stand would do—walk to the children's park, and he'd hand the piping hot street food to the first homeless guy he saw. He'd make a little joke, sometimes, or he'd just stare the guy down until he took it, and then he'd walk away feeling—well—
The tightness would leave his shoulders, a little. He'd let himself think about it as he walked home, and then that'd be it. He'd be good for a while, good enough to keep going, just fine.
But the park was empty tonight, and the few passerby on the streets gave the park (and Majima) a wide, wide berth. He shifted on his feet, agitated, the buckles on his shoes clinking just a little. He scratched his scalp under the band of his eyepatch as he did his aggravated little dance, shifting back and forth on his feet, before he pursed his lips, turned, and marched to the sole trash can in the park.
Majima stopped short before it and got as far as lifting his arm to toss the container in before he just—
Okay, come on, he just—
He—
Majima clicked his tongue hard, shaking his head at himself. He leaned back with a groan, bringing the container up to his chest and half-spun away from the trash can. Okay, fine. Fine! He was hungry, anyway. He popped open the container with his thumb, picked up a takoyaki by its toothpick, and popped it into his mouth.
He spent the next couple of minutes like that, pacing back and forth across the little park, intermittently eating a takoyaki. His pace was slow, considered, and he let his brow unfurrow, put his mask aside just for a couple of minutes.
He came to a stop in front of the little bench he had been avoiding looking at or approaching. It was just as poorly kept as the rest of the park, small and grimy and... and...
And it was the last place, THE last place where a fragile hope had sparked up in his chest. It wasn't all-encompassing—he still had that icy film in his stomach, that whisper in the back of his head—we're not getting away with this, are we?
He could ignore it, though. His mind had been racing with this plan he was piecing together. He'd bobbed and weaved and survived being blown up and stormed a fucking black ops headquarters and made it back home and he was here and so was she.
Majima stared at the bench, swallowing hard.
He could almost see them there, Makoto somber and smiling weakly by turns in her black trenchcoat, he in his open-collared tux, bow tie stowed in an inside pocket, managing some semblance of ease. They were right at the finish line, and now he just had to come up with one more plan to get them across it, to use his showman's magic to make them disappear.
That fucking dope that he was had made SOME progress, he had thought, enough to feel pretty good about it, enough to hear Makoto make a flimsy excuse to get away from him and read it only as she was still hungry. To not see the betrayal in her eyes. Sure, if she wants more takoyaki, he'll bring her more takoyaki. It'd only take but a minute, and then he'd come back and they'd talk more and he'd smoothly convince her to see it his way.
Majima could reach back in time and grab himself by that stupid fucking ponytail, to bring his head down into his own uprising knee, to grab himself by the neck and throw his ass on the ground before Makoto, to say yes and yes and yes, three Dojima lieutenant heads, not a problem. To be her vanguard rather than her clean-up crew, too clever by half, too clever to see that if he couldn't do the one, the ONLY thing she asked, then she'd just do it herself.
Majima watched himself speak to her, a smile flickering across his younger self's lips, and he stood and jogged off into the night. Makoto remained seated, he imagined, for maybe another minute more.
...
He took a deep breath, exhaled hard, and shambled forward the final couple of steps to the bench. He sank onto it, taking his own spot, and set the nearly-empty takoyaki container between them. His hands moved on their own, and he blinked and had a lit cigarette between his fingers, at his lips. He took a deep drag and exhaled up into the night, his eye half-closed.
Her blurred figure was still there, he fancied, just for a little while longer. The silence companionable, the apologies and vows acknowledged without needing to be said.
Makoto took a fortifying breath, sniffed, and blinked rapidly, her hand coming up wipe quickly at her eyes. When she stood, it was with intention, her head held high. Majima watched her stride across the park, fading into the darkness.
He took steady breaths of cold air, filling his lungs with it, the sting in his chest offsetting the sting behind his eye.
"All right, old man," he whispered to himself after a moment, dropping the cigarette end into the dirt and grinding it out. "All right. That's enough sentimentality for one year."
He snagged the container as he rose, popped the last takoyaki in his mouth, and ambled towards the street, pitching the container in the trash. He took one last look around the park, his gaze softer than it had been before, then turned and walked off into the Kamurocho night.
