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The last body hit the floor with a wet crack, twitching once before going still. The air in the warehouse was thick—gunpowder, metal, the copper stink of blood so strong Kiryu could practically taste it.
Shoes crunched through glass and spent shells as he turned, breathing hard.
And then—
A sound, low. Choked.
“F-fuck…”
Kiryu’s blood went cold.
He spun around just in time to see Majima stagger, one gloved hand pressed hard against his gut. Blood poured down his side in thick ribbons, soaking through his suit, dripping between his fingers in long, slow streams.
“Kiryu-chan,” he slurred. “Don’t suppose ya got a spare liver in that coat pocket, huh?”
His legs gave out.
Kiryu caught him before he hit the ground, arms locking around his chest. He could feel the warm wetness of blood against his stomach, soaking through his shirt like ink on rice paper.
“Idiot,” Kiryu hissed. “You ran straight into the line of fire.”
Majima grinned, but it was all teeth and pain. “That’s what makes it fun.”
Kiryu shook his head. “C’mon. We’ve got to get you patched up.”
⸻
The safehouse was barely a room. Concrete walls, a sink stained with old rust, a single folding table covered in makeshift supplies. Kiryu kicked the door shut and hauled Majima inside, laying him down like a wounded animal.
The blood wouldn’t stop.
Kiryu tore off Majima’s jacket. Buttons popped and the fabric stuck to the wound with a sickening squelch.
Kiryu hissed when he saw the damage.
A deep gash across the ribs, maybe shrapnel or a jagged blade, the edges torn, slick, raw. Kiryu dug into the first aid kit with trembling fingers.
“You’re gonna need stitches,” he said, already pulling out a needle and thread.
Majima chuckled, breath rattling in his chest. “Oh, what, we finally takin’ our relationship to the next level?”
Kiryu didn’t respond. His jaw was set, eyes hard. His hands moved fast—disinfectant, gauze, gloves.
“This is going to hurt.”
“Gimme the pain, baby,” Majima groaned. “‘Been a while since I had yer hands on me.”
Kiryu didn’t wait. He poured antiseptic straight into the wound.
Majima screamed.
His back arched off the table, fists slamming into the wood, legs kicking until Kiryu grabbed his shoulders and pinned him down.
“Stay still!” Kiryu barked, his eyes wild with worry.
Majima stared up at him, panting, sweat dripping into his single eye. “Didn’t know ya liked bein’ on top so much,” he rasped, voice shaking. “At least buy me dinner first…”
Kiryu didn’t answer. Without hesitation, he dug the curved needle into the torn flesh.
Majima gasped—a wet, guttural noise that ended in laughter.
Each stitch was an act of violence. Thread dragging through skin, blood oozing with every pull. Majima flinched with every pierce, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
“You ever do this before?” he grunted.
“I had to learn,” Kiryu said coldly, sweat beading at his temples. “The hard way.”
“Bet ya practiced on yourself.” Majima hissed.
The final stitch pulled tight. Kiryu tied it off with shaking fingers and pressed fresh gauze over the wound. His hands lingered.
Majima’s skin was clammy. Feverish. Still bleeding a little at the edges.
Kiryu stared at his work. The jagged, crude line of thread across ruined flesh. The blood on his gloves. The way Majima was looking at him—raw, tired, but present.
“I thought you were a goner,” Kiryu muttered, voice low and ragged.
Majima tilted his head, lips twitching. “You ain’t that lucky, sweetheart.”
Kiryu grabbed him by the jaw—gently, but firm. “Shut up. Just for a second.”
Their eyes locked. Blood between them. Breath shared. The silence was deafening.
Majima’s voice dropped, hoarse and dark. “What now, Kiryu-chan? You patch me up, then what? Walk out that door again and pretend I ain’t under your skin?”
Kiryu’s fingers slid from jaw to neck, feeling the rapid beat of life under fragile skin.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But right now, I’m not going anywhere.”
Majima exhaled—slow, shaky. His hand came up and curled into Kiryu’s bloodied shirt.
“You gonna hold me, or you just gonna stitch me up like a fuckin’ corpse?”
Kiryu didn’t answer.
He leaned in, forehead pressed to Majima’s, and let himself feel it—the heat of him, the closeness, the bond that never broke, no matter how much blood was spilled.
Outside, the city kept on screaming. Inside, Kiryu held him close.
Not like a hero. Not like a rival.
But like something that had always been there, hidden beneath the scars.
-
The air was heavy.
Even with the windows cracked, the room was thick with humidity and the ghost of blood. A storm growled out over the bay—distant thunder rolling like a drumbeat.
Kiryu sat slouched in the single chair, shirtless, bruised, and barely conscious, eyes fixed on the man lying motionless on the cot. His fists were still blood-streaked, knuckles raw, sleeves soaked red.
Majima hadn’t moved in hours.
His breath came shallow. Skin pale except where the fever painted his cheeks raw. The sutures were holding, but barely. The wound had started to ooze again, the gauze warm and sticky.
Kiryu didn’t sleep. Couldn’t.
The second he looked away, Majima would slip under. And if he slipped under, he might not come back.
Suddenly—
A jerk.
Majima twitched, breath catching like a skipped record. His one eye flew open, wild and glassy, scanning the room like he didn’t recognize it.
“Hey—” Kiryu was on his feet instantly, grabbing his shoulder. “It’s me. You’re okay.”
Majima blinked. His body trembled beneath the sheet. “W-where—where the hell’re we?”
“You’re safe,” Kiryu said. “We got out. You passed out after I stitched you up.”
Majima groaned, lifting a trembling hand to his side. “Feels like you used fuckin’ barbed wire.”
“You were bleeding out, Majima,” Kiryu said sharply. “I had to keep you from dying.”
Majima coughed out a wet laugh. “You always were the sentimental type.”
Kiryu grabbed a rag, dipped it in cold water, and pressed it against Majima’s forehead. The skin there was burning.
“You’re burning up,” he muttered.
Majima winced, eyes fluttering shut again. “Shit. I hate fevers. Always get weird. Start sayin’ shit I shouldn’t.”
“You’re already always saying things you shouldn’t.”
That got a crooked smile. But it faded fast.
Majima’s face twisted in pain. His fingers clawed weakly at Kiryu’s arm.
“Aww man, I don’t wanna die,” he said, voice barely audible. “Not like this. Not in some ratty-ass room on a moldy mattress.”
“You’re not going to die,” Kiryu growled, leaning in, the anger in his voice cracking under the weight of fear. “I didn’t drag your half-dead body through hell just to lose you now.”
Majima’s breath hitched. He looked at Kiryu like he was seeing something he couldn’t believe.
“…You always this tender when someone’s gutted and lookin’ like shit?”
“Only when it’s you.”
Majima’s lips parted. He blinked slow, like he was trying to say something—but the fever was climbing, and his hand slipped from Kiryu’s arm, twitching against the sheets.
He started mumbling. Incoherent. Strange.
“…Back then, y’know… I kept waitin’ for you to say somethin’. Anything. Thought maybe you saw it too.”
Kiryu’s throat tightened.
“Majima—stop. You need to rest.”
But Majima kept talking, delirious and hot with fever. “I’d fuckin’ kill for you. Bleed for you. Always did. Thought maybe that meant somethin’, but you… you always walk away, don’t you, Kiryu-chan?”
Kiryu shut his eyes.
Something deep and ugly twisted in his gut.
“I didn’t walk away,” he said, voice rough. “I never could.”
Majima let out a soft sound—something between a sigh and a sob. His body shook under the blanket.
Kiryu couldn’t take it anymore.
He crawled into the cot, boots thudding to the floor, and pulled Majima into his arms, cradling him like something fragile and furious all at once. The warmth of him was scorching. His body curled instinctively into Kiryu’s, like muscle memory.
Kiryu pressed his face to Majima’s damp hair and whispered:
“You stay here. With me. You understand? I’m not letting you go.”
Majima’s hand slid weakly against Kiryu’s chest, fingers curling into the fabric. His voice was barely a rasp against Kiryu’s skin.
“…Knew you’d come around eventually.”
Kiryu said nothing.
But he didn’t let go.
Not until morning broke—and with it, the fever.