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For the first year, the sixth chairman did a hellova lotta screaming.
Not where anybody but Majima could hear him. He’d seen where the yellin’ and bravado had gotten guys like his old man, and Kiryu-chan too in his own way, and knew better than t’set himself up for leading like that. So he channeled old man Sera, kept his shit together in the office an’ on the phone an’ all. Seemed like a good way to wind up havin’ a heart attack, which Majima told him.
“They’re gonna know you’re this close t’blowing a fuse if ya don’t let it out,” Majima said, slouched down in one of the red armchairs of the main meeting room Daigo’d dismissed the rest of his officers from ten minutes ago. He was still sittin’ behind his desk, fist to the side of his head, pen in hand, not writin’ a damn thing on the same piece of paper he’d been staring at the whole time.
“I am,” grumbled the punkass thirty year old stuck in the Tojo Clan chairman’s seat. He looked the part, with his hair back and tie still tight, but that pissy look belonged to Dojima’s kid.
“Right, an’ that’s a problem ‘cause we can’t have ya killin’ some poor bastard when ya snap,” Majima said.
Daigo-chan didn’t laugh, not out loud, but said “that’s more your style, Majima-san.”
“Damn right, and that’s why I’m sittin’ here and you’re sittin’ there. I’m just sayin’ every guy’s gotta have an outlet.”
The chairman—Daigo-san, the boss—sighed. “I don’t think the batting cages are going to cut it.”
“Ya’d be surprised what a few good swings can do. Don’t have to go for a drive though, I’m sittin’ right here. Lay it on me.”
“We aren’t fighting.”
“Oi!” Majima hollered, because askin’ nice to play therapist wasn’t gonna work. “What the fuck’s eatin’ ya, Mr. Chairman?”
“Everything!” He shouted back, chuckin’ his pen off the side of his desk, which was a damn good start. “One of my officers is handing out bribes to cops without vetting them,” he hollered. “Another one thinks I’m too young to read a goddamn balance sheet, and another I’m pretty sure would rather have my mother back than me.”
“And?!” Majima roared back, on the edge of his seat and gripping the arms, tryin’ not to look like he enjoyed the show of Dojima Daigo shovin’ out of his chair and pacing back an’ forth in front of his desk.
There were a lotta “and”s. The Tojo was a goddamn mess, had been for a few years, and even though everyone knew it, that wouldn’t stop ‘em from layin’ the blame at the current chairman’s feet, inherited mess or not.
“They all think I’m going to fail,” he finally said, “and maybe I will.”
Majima’s gotten up at some point, stalked over to the line Daigo was treadin’ in the rug, took his chin in hand, and slapped him.
Not all melodramatic, that was Kiryu-chan’s thing. Seemed like a slapping kinda moment though. If Daigo could’ve scowled harder he woulda, eyebrows and lips all twisted up like he was either gonna kill him or cry.
He swung a fist fast and wide, more like stretching than meaning to land it, and then they fought. Daigo fought, anyway, and Majima gave him a couple hits in return but mostly just kept him movin’.
Every man needed an outlet and if Majima hadn’t expected to be Daigo’s he probably should’ve. He was the only remaining officer that the sixth chairman could trust, a shitty place for any decent guy to find himself. Majima’d given up talking things through over anything other than fists or whiskey a long time ago, a shit poor confidant and a general bad influence. A crazy old bastard had done this for him once though, baited him into lettin’ loose in private. Bout time for him to pay it forward, he thought, as he dumped Dojima Daigo’s ass into one of the office armchairs with a proud grin.
“Better, yeah?” He asked, wipin’ the back of his wrist against the sweat on his forehead with one hand and gripping the arm of the chair with the other while he caught his breath.
Daigo’s eyes slid away fast, lookin' to his knees while he pulled his tie the rest of the way off. “Yeah,” he coughed up, one of the one-word answers that belonged to the broody little brat they’d hoisted out of the club circuit. No use gettin' him to talk if he was gonna get constipated about this instead.
Payin’ it forward, Majima thought, gettin’ down on one knee with a grunt. He waited, canines out in a confident grin while Daigo looked anywhere but back at him. When he did, the vice grip of nostalgia got Majima by the balls.
He musta looked like this back then, back in Sotenbori: tie lost, shirt half untucked, split lip beggin’ to be licked, still breathing harder than he shoulda been. No fuckin' wonder those bastards had been all over him, if this was the contact high off young, hurt pride. In spite of the punkass attitude, hell, maybe because of it, it was Daigo's eyes that got him. He was everything at once, mad and sad and stubborn, like the only way he knew how to prove himself to himself was to let the world keep kickin’ him and getting back up again. And and a little unsure how he’d wound up with some crazy piece of work knealin’ between his knees.
“Ya wanna yell about it, we’ll yell about it. Fight about it, we fight about it. Fuck about it?” Majima shrugged. The offer didn’t change his face, but his soft leather eyes vibrated while his gears turned.
Daigo inhaled once, the kind ya take before dunking your head under, and grabbed him by the collar. Before Majima could even pretend to pull the brakes, Daigo was biting his lips and draggin’ him up by his belt loops into that armchair, still hurtin' to get manhandled all over again.
The sixth chairman learned to scream a lot in that first year. Sometimes it was at Majima, sometimes with him, sometimes for him. Sometimes hollerin’ about all the bullshit would do it. Sometimes gettin’ clocked in the jaw wasn’t enough to drag him away from the desk. Sometimes Majima had to bend him over it, twist his arm, and lay into him until he ran outta voice to scream with.
“Is this what it was like with the fourth chairman?” He asked on one of those nights, still young enough to be askin’ outta jealousy instead of mockery. Majima flicked the catch on a cheap Poppo lighter and indulged him.
“Well for one thing the fourth chairman,” he said, heavy emphasis on the technicality, “didn’t ever sit in this office. An’ for another, Kiryu-chan’s got the body and sex appeal of a brick wall,” he snorted.
“I wouldn’t put intimacy with architecture beyond you,” Dojima said, covering a wry smile by inhaling the flame through the end of a cigarette while he retied his tie absently.
“Don’t say that boss,” Majima snickered. He called him boss more often than not now as the nights that punk kid who needed a security dick got farther apart. “Ya got more personality than that.”
By the end of that first year, the sixth chairman had sorted his own shit out. He’d found other outlets and better habits. He still relied on Majima more than anyone else, but the vice grip on the only guy keepin’ his head above water relaxed when he figured out how to swim for himself.