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He thinks about Majima, missing. Disappearing off their little boat, in the middle of the ocean.
Majima has pulled these stunts before, defied death, time and time again.
But the thing that scares him — when he’s patching up bullet wounds, or pulling Majima out of the water at the pier, or trying desperately to run the family in his absence, or however he ends up cleaning up after Majima’s impulsive plans — is that Nishida never knows whether it’s real or not until it’s over. And it always feels so, so real, and it never seems to be over.
He thought it was done, at least for a while. There’s a few times where he was convinced that Majima was really leaving the old life behind. But Nishida has learned, after a few disappointments and a fair helping of denial, that Majima eventually, inevitably, gets dragged back into yakuza business one way or another. Even if he promises each time is the last.
Every year or so, like clockwork, someone new starts vying for power. He gets the feeling that the cycle might have started again, and whatever happened to Majima is a small part of a bigger puzzle — but that brings its own bundle of worries.
Before he can stop his mind, he’s frantically pacing the streetside like a madman and clutching at his roiling stomach. He can tell that the break he was supposed to be taking has already been ruined. The knotted tension caught in between his shoulder blades spreads in pulsing waves through his body, up his neck and down his arms.
Then he feels it. A tingling over his scalp and an itch under his nails. He stops in his tracks.
At first, he’s just running his fingers through his short hair, wiping away a bead of sweat or two that has formed and hoping the gentle touch will chase away the feelings. When that doesn’t work, he starts digging his nails in. The buzzing energy, the uneasy impulse, keeps spreading.
His restless fingers are soon searching, rifling through the soft strands and hunting out their target. He knows he’s overdue for another shave. Some of the hairs are barely long enough to pull. If he finds the perfect spot and plucks out a few, it will be enough to soothe him for the moment. He can imagine the satisfying, repetitive motion, and the grounding sting of pain.
But he hesitates, bringing his hands down to massage his temples instead. He knows that just a few strands is never enough. The anxiety will always return, the wave of urge will only get stronger.
His heart is hammering rabbitlike in his chest, and his eyes burn with the threat of tears that he desperately does not want to cry, especially not where anyone could see. He’s pacing again, but he lets one hand slip down to the back of his neck, and tangle in a tiny bundle of hair.
Minami is there, with his hands on Nishida’s shoulders, before he can even realize that someone is in front of him.
It startles him enough to make him jump and pull his arms down straight to his sides. The shock soon turns to relief at the sight of his friend, and a surge of shame at himself. His shoulders slump.
It’s an embarrassing habit, really. He spent his younger years hiding patchy bald spots under beanies and caps, pretending that his half-bare brows were natural, and not the work of his own anxious hands.
Minami looks down at Nishida, a not-so-subtle sense of discontent tinging his features, a slight pout with his bottom lip jutted out. He’s worried, too, and Nishida hates that Minami has to look after him when it should be the other way around. He prides himself on being the sensible voice of reason for the family, but he has to admit that fear often wins over logic in his mind.
“Rough day, aniki?” Minami asks, although he must already know the answer. His voice is gentle, yet gruff. Nishida’s helmet is tucked safely under his arm.
“…Yeah.”
He takes the helmet and places it carefully on Nishida’s head. Nishida raises his chin and lets Minami close the buckle.
His helmet is a constant. His helmet is safe, cool against his burning scalp. Hard, unrelenting plastic that doesn’t let him slip his fingers under even a smidge, and straps that make it difficult to get any leverage on the stubbly hairs left exposed. It gives a slight bit of pressure all around his head, like a hug.
Usually that’s enough to soothe him, but his hands still twitch, aching to pick at the thicker parts of his brows. That’s impossible to hide, though, and he’s kept them nice for so long…
With an arm around him, Minami leads him back to somewhere a little more secluded; a back lot away from the main streets, under the shade of palm trees. He takes Nishida’s hands in his own, larger, stronger ones. He interlaces their fingers. Nishida knows it’s partly to comfort him, partly to keep his traitorous digits in place.
“It’s been rough for me too, aniki,” Minami murmurs.
Minami must need the comfort just as much as he does.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Ya don’t have to be. ‘S not your fault.”
Nishida doesn’t really have an answer for that, so he stands there silently, letting the breeze cool down his nerves and his flushed face. He breathes slowly until he stops feeling the pulse of his heartbeats in his fingertips. The peak of the urge passes, and he’s left with the sickly, shameful feeling of the aftermath.
“I’ve done worse things when I was anxious,” Minami jokes with a hint of a smile.
Nishida huffs, sort of a laugh. The drinking, the burns, the reckless fights. It does seem kind of funny now that Minami has matured and learned a bit of self-control, but it really scared him back then. He hopes he doesn't scare Minami the same way, with his nervous fits and overworking and general frailty.
Minami gives his hands a firm squeeze, brings him back to reality. “But we’ll get him back, right? It’ll be okay?”
He sounds as uncertain as Nishida feels. Nishida nods assuredly in response, not because he completely believes it, but because it’s what they both need to hear. Majima was their lifeline, the heart of the whole family, for the longest time. He still means the world to them both.
But there’s always plenty of work to do — ex-yakuza who need guidance, a giant mess to clean up and probably more to come… So, even if they feel like messes themselves, they’ve just got to lean on each other and keep moving forward.