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Saejima mills around the grounds of Tojo HQ, unease quickly worming under his skin without Sasai to ferry him between points of interest. He’s not sure why he was brought along today—he’s getting added to the Family register, sure, but there’s been nothing for him to do, and now Sasai has been pulled into an impromptu meeting and Saejima swiftly ushered from the room.
Everything in the building looks expensive. Outside seems safer. Less breakable.
A few older men stalk the courtyard puffing away on cigarettes and crunching nicely raked gravel under their expensive leather soles. Saejima should learn how to smoke too, he decides. Would Sasai teach him, or would that be something that has to wait till he’s older?
A frown creases his face. If he’s old enough to go to HQ, he oughta be old enough to smoke. He won’t even do it at home, in case it bothers Yasuko. But it’d make him look a little more mature, and he likes that idea. Appearing mature is safer for him, too.
He works up the nerve to approach the man he estimates to be the lowest ranking, and is immediately tackled to the ground upon taking his first step in his direction. There’s an immediate instinct to apologize—he must have picked a man so high ranking that anyone approaching is a threat—until the presumed bodyguard sprawled across his chest reveals himself to be a wiry teenager with a dirt stache and wild eyes, and Saejima’s mouth clamps shut into a harsh line.
“Oh, you’ll do,” the kid says, perplexingly. “Be cool?”
“You little shit!” A pack of red-faced young men in flashy suits and reeking of cologne round the corner as the kid springs to his feet.
“Fellas! There’s no need to get your panties in a twist.” The kid says, his hands raised placatingly. “No one likes a sore loser, after all. It’s unsightly.”
“Bullshit! You had cards up your sleeve. Give us back what you swindled and maybe we’ll only break a few fingers.”
He glances sidelong at Saejima and sighs. “I don’t cheat. Ask my kyoudai here, he hates liars. Big guy like him would beat the pants off of anyone making false accusations, you know.”
Saejima stiffens. Great. Some dumb punk is trying to get him involved in a personal squabble. There’s a shiny silver pin on the kid’s chest, swirled like a whirlpool, and Saejima has no idea who’s family it’s for. The aggrieved party is equally foreign to him, their pins composed of a web of thin lines arcing around a dark triangle emblazoned with ‘Kazama’—or maybe ‘Fuma’.
He has no idea if that’s good or bad.
The tallest of the bunch steps forward, almost matching Saejima’s height, and gets right up in Saejima’s face. He whips his sunglasses aside and sneers, then flicks his eyes down to the pin sitting awkwardly on Saejima’s chest.
“Ha, you hitched your wagon to some Sasai Family shit-licker? Like I’m gonna be scared of a garbage third-string outfit with a pansy-ass patriarch—”
Saejima’s fist collides with the man’s jaw and sends him sprawling to the ground. It surprises him almost as much as it surprises the kid next to him, who bounces in place with glee.
“Oh fuck yes! Let’s tear shit up, bro!”
The kid leaps at the nearest man and catches him in the gut with a reckless, but brutally effective, flying knee. Saejima blocks a rushed haymaker and flings the man by his lapel to send him crashing into another, then lays into a third with a crushing headbutt to the nose.
Saejima is grabbed by the hair and takes a few dizzying punches to his face and a nauseating kick to the stomach before his alleged kyoudai doubles back and sweeps a man’s legs out from under him. Saejima doubles over to briefly dry-heave, then takes the kid’s extended hand to rejoin the fight.
A small audience grows. Sensing the shifting tide and unwilling to sully their family name by being seen losing with a numbers and age advantage, the battered men spit out some curses, and some teeth, and retreat.
After a brief moment of triumph the two of them also choose to quietly flee the scene; Saejima’s not sure how to explain this one to his boss, and he chews on the inside of his cheek. On a secluded courtyard walkway the kid glances towards Saejima again, one eye swelling and his knuckles bloody. He pulls out a cigarette and lights up, looking expectantly at Saejima.
He gets nothing back but Saejima’s narrowed eyes and slanting frown.
“I’ll, uh. I’ll get out of your hair now.” He says, apprehension starting to color his expression. He flicks the barely smoked cigarette over the wooden railing and hurries past Saejima. “You’re a real beast.”
“Oi, kyoudai.” Saejima snags the kid by the shoulder before he can squirm free. “Ya got somethin’ else I can call ya?”
The brief look of fear splits into a wide, bloodied grin. “Majima Goro, at your service.”
“Well, Majima,” Saejima rolls his neck until it pops, relaxing his muscles after the brief scuffle. He crouches down and retrieves the discarded cigarette from the rocks. “Teach me how to smoke. Ya owe me one.”
Minutes later Saejima is coughing his lungs out while Majima laughs at him and slaps his broad back. Minutes after that he’s being scolded by Sasai, who seems more distraught by who Saejima helped than who he hurt.
And within the hour they’re sharing cups to swear an oath to each other, officially kyoudai before either of their bosses ever hear a word about it.