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In Majima’s opinion, hospitals and prisons are practically the same. Think about it. Once you check in, it’s a bitch trying to get out. The walls are that nasty off-white that no one likes, and the food isn’t anything to write home about—barely edible, but enough so you won’t starve. Everyone’s dying to leave; some do, some don’t. And those who do would rather forget the whole experience ever happened.
Majima thinks he hates being in a hospital more than a prison though. There’s this feeling of helplessness—of weakness—in them that he can’t shake. There’s nothing he hates more than that feeling. But climbing down from the Millenium Tower, his knees give out more times than he can count. He can’t blame anyone but himself for what happens next.
“Kyoudai,” Saejima exclaims as Majima faceplants into concrete for the umpteenth time. When Saejima reaches out to grab him, his swat doesn’t hold enough power to kill a fly.
Weak.
Strong arms wrap around Majima’s waist, and his feet leave the ground. Overhead, the neon-tinged Kamurocho sky swirls in his vision like a kaleidoscope.
Garbled words drift in and out with his consciousness.
“Hold on, brother! Hold on!”
Majima blinks awake, instantly aware that something is wrong. He can tell by the paper-thin sheets that he isn’t at home, recovering comfortably on his futon. The eggshell paint on the walls is his next clue, but the nail in the proverbial coffin is the beeping of a machine somewhere in his blindspot.
It takes effort to turn his head to the left, muscles protesting with small shocks of pain, but he manages. He takes in the monitor, the IV bag, the patient chart with his name on it—and grimaces.
A hospital. Fuckin’ wonderful.
Beyond the monitor is a white partition, hiding him from sight. Or maybe it’s meant to hide others from him. Though there are no bars, it stirs up memories of chains and cages that he would much rather forget.
Majima fights to suppress a shudder. I need to get the hell outta here.
He attempts to sit up—and finds that he physically can’t. Apparently, someone thought it prudent to restrain him. He begrudgingly acknowledges that whoever the bastard was is right. If not for being tied down, Majima would be out the door faster than it takes to make a virgin come. Doesn’t mean he has to like it though. In fact, the more he thinks above the thick straps over his arms, chest, hips, and thighs, the more panic starts to seep in.
Images of dark rooms and crooked smiles flash through his mind. He hears the sounds of chains rattling, of metal bats hitting hardened muscle—fragile bones cracking. Majima swallows hard, remembering the taste of blood, his blood.
He feels like he’s going to be sick. Choking on his own vomit would be an embarrassing way to die.
“Hello?” he croaks, trying not to sound too desperate. He tries pulling at his restraints again; pain shoots from his sternum to his toes, rendering him breathless. Still, he shouts, “Oi, can anybody hear me?”
There’s the sound of footsteps approaching quickly; a door opens, and the partition is yanked back. Majima is expecting Saejima, or maybe Daigo, but definitely not—
“Haruka-chan?”
She’s all dolled up, wearing a skirt too short for the winter time, though her flushed face suggests she’s been outside recently. It takes Majima a moment to remember that she’s been making her living as an idol, one of those famous pop singers everyone seems to be obsessed with; suddenly the outfit makes sense.
It occurs to him that he’s never seen her in makeup before, and it invokes feelings he didn’t know he was capable of—mostly the desire to protect her from any man who’d try to take advantage of her innocence. But what is he thinking? This is Kiryu-chan’s daughter, after all. Protection is kinda the guy’s entire shtick. What would she need him for?
He’s still reevaluating his life’s purpose when Haruka hurries to his side, eyes wide and shimmery as if holding back tears. “Majima-san,” she breathes. “You’re alive!”
“Unfortunately.”
Ignoring the morbid humor, she reaches beneath the sheets to grip his hand; her fingers are surprisingly warm. Some of the tension in Majima’s body switches from lightning bolts to static electricity.
“I thought I’d lost you both.” As Haruka bows her head, Majima sees two tears fall from her eyes; they’re immediately swallowed in the sheets.
“Both?” he echoes. The panic returns with a vengeance as he realizes who she must be referencing. “Where’s Kiryu-chan?” he demands, trying in vain to sit up again. This time he ignores the pain, pulling against the restraints with all his might. Beside him, the beeping of the monitor intensifies, indicative of his climbing heart rate.
“He’s alright—he’s stable,” Haruka reassures him. She squeezes his hand as if for emphasis, but he doesn’t relax in the slightest.
“I wanna see ‘im.”
“I don’t know if—”
“I need to fuckin’ see him,” he snaps.
To her credit, Haruka doesn’t flinch. That’s the daughter of the Tojo Clan’s Fourth Chairman for ya.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she promises.
It’s enough to appease him—for now. Reluctantly, Majima lays back, his heart still running wild through his chest.
Kiryu-chan, what the hell have ya gotten yourself into now?
The next time Majima wakes up, Saejima is there. He’s staring at him from the foot of the bed, stone-faced, clearly unhappy about something.
Unfortunately for Majima, “something” could be a laundry list of sins twenty-five years long.
“Got a cigarette?” Majima asks, mostly to test the waters. He forgets about his restraints until he tries to move and can’t—again.
“Even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to ya.”
Saejima shifts, rising from his chair. He looms over the bed like a bear standing on its hind legs, an intimidating sight on a good day; even more so on a bad one. Majima has the passing thought that he wouldn’t have any trouble killing him where he lay, battered and bruised as he was. But that just wasn’t Saejima’s style. He had integrity. Honor. So did Majima, once upon a time.
“You better heal up quick, kyoudai. I’m already itchin’ for a rematch.”
“Let me up and I’ll take ya on, right here, right now.”
Saejima gives him a look that says he knows Majima’s full of shit—but ya can’t blame a guy for trying.
“Kiryu-san’s down the hall,” Saejima announces. “They say he’s gonna live.” Majima hopes his face doesn’t give anything away, but his relief is palpable, body sinking an inch lower into the uncomfortable mattress. “And don’t ask me to untie ya. I already told the docs you’re a flight risk—and off your rocker.”
“Bastard,” Majima grumbles. It earns him a rare smile.
Saejima turns for the door, and Majima almost begs him to stay—almost. He shakes his head, disgusted with himself.
Fuckin’ hospitals.
“Oi, Majima.”
“Mm?” Majima lifts his head, surprised Saejima is still there and trying not to show it.
“I’m glad you’re alive,” he says.
Something in Majima’s cold chest squeezes. Before he can think of an adequate reply, Saejima closes the door behind him.
Time moves differently in hospitals—prisons, too. When they’re one in the same, mostly, time crawls.
Majima isn’t sure how many days go by before he’s allowed to piss without somebody standing guard at the door, but he eventually convinces a nurse to ditch his restraints.
“I’ve got plenty of people outside tryin’ to kill me. This might as well be a vacation. Promise, I ain’t gonna run.”
He gets more than his fair share of side eyes, but somehow the line works. As promised, he doesn’t run.
He’s got work to do.
It’s late—long after visiting hours—when Majima goes in search of Kiryu. It takes some trial and error, but he finds him where Saejima said: at the end of the hall. The plaque outside the door says something about intensive care that makes Majima’s stomach flip-flop, but being in the yakuza, you’re used to expecting the worst.
He’s gonna live, Majima reminds himself. That’s what’s important, ain’t it? He tries to convince himself as much as he lets himself in, carefully dragging his IV stand behind him.
He finds Kiryu behind a partition like the one in his room, barely recognizable. He’s got a shit ton of wires and tubes and who-knows-what-else stuck to him, like some robot in an apocalyptic movie. His body, usually emitting a robust, masculine energy, is pallid and subdued.
Weak. Helpless. It isn’t the Kiryu Majima knows and loves. The more Majima studies him, the more his blood runs cold, fear seeping into his bone marrow like cancer.
If this could happen to Kiryu-chan…
He stops the thought in its tracks. He can’t—won’t—let his mind play tricks on him. This is Kiryu Kazuma, the Dragon of Dojima, Fourth Chairman of the Tojo Clan. He’ll be back on his feet in no time.
“Ya better get well soon.” He leans down, mouth hovering near Kiryu’s ear. “I’m the only one allowed to kill ya, remember?”
He stays a minute longer, standing there like a ship floating aimlessly in the middle of the ocean, listening to the monitor sing a steady staccato rhythm: Alive. Alive. Alive.
Haruka’s been spending more time with Majima than his own subordinates—ain’t that some shit? On her second visit he jokes that there’s only so much stale rice a man can eat before he decides to end it all. She smiles politely and nods, but returns later that day with a handmade bento, snuck in under a hoodie.
Majima thinks it’s the best damn food he’s ever put in his mouth, and tells her so.
She gives him a real smile then, saying, “Uncle Kaz wouldn’t forgive me if anything happened to you.”
He’s not sure what to say to that, so he pretends to choke on the rice. In retrospect, it’s not the nicest prank considering the circumstances, but they’ll laugh about it later. Crisis averted on multiple fronts.
It’s Haruka who delivers the news, three days later. She runs in, face beaming like the morning sun. “He’s awake!”
Majima jumps out of bed before he can think better of it—a mistake that brings him to his knees and leaves him gasping.
Haruka’s at his side in a flash. “Are you alright—”
“Fine,” Majima wheezes, waving her off. “I’m fine, kid. Jus’ take me to your dad.”
She does, keeping one delicate hand on the small of Majima’s back the entire way like he’s some infirm ol’ geezer who might topple over at any second. He would’ve cut off a man’s hand for less, but this is Haruka-chan so she—and she alone—gets a pass.
When they make it to Kiryu’s room Majima is breathing hard after moving too fast for his lungs to keep up. He doesn’t give a flying fuck about the pain he’ll be in later, though his still broken ribs are kind enough to remind him with every inhale.
The door slides open, and several heads turn, but Majima only has his eye trained on one: his.
“Kiryu-chan.” It comes out more like a sigh than his trademark trill, but he blames it on the fact he can barely breathe. Pulling away from Haruka, he totters to Kiryu’s bedside, ignoring indignant looks from the nurse and doctor in the room.
“Majima-no-onii-san.” Kiryu winces as he straightens, a detail Majima notes and stashes away for later.
“‘Bout fuckin’ time ya came around.”
“Excuse me, sir—” the doctor tries to butt in, but Majima puts up one hand, eye cutting over with the sharpness of his Demonfire Dagger.
“I’ve waited my turn. Get in line, doc.”
When he’s sure he can continue uninterrupted, Majima turns his attention back to Kiryu. “What the hell happened to ya?”
“Ah…” Kiryu’s confused gaze flits between Majima, the doctor, and Haruka.
The doctor puffs out his chest. “He suffered severe internal bleeding that required surgery to fix. That, along with lacerations to his liver and spleen, several broken ribs, and a punctured lung. He’s lucky to be alive.”
A noise emits from deep in Majima’s throat, something between a growl and a curse; Kiryu shrugs.
“How long until he’s a hundred percent?” Majima demands. This time, the doctor has his full attention.
“Well, that depends.”
“Depends? On what?”
“On whether he receives adequate care and rest,” he sputters. “On average, it will take approximately six to eight weeks for the liver and internal bleeding alone. Luckily, his spleen laceration was relatively minor—”
“Eight weeks, huh?” Majima whirls around and the room spins with him—he’s getting too riled up; he’s light-headed again. “Ya got eight weeks to recover, then I’m kickin’ your ass!”
“Majima-no-oji-san, maybe you should sit down,” Haruka interjects.
“I don’t need to sit down! I need this idiot to explain how he almost ended up dead before I could get my hands on him. Dragon of Dojima my ass—” His breath hitches, catching in his throat.
Haruka’s eyes widen, her arms reaching out for him in alarm; it’s the last thing Majima sees before his vision goes black.
The futon beneath him makes Majima feel like he’s floating on a cloud, which means one of two things: someone has either sprung him from the hospital, or he's dead.
He doesn’t open his eye immediately, afraid of the answer. Instead, he listens. There’s the pitter-patter of movement, likely someone taking steps in small, socked feet, and every so often there is the tinkling of something hard—plates rubbing together, maybe. He taps into his other senses, smelling the lingering scent of tea in the air, of freshly fallen snow through a cracked window. He feels warm—safe. The sharp pain he experienced before is now just a dull ache in his abdomen.
Dead, then. Definitely dead.
“Oji-san! I told you I’d get that.” There’s a hard clatter; footsteps closer together. “Please, you’re supposed to be resting.”
Majima holds his breath without meaning to; the air burns in his lungs.
“I’m sorry, Haruka-chan,” comes Kiryu’s mumbled apology. “I don’t like feeling useless.”
“You’re only useless if you’re dead,” she quips, and Majima has to swallow a laugh. Where she got her quick humor from, he’ll never know. It definitely wasn’t from Kiryu-chan. “Though, if you want to help, you can check Majima-san’s bandages for me. I know the medicine they gave him is supposed to make him sleep, but…”
There’s a pause; Majima forces himself to breathe in and out as naturally as possible.
“He should’ve woken up by now,” Kiryu grunts.
Footsteps grow louder and heavier—closer. Majima isn’t sure how much longer he can pretend, but he lets Kiryu peel back the covers anyway. Allows him to trail his fingers across his abdomen with an unfamiliar tenderness. It’s enough to give him full body shivers, ones he can’t suppress. Since when could Kiryu’s fists do that?
Suddenly, Kiryu’s hand goes still.
“Majima-no-onii-san?”
Shit!
Majima makes a show of squinting his eye open, exaggerating a yawn for extra effect; Kiryu’s big, dumb smile appears, making him shiver all over again.
Must’ve hit my head fightin’ Saejima, he thinks. Ain’t no way that’s normal.
“Are you hungry?”
Majima’s mouth goes dry; he licks his lips. “Starvin’.”
Kiryu withdraws his hand, and Majima feels heat rolling between them in waves.
Or maybe I got a fever.
“Haruka made oden if you want some.”
“Sure. I’ll take what I can get.”
They make eye contact—it should feel awkward, this close. Kiryu’s wearing only sweatpants, torso bandaged by Haruka’s expert hands, no doubt, and Majima hasn’t even checked to see if he’s wearing anything at all. But for some reason the closeness is a relief, a reminder that they’re both alive, for better or worse.
“Sit. I’ll bring you your bowls,” Haruka says, giving Kiryu the evil eye when he tries to stand and help. He backs down, sitting criss-crossed.
“Funny,” Majima chuckles. “Never thought I’d see the day Kiryu-chan started taking orders from a girl half his size.”
Kiryu bumps his knee against Majima’s covered thigh. The firm contact feels nice—for once. “Keep laughing. Pretty soon, you will be too.”
“Ha! That’d imply I’m stickin’ around long enough to be bitched at.” This time, Haruka’s evil eye finds Majima; he ducks beneath it (unsuccessfully).
“Doctor’s orders,” she says, somewhat smugly. “You’re under our care now, Majima-no-oji-san.”
“Haw? Tell me she’s jokin’.”
“Nope. Daigo-san agreed,” Kiryu adds. He places one hand on Majima’s shoulder. “Looks like we’re going to be roommates for a little while.”
Majima pushes himself into a seated position—it takes more effort than he’ll admit—and scratches his head. “Well, shit.”
There are worse things, he thinks. Could be in prison—or that damn hospital.
Kiryu’s apartment isn’t anything to write home about. It’s slightly bigger than a prison cell. The walls are bare, though they’re brighter and cleaner than the sterile, hospital-white that makes his skin crawl. Majima already knows the food is better thanks to Haruka’s bento lunches. Her oden reassures him of the fact a few minutes later, then again and again on his second and third bowls. Plus, he’s no longer dying (that he knows of).
Yeah, could be a helluva lot worse.
Whether he’ll want to forget the whole experience afterwards remains to be seen.
The first time Haruka leaves them unattended, Majima snags a pack of cigarettes he finds in Kiryu’s closet.
His plans are smothered before he can procure a lighter. Standing barefoot and bare chested in Kiryu’s small living space, he purses his lips in dismay.
“Whaddaya mean no smokin’?”
Kiryu’s eyebrows are drawn inward, mouth set in a scowl. It’s how Majima knows he’s serious; he’s seen that face one too many times before a fight. “The doctor said because of the damage to your ribs and my punctured lung—”
He stares at Kiryu, dumbfounded. “Fine, fine. How ‘bout drinkin’?”
“Can’t,” Kiryu sighs. “Not with the pain meds we’re on.”
“I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Shouldn’t have gotten captured then.”
“Shouldn’t have gotten your ass beat.”
An electricity crackles between them, raising the temperature in the room. In the background, a comedy show's laugh track plays on the television, inappropriately timed.
This can end one of two ways: a fist fight or an uneasy truce. Thankfully, Majima is more afraid of Haruka’s wrath than anything else at the moment, so he plops down on a floor cushion and focuses on the TV, giving Kiryu the cold shoulder.
Crisis averted—for now.
Kiryu exhales loudly in dismay, then groans with pain. In his periphery, Majima sees him clutching his side as he hobbles to the bathroom.
His initial thought is: Serves him right, the bastard. But the longer Kiryu is in the bathroom, the more Majima worries. After a few minutes with no sign of his return, Majima goes and bangs on the door.
“Oi, Kiryu-chan! Did ya fall in, or what?”
He waits. No answer.
Fuckin’ hell.
“Hey, don’t make me come in there,” Majima shouts. Nothing. “Okay,” he mutters. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”
The door is unlocked, but butts up against something large and immovable the moment Majima tries to open it. Between the doorframe and the crack he can see Kiryu’s half-naked body slumped on the tile floor, unresponsive.
Majima hisses. “Yo, quit messin’ ‘round!”
It takes a round of aggressive shoves to get the door open wide enough to shimmy inside, and even then, the small burst of effort knocks the wind from Majima’s chest.
“You’re—fuckin’—heavy,” he gasps when he finally manages to squeeze through. Lungs on fire, he kneels over Kiryu’s body and shakes him. “Wake up, Kiryu-chan. Ain’t nobody dyin’ on my watch.”
Majima knows enough to tell Kiryu’s still breathing, so that’s something at least. It eases his panic from a level ten to a solid seven. Shakily, he lowers himself onto the edge of the tub to catch his breath, which is when he notices Kiryu’s pants around his ankles.
He doesn’t mean to look, but how can he not? It’s right there.
“Damn, didn’t know ya were packin’.”
There’s a groan from Kiryu as if in response, and Majima unclenches the rest of the way. He doesn’t bother trying to process the complex range of emotions he’s gone through in less than a minute—all that matters is that Kiryu is alive.
That’s all he’s cared about lately, come to think of it. Because who would Majima Goro be without Kiryu Kazuma? A Mad Dog without a bone, that’s who.
He scans the lines of Kiryu’s face as he comes around. His confusion—fear?—when he sits up and finds Majima looming over him is borderline adorable.
Big, dumb idiot.
“What happened?” Kiryu wonders, frowning.
“Ya passed out.” Majima grins. “Even shittin’ is too much work for ya now?”
Kiryu makes a face, belatedly yanking up his sweatpants with a horrified expression. The narrowness of the space is made even more apparent when Kiryu tries to get up and nearly knocks Majima over in the process; he has to grab onto Kiryu’s waist to avoid toppling backwards into the tub.
“Easy, big boy! If ya wanted to climb in my lap all ya had to do is ask.”
“Majima-no-nii-san.” The way Kiryu says it, it sounds like a curse. Not gonna lie, he finds it kinda hot.
Kiryu is glaring down at him, and Majima’s gaze meanders up his body at a leisurely pace, hand still resting on Kiryu’s hip with no intention of moving it.
There’s a slight change in Kiryu’s expression when Majima smiles that Majima can’t quite decipher.
Relief? Exasperation? Pity?
“What?” Majima barks, suddenly uncomfortable with the silence hanging between them.
“Nothing.” But Kiryu’s eyes dart away and his face flushes and Majima knows he’s lying.
He’s not sure why he even tries. Kiryu’s always been an open book—it’s one of his best and worst qualities.
“Bullshittin’? With me?” Majima huffs. “Thought ya knew better than that. C’mon, out with it.”
Majima is not expecting Kiryu to place his hand on Majima’s head and ruffle his hair—what the fuck is he, five?—but dammit, his touch does things to him, things that he can’t begin to describe, and Majima is left reeling as Kiryu says, “Don’t ever change.”
“Wha…?”
Outside the bathroom they hear the front door open. Haruka’s voice yells, “Tadaima!”
Majima should feel embarrassed to be caught in the bathroom alone with Kiryu in a compromising position, but he’s still too busy trying to parse what the fuck Kiryu could mean by, “don’t ever change.”
He sits there a bit longer after Kiryu shuffles out to greet his daughter. He hears him give a summary of what happened while she was gone, accepting Haruka’s reprimands with far more grace than Majima would have.
The rest of the day is painfully uneventful. They sit around the kotatsu and watch TV; Haruka cleans, cooks their meals, and makes sure both men take their pain meds. Outside, Kamurocho life trudges steadily onward, undeterred by the two yakuza juggernauts missing from its streets.
Maybe it’s better that I don’t get what ol’ Kazzy meant, Majima thinks.
But Kiryu’s words run through his mind on repeat, keeping him up at night. Like a dog chasing cars, he won’t be able to rest until he knows.
He adds the mental note onto the ever growing pile and waits.
Majima doesn’t live with anyone else. So when he thrashes awake in the middle of the night, screaming bloody murder, he doesn’t usually wake anyone up.
No such luck this time.
Haruka gets to the light switch first, but Kiryu’s on his feet by the time she turns it on, body tensed for a fight and bat in hand.
Where was he keepin’ that? Majima wonders. He sits up, shaky and sweat-drenched, futon mattress and sheets soaked in nightmare fuel. Whatever torture scenario he was reliving in the past REM cycle is already a distant memory, but Kiryu doesn’t look like he’s gonna let him off the hook without an explanation.
“Whoops.” He rubs the back of his neck, not in the mood to rehash decades-old trauma. “This happens sometimes.”
Haruka and Kiryu exchange glances; she wanders off to put a kettle on the stove as he sits beside Majima.
Kiryu lays the bat across his thighs, tapping the metal with his fingers. “How often is ‘sometimes’?”
“‘nuff to make it awkward if anyone stays the night.”
Kiryu goes quiet, chin tucking to his chest so that it’s hard for Majima to read his expression. “What did they…” he trails off as if unsure whether to finish the question.
“Sometimes it’s ‘bout this.” Majima taps his eyepatch. “Sometimes it’s more recent shit. Y’know, Kurosawa wasn’t all that creative, but he had a few tricks up his sleeve.” With his sweat drying rapidly, goosebumps rise on Majima’s bare arms; he shudders.
“I’ll get you some new sheets,” Kiryu says. When he stands, Majima can finally see the troubled look in his eyes.
Majima feels the need to set the record straight.
“I’m fine, Kiryu-chan. I don’t need your pity—or anybody else’s, for that matter.”
“I know.” Kiryu stops, then shakes his head. “You’re a strong person, Majima-no-nii-san.”
He sure as hell doesn’t feel like he is, but he’s too tired to argue so he lets it slide.
Tea is ready; they sip from their cups without speaking.
Later, Majima will lie awake in the dark and listen to Kiryu’s soft breaths to lull him back to sleep.
Majima straddles the entryway in one of Kiryu’s puffy winter jackets, another closet find. This one Kiryu doesn’t object to him borrowing until he opens the front door and makes his intentions known.
“I gotta get some air,” Majima announces. From his wounded expression, you would’ve thought Majima had stabbed Kiryu in the back. “Don’t gimme those eyes, Kiryu-chan. I’ve been wearin’ these same sweatpants for days—your sweatpants. Ain’t no way for any self-respectin’ man to live.”
Kiryu nods. “If you’re going out, I’m coming with you.”
It’s a terrible idea, and they both know it. Majima’s actually surprised Kiryu doesn’t put up more of a fight. But truth be told, they’re both going a little stir crazy. With no alcohol or cigarettes to pass the time, there’s only so much daytime television a person can watch before they want to tear their eyeballs out—eyeball, in Majima’s case.
Besides, what Haruka doesn’t know won’t hurt her. She’s busy shopping for the week, a task that Kiryu claims will take her a couple hours. Plenty of time for what Majima has in mind.
Kiryu struggles to put on a coat, socks, and boots. He’s moving slower than piss on a cold morning, but the color in his skin is back to normal and he hasn’t passed out since that day, so Majima figures he’s on the mend.
It’s probably not a good sign that Majima still gets winded from the short walk down the flight of stairs to the street, but fuck if it doesn’t feel good to be outside, even if the winter air is enough to set his teeth to chattering. One glance at Kiryu tells Majima that he feels the same; the corner of his mouth is curled upwards, jaw relaxed.
After weeks away, it’s strange to walk through Kamurocho without feeling on edge. Strolling the streets with Kiryu and not looking for a fight feels even stranger. Thinking back on it, Majima can’t remember the last time he felt this at ease.
“What are you looking for?” Kiryu asks, and it takes Majima a second to remember why they left his apartment in the first place.
“Anythin’ that fits. I ain’t picky.”
Kiryu gestures to a store front as they pass by; the first thing he sees is a slinky sequined dress in the window, advertised as “perfect for a holiday cocktail party.”
“Tryin’ to get me all dolled up?” Majima nudges him with his elbow. “Didn’t know that’s the kinda thing ya went for.”
Kiryu looks amused. “It reminded me of you.”
Majima sees it then: a male mannequin beside the dress with a metallic jacket and matching fedora. He can’t help but laugh. “What can I say? Gold never runs outta style. Might be a bit uncomfortable for what I got in mind though.”
“Heh. That’s true.”
They keep walking, mostly because Majima is enjoying his newfound freedom more than he thought. He slows in front of the first PoPo’s they see, eyeing their cigarette display through the window with longing.
Kiryu follows his gaze, checking over one shoulder as if someone might be tailing them. For all Majima knows, someone is. He wouldn’t put it past the Tojo Clan.
Kiryu hesitates. “One smoke won’t hurt.” He pauses. “Right?”
“Nah. Jus’ one.” Majima agrees.
Probably.
A few minutes later they’re sitting on a park bench, passing a cigarette between them, happier than two kids on Christmas morning.
The smoke tastes bittersweet, burning with nostalgia and the comfort only a vice shared between friends can provide. For a moment, Majima completely forgets the events of the last several weeks: being held hostage, the suffering, not knowing if he’d wake up and see tomorrow, if he’d ever see Kiryu again…
“Hey.” Kiryu starts to speak and then stops. When Majima lifts his head, he takes a long drag, a far away look in his eyes. It seems like he has more to say, but he ultimately settles for a subdued, “I’m sorry.”
“Ya ain’t got nothin’—”
“No,” Kiryu interrupts with a shake of his head. “Let me finish.” He turns his body towards Majima so they’re face to face; no hiding. “I should have never let things get so out of hand. When I thought you were dead, I…” Kiryu spreads his hands in a helpless gesture.
There’s no stopping Kiryu when he gets that look in his eye; it’s similar to his fighting face, but worse. This expression is reserved for the people he cares about most, specifically when someone hurts them. He’d sooner burn Kamurocho to the ground than let his loved ones die—Majima knows this better than anyone.
Majima has his own version of that face. He tries not to think too hard about the fact Kiryu is now wearing it for him. That he made the famed Dragon of Dojima worry.
He fucked up. Of all the people to put Kiryu between a rock and a hard place, Majima shouldn’t have been one of them.
Pathetic, that’s what you are.
Majima snags the cigarette from the corner of Kiryu’s mouth so he has something to do with his hands; he rolls it between his fingers, watching ash fall onto his boots and mix with the snow.
Why the hell is his heart beating so damn fast? Must be the nicotine rush.
Majima takes an uneven inhale, spewing smoke. “Ya would’ve been fine without me.” It’s true. Even so, it stings to admit aloud. “I ain’t what I used to be.” Also true. “To be completely honest, you’d be much better off if I’d jus’ bit the big one. One less damsel in distress t’ rescue—”
“Stop.” Kiryu grabs Majima by the shoulder, eyebrows drawing into a deep V. His grip is surprisingly strong for someone recovering from multiple major surgeries. “When will you get it through that thick skull of yours?”
Majima laughs. It ends up sounding more nervous than intended. “What the hell’s all this? Ya goin’ soft on me, Kiryu-chan?”
Kiryu’s fingers curl and squeeze, applying pressure through the thick fabric of Majima’s borrowed coat. “Maybe I am,” he whispers. “But at least I’m not ashamed to admit it.”
Ba-dump, ba-dump.
The cigarette’s gone out, and Majima takes the opportunity to light another, fingers trembling from more than the cold.
“We said just one,” Kiryu reminds him.
“Who’s gonna stop me? You?”
When Kiryu turns away, hand retracting, Majima instantly regrets his words.
The second cigarette burns even more than the first, and not in a good way, but Majima’s committed; he’s created this mess, and now he’s gotta find a way out of it.
Dammit all.
“I don’t get scared,” Majima says. “But.” He passes Kiryu the cigarette. Thankfully, he takes it without protest. “I came fuckin’ close this time. Somethin’ about gettin’ beat to shit with no way to fight back takes ya right to the edge, y’know?”
Majima watches Kiryu slide the cigarette between his lips, smoother than a caress. Part of him wonders what it would be like to have those lips pressed against his; the thought is so intrusive that he loses track of what he’s saying.
“I wish I could have been the one to beat Kurosawa.” Kiryu turns to face Majima again. This time, his expression is one Majima doesn’t recognize. Whatever it is, it knocks the wind from his lungs quicker than a punch to the solar plexus. “I would have made him pay for what he put you through.”
Majima isn’t sure what to say—a rare occurrence—so he watches the smoke wafting between them and thinks more about Kiryu’s mouth, wondering how he never noticed its softness until now.
It’s a bit difficult to notice these things when you’re more worried about dodging punches. Or when said mouth is shouting at you mid-brawl. Or when you’re busy defusing a bomb. Or—
“We should probably head back. Haruka will be home soon.” Kiryu stubs out his cigarette and tosses it in the nearest trash can.
They walk home, shoulder to shoulder, forgetting what they came for and not caring one bit.
Later, Majima slurps his noodles when Haruka sniffs the air at the dinner table and does his best to look nonplussed.
“Oji-san, does it smell like cigarette smoke in here to you?”
“Smoke?” Kiryu pretends to consider it. “No, I don’t smell anything.” He even manages to sound apologetic.
“Hm. Maybe I’m just imagining it then…”
Majima lifts his bowl to his mouth to hide a smile. And here he thought Kiryu couldn’t lie to save his life.
Learn somethin’ new everyday.
The apartment feels strangely empty without Haruka in it. But they can’t expect her to sit around and take care of them forever—she’s got her own life to lead, even if recently retired from pop princess stardom. She leaves for Okinawa on a Monday, with instructions for Kiryu and Majima:
“Take care of Majima-san,” and, “Stay out of trouble,” respectively.
To which Majima bats his eyelashes and grins. “No promises, missy.”
Majima bids her goodbye in a pink bathrobe and matching fuzzy slippers, recent purchases from a trip to Don Quixote. He and Kiryu watch her disappear into the morning fog from the apartment’s balcony, a single suitcase casting long shadows behind her.
Once she’s out of sight, Majima wastes no time lighting a cigarette. He’s surprised to hear Kiryu chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
Kiryu rests his forearms on the balcony railing. “Nothing. Don’t ever change.”
There’s that damn phrase again.
He wants to ask, he really does. But he also doesn’t want to ruin their first true moment alone with anything remotely touchy-feely, so he bites his tongue and blows a series of perfect smoke rings.
Still got it.
“We should go out to eat tonight,” Kiryu says.
“Ya askin’ me on a date?”
“Not in that outfit.”
Majima pretends to be annoyed when Kiryu steals his cigarette and takes a drag.
Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.
Majima answers the door while Kiryu is in the shower. He’s lived in his apartment for almost a month now, so why shouldn’t he? He might as well be a co-signer on the lease. Or his house husband.
Now there’s a thought.
He doesn’t expect Daigo Dojima to be standing on the other side of it. Doesn’t expect the Tojo Clan’s chairman to comment on his outfit when he lets himself in, either.
“You look nice. Going somewhere?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a hot date.” He’s joking—sort of. Majima closes the door behind Daigo with a frown. It’s not like him to drop in unannounced, unless... “Trouble brewin’ again already?”
“No, thankfully. I just came to check on you both. See how you’re feeling.”
Sounds like a trap, but Majima decides to indulge him anyway. “Never better. I’ll be kickin’ ass and takin’ names again in no time, boss.”
Dojima’s nod is more hesitant than confident. He wastes no further time cutting to the chase. “I need to speak with you.”
Why the fuck did his stomach drop like it took a jump off the Millenium Tower? “We’re talkin’ right now,” he says, enunciating every syllable.
“Alone.”
“Can’t,” Majima drawls. “Like I said, got a hot date. Kiryu-chan would be beside himself if I stiffed ‘im. Ya know how he gets all emotional.”
Daigo’s tone downshifts. “Majima-san.”
Bingo.
“Anythin’ ya have to say can be said in front of Kiryu-chan.”
“Actually, it’s concerning him.”
“Then there’s no reason why—”
“I need you to convince him to return to the Tojo Clan.”
The water in the bathroom cuts off, and so does Majima. He stares at Daigo with a touch more animosity than is polite for addressing a superior, arms crossing when the bathroom door opens to billow out steam and Kiryu himself.
“Ah—Daigo-san.” Kiryu inclines his head, face flushed from hot water and maybe a tinge of embarrassment at getting caught in a towel. “To what do we owe this visit?”
Majima notes the use of “we” and smirks. He and Kiryu are nothing if not a united front against bullshit.
“Oh, just thought I’d stop by and see how you’re both healing up. If you’re on your way out though, I won’t keep you.” Daigo gives Majima a meaningful look that he deliberately ignores.
Kiryu’s eyes cut between the chairman and Majima as if reading the energy in the room. It might as well be an open book. After a long pause, he smiles apologetically. “Actually, we were just about to leave, but…”
“No problem,” Daigo says in a rush. “I’ll come by another time.”
The chairman sees himself out, and Kiryu gets dressed as Majima stews in silence. It isn’t until they’re leaving the apartment that Kiryu asks, “What was that about?”
It’s not like Majima to lie; lying’s for cowards and thieves. But something inside him says to keep his damn mouth shut for once.
“Ya heard the boss man. Jus’ checkin’ in.”
“Uh-huh.” Kiryu could press him for answers. Majima almost wishes he would; he’d fold quicker than it takes for takoyaki to go cold on a winter’s day. But Kiryu drops the topic almost immediately, switching to something safer. “So, where do you want to eat?”
“I don’t care. You pick.”
For Majima, being with Kiryu is more than enough. He won’t say what he’s thinking: heaven help anyone who tries to take Kiryu away from him again—god, chairman, or otherwise.
They stuff themselves with enough yakiniku that Majima thinks he might vomit if he swallows another bite, but more time spent chowing down means more time outside of Kiryu’s cramped living space, which means more time together, ignoring the demands of everyday life.
Daigo’s words gnaw at Majima throughout dinner.
I need you to convince him to return to the Tojo Clan.
He knows what that means: the Tojo Clan is worse off than he thought. He knows what it would take to convince Kiryu to stay—nothing short of a knock-down, drag-out, souls-bared brawl. And Daigo wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t desperate, but fuck, how does he expect Majima to convince Kiryu? He’s good—hell, he’s fucking great—but no one can change Kiryu’s mind once it’s made up. Daigo knows that. So why? Why would he even put it on Majima’s radar?
“Majima-no-nii-san?”
“Haw?” Majima’s head jerks up. He had no idea he was staring into space like an idiot. Kiryu is studying him with that little head tilt of his and an easy smile, and somehow it makes Majima feel like shit.
“I asked if you were ready to leave.”
Not yet. Gimme five more minutes with ya, Kiryu-chan. Jus’ a little more time away from my demons.
What he says instead is: “Yeah, let’s get the hell outta here.”
Majima follows Kiryu’s lead; he takes them on the long way home, winding through the Champion’s District. Strolling between overflowing trash bins and flashing neon triggers a Pavlovian response. Majima begins to crave whiskey so bad he starts thinking of excuses to slip into one of the many dive bars they pass, wondering what it would take to convince Kiryu to break their ‘no-alcohol’ rule.
To his surprise, Kiryu makes it all too easy, gesturing to the bubblegum-pink sign for Earth Angel, an Okama bar that Majima used to frequent when he first moved to Kamurocho.
“I wonder if Okano-san still works here.”
Without missing a beat, Majima replies, “There’s only one way to find out.”
Bells chime as they enter, and Majima’s immediately transported back in time. The same zebra-print stools and green marble bar top he remembers are dusted with the strong scent of spirits and nostalgia. Behind the bar is the trusty Mama and owner, Okano Ako, in that same classic red dress with its white collar and buttons that she always wears.
She greets them like a mother would her children, full of warmth and familiarity. “Kiryu-kun, Majima-kun! What a pleasant surprise! Sit, sit, first round’s on me.”
They’re ushered to two empty barstools, and before they can get a word in, Yamazaki 12 is being poured into two glasses over ice.
Majima and Kiryu exchange a look.
“It’d be rude to refuse,” Majima says with a shrug.
“One drink won’t hurt,” Kiryu agrees.
Majima is starting to see a theme.
“Jus’ one.” He grins as he takes a long sip of whiskey. It goes down smoother than any medicine—shit, that first sip could be better than sex.
Five more minutes, that’s all I want.
It’s a well-meaning sentiment, but a lie all the same.
It doesn’t take much for Majima to get drunk. With the combo of meds and weeks of sobriety, he sets a new record for getting shit-faced without even trying. He’s not sure of the exact length of time, but it’s probably under an hour. Who knew painkillers could be such a potent intoxicant when mixed with alcohol? Well, doctors, apparently, but Majima is the farthest thing from a doctor and three sheets to the wind.
Pathetic.
“Let’s get you home.” Kiryu’s words, spoken as if through a long metal tube, ping-pong in Majima’s brain and get stuck there.
Home.
“Home’s wherever I’m with you, Kiryu-chan.”
Shit. Did he just say that out loud?
He doesn’t have time to investigate because suddenly his legs are moving and the rest of him can’t keep up. Majima’s vision blurs like he’s taken a ride on a tilt-a-whirl and his hands automatically reach out to grab a hold of whatever’s closest—which just so happens to be Kiryu.
“I’ve got you.” With Kiryu’s hand to ground him, the spinning feels kinda nice. That is, until Kiryu hoists him onto his back to carry him out the door.
No amount of drunkenness will make riding piggy-back on another man okay for Majima Goro.
“Oi, oi, put me down, dammit! I ain’t a child.”
“You’re drunk. This will be faster than walking.” Kiryu, ever the practical one, doesn’t seem intent on letting him go anytime soon, so Majima does that only thing he can think of—he punches Kiryu in the back.
It’s not his brightest idea ever (he has the alcohol to thank for that), but it does have the desired effect.
With a few garbled curse words, Kiryu topples over, and by extension, so does Majima. They end up entangled behind a dumpster, narrowly missing landing in a suspicious pile of liquid that could be vomit, piss, or a combination of the two.
How romantic.
“What was that for?” Kiryu demands when he manages to stop writhing in pain.
With the world still spinning like an out-of-control top, it’s all Majima can do to take a deep breath without throwing up. He shuts his eye, hoping it might help. (It doesn’t.)
“I can do it on my own,” he eventually manages to moan. “Don’t need ya to carry me.”
“Don’t be an idiot. It’s no trouble.”
Majima can feel Kiryu’s hand on his chest—strong, firm, warm. How Majima wants to look into those big doe eyes of his that are no doubt studying him with worry, but he’s too afraid he’ll yak up everything he’s consumed in the last twenty-four hours to try.
“Majima-no-nii-san, you’ve been acting strange since Daigo stopped by.” Shit. He noticed. “I thought maybe a drink or too might relax you, but you’re like a rubber band pulled taut, ready to break.” Well, double shit. “You know…” Kiryu takes a shuddering breath. “There are very few people in this life of ours that I trust completely, and you’re one of them. I only wish you felt the same.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Majima hates that he understands Daigo’s ploy now. In a world off-kilter, figuratively and literally, one thing stands still and in startling focus: the Dragon of Dojima has very few weaknesses, and Majima is one of them.
“Better that I would’ve died in that hospital.”
“What?”
Whoops. Looks like that one he did say out loud.
Very, very carefully, he squints his eye open. As predicted, Kiryu is bent over him, eyes and mouth screwed with concern, close enough to sit up and kiss—if he had the inclination.
Which he doesn’t.
“I won’t be used against ya,” Majima murmurs. “I’m done bein’ a pawn in everyone else’s game.”
Slowly, Kiryu nods. “Me too.”
Majima shakes his head—big mistake. He groans, pressing a hand to his face, a hand Kiryu peels away using the same surprising gentleness he dressed Majima’s wounds with.
“Majima-no-nii-san. I’m too old to keep running. I need to be honest about how I feel.” Maybe it’s the alcohol, but Majima swears Kiryu laces their fingers. He opens his eye a little wider to look, only to find Kiryu’s face even closer than before, close enough that their noses are nearly touching.
“I ain’t runnin’. Can’t, seein’s I’m on t’ ground.”
Maybe he does have the inclination after all. The nausea is rising in Majima’s abdomen like a wave, but he can’t—won’t—ruin this moment. He’s not sure if he’ll ever get this chance again.
When Kiryu leans in to slot their mouths together, the world stops spinning. For a few glorious seconds, Majima is home.
The kiss tastes like whiskey and smoke, combining two of Majima’s vices with a third: Kiryu. He’s got a feeling that this is one addiction he won’t be able to quit.
Kiryu ends up carrying Majima back to the apartment after all. Two-thirds of the way back and after fending off some dirty looks with lewd gestures, Majima apologizes for punching Kiryu.
“Huh, I think that’s the first time you’ve ever apologized for hitting me.”
“First and last, so don’t get used to it.”
Majima can’t see Kiryu’s smile, but he can hear it in his voice. “Maybe not the last.”
“Ha. Always room for one more.”
Epilogue
Eight weeks seems like an eternity when you’re on the edge of oblivion, lying in a hospital bed, but in reality, it comes and goes faster than the changing seasons.
Majima stands in Serena’s back alley, savoring his cigarette. He’s burnt through a whole carton already, but he doesn’t mind waiting.
After being in the yakuza for so many years, he thanks his lucky stars for every moment above ground, even the boring ones. He’s learned that waiting is a luxury few can afford.
When Kiryu finally appears in his trademark gray suit, Majima flashes his Mad Dog-grin and spits out his cigarette.
“You’re late.”
Truth is, he’s not the least bit annoyed. He’d wait until death if Kiryu asked him to.
Kiryu knows this, but apologizes in his own way; steps right up to Majima and grips him by the neck, kisses him as if he’s done it a million times before—without shame, with the swagger of a man who knows what he wants. It packs the same punch as the first time, more than enough to send Majima over the edge, but it’s the eleventh hour, and he needs to make every second count.
Majima scans Kiryu from head to toe, relishing in the heat rising between them. “Ya sure ya wanna do this? There’s no goin’ back once ya turn yourself in.”
“I already told you—and Daigo. No more running. I’ve made up my mind.”
“Good.” Majima touches his forehead to Kiryu’s. “There’s the Dragon of Dojima we know and love.”
“We?” Kiryu sounds amused, hand squeezing Majima’s shoulder.
The closeness is suddenly too much—too real. Majima spins away, laughing. “What do ya expect me t’ do while you’re locked up in the slammer for three years? It’s gonna be reeeeal lonely without ya. Cold, too.”
He avoids looking at Kiryu when he says: “I’m sure you’ll manage. You always do.”
Maybe, if Daigo had told Majima the truth sooner—that Kiryu planned to turn himself in to the police for his past crimes—he would have actually tried a little harder to make him stay. Maybe, just maybe, he would have taken better advantage of the past eight weeks, told him in plain words how he really felt.
Coulda, woulda, shoulda.
“Don’t ya worry, I’ll keep your futon warm for ya,” Majima says, eye carefully trained on the vending machine in the corner of Serena’s back lot. Kiryu becomes a blur in his periphery, obscured by a sudden onslaught of emotion. “Jus’ don’t go gettin’ all weak on me, y’hear? It’d be real embarrassin’ if I had to stalk ya all over again once you’re free.”
When Majima feels Kiryu’s strong arms wrap around his waist, he half-heartedly attempts to break free, instead ending up pinned to the nearest wall. Kiryu’s voice whispers in his ear, “Don’t ever change, Majima-san.”
Majima whispers back, “Don’t ya know? Ya can’t teach an ol’ dog new tricks.”
“Then, how about one you do know?” Kiryu steps back. For a moment, Majima has no idea what to expect—until he puts up his fists. “It’s been too long, Majima-san. Time to put our healing to the test.”
Electricity crawls from the tip of Majima’s head down to his toes. “One more for the road? I thought ya’d never ask.”
Majima is airborne before Kiryu can say, “Bring it on.”