Chapter Text
It was strange, Kiryu thought, how Sotenbori felt like both an old friend, yet wildly unfamiliar. The strips of neon lights and seedy clubs bathed him in a glow, almost like a warm hug, and beneath it, the city’s heartbeat thumped with the same sleazy, booze-soaked violence as Kamurocho. Two sides of the same, grimy, hundred yen coin.
He liked to close his eyes, just to listen, the city’s soundtrack thick in his ears like a drum. Not so different, after all. The sizzle of takoyaki, hissing over an open grill; the sound of drunken laughter, spilling from open bars; even the soft jingle that welcomed him at every Poppo store, note for note: some things never changed, no matter how far south you went.
But eventually—inevitably—he’d be reminded how far from home he’d really come. The crowds pulled at him, but never in the direction he expected. The rolling Kansai accents caught him off guard, every sentence sing-song. Even the air tasted different here—a little sweeter, river-humid, and heavier on his tongue.
Still, it was more or less the same place he’d visited over a decade ago. The Grand still stood, proud and haughty, glowing sign perched atop its head like a gilded crown, and the M-Stores were exactly where he remembered they’d be. More importantly, to his relief, it was still the Omi stronghold he’d hoped it was. In Kamurocho, every man, Tojo or otherwise, knew Kiryu’s name, his face, and his history. Here, if he kept his head down, they barely gave him a second glance.
“A fresh start,” Haruka had called it.
“I sure hope so,” he’d replied.
He’d wanted to put as much distance as possible between him and the city that had raised him, chewed him up and spit him out, tired and battle-worn, branding him with names he’d never asked for: Patriarch Killer, Fourth Chairman, and the ever inescapable Dragon of Dojima.
He’d wanted, for the first time in more than ten years, just to be Kiryu Kazuma.
He had hardly any belongings: growing up in an orphanage tended to make you painfully frugal and allergic to excess. It all fit neatly in a medium-sized bag, slung heavy on his shoulder as he boarded the train, one way ticket clutched in one hand, and Haruka’s tiny fingers in the other.
Now arriving at Shin-Osaka.
Haruka had been enrolled in the local school, and with her bubbly demeanour and unwavering enthusiasm, she’d settled in fast, if her endless tales of fourth grade tomfoolery were anything to go by; he’d paid the rent for their little two bedroom apartment til the end of April, with whatever remained in his bank account; all that was left, really, was for Kiryu to find his purpose and raison d’être for the 18 or so hours he spent awake.
In other words, a job.
Excruciatingly difficult, as it turned out, for someone who’d spent the majority of their life partaking in petty crime and protection racketeering.
But Kiryu was anything, if not persistent.
He pored over the local newspaper at least twice a week, heading straight to the classifieds section on page 18 every time. His afternoons were spent in a stiff suit and tie, trying to convince hiring managers that the 10 year gap in his resume was, uh, “character building”. Most, unfortunately, remained unconvinced, and more than once, he’d been straight up asked: “Ya sure yer not yakuza?”
“I’m just trying to live a clean, honest life,” Kiryu replied, eyes downcast, to a knowing nod and a nervous shuffle of papers.
Better luck next time.
At some point, he’d even applied to the Smile Burger off East Shofukucho, sliding a copy of his resume to the visibly confused, freckled teenage girl behind the cashier.
“Sorry, mister, but we only accept job applications online now,” she said apologetically, sliding it right back.
“Online?”
“It should be the first link when ya google ‘Smile Burger Sotenbori jobs’.”
Link? Google? Kiryu’s head spun.
“Right. Got it. Thanks,” he finally said, despite the fact that he did not, in fact, get it.
Haruka giggled several times over their modest dinner of rice and curry (the third time, this week) before explaining to him what a search engine was.
“She’s right though, Uncle Kaz,” she said, chasing a piece of carrot with her chopsticks. “Everything is on the internet now. There’s probably ten times the amount of jobs posted online than at the back of a newspaper.”
“So how do I get… On the line?”
“Online,” Haruka corrected gently. “I think I can borrow a laptop from the school library for you. But you can just think of it like a really big mobile phone.”
Kiryu frowned. He wasn’t all that good at using those, either, but hell. He didn’t know how many more curry dinners he had left in him.
“When I get a job, let’s go for sushi,” he promised. “All you can eat.”
Haruka beamed as she spooned herself a second serving.
***
“Do you know where I could find some…” Kiryu checked the note Haruka had scribbled on his palm before he’d dropped her off at school that morning. “Wiffy?”
The woman who’d pitied him enough to stop raised a meticulously plucked eyebrow at him. “A what now?”
“The thing to get me onto the internet.”
“Oh, Wi-Fi?”
He nodded sagely as if he had any idea what she was referring to.
“Most of the cafes here should let ya connect if ya buy a drink,” she said. “Like that one jus’ over there.”
Kiryu followed the end of her manicured finger to a small, cozy looking establishment, its old-fashioned wooden doors propped open beneath a stretch of jauntily coloured awning. CAFE ALPS, it declared, and the deep, nutty aroma of roasted coffee beans beckoned to him gently, even from across the road. He straightened up, relieved to have found something he finally recognised amongst the soup of twenty-first century jargon that was swimming in his brain.
Plus, he wouldn’t mind something to drink.
A bell tinkled distantly as he walked in, briefcase tucked under his arm. It was brightly lit, sunlight streaming through the wide, well-kept windows, and the soft notes of a Rachmaninoff piano concerto drifted from somewhere behind the counter. The shop was almost empty, save for a couple nestled in the back corner, and the lone worker on duty, only the top of his head visible from behind a rather elaborate looking coffee-making contraption.
“Welcome,” came the lilting Kansai drawl. “What can I get ya?”
The man slunk forwards into view, and Kiryu blinked, his words stalling in his throat. Slender and tall, the man stood eye-to-eye with him, which was already a rare occasion in itself; but the most striking thing was—well, there was only one eye left to hold his gaze. An eyepatch covered the man’s other eye, thin band disappearing into a mop of dark hair, falling in soft strands over his temples.
He cleared his throat. “You lost or somethin’, big guy?”
“No,” Kiryu said quickly, putting his briefcase down on the counter. “I’ll have, um, a double shot of espresso. Extra hot.”
A smirk.
“Comin’ right up.”
Kiryu sat as the man busied himself with his order, arms gliding in fluid, well-practiced movements over a myriad of levers and buttons so alien-looking they would have put Kiryu into a coma. He started with the beans, first, grinding them into a fine, sooty powder; Kiryu watched, fascinated as the man tamped it down into a smooth puck, twisting the filter into the machine like a wrench. It whirred to life under his touch, a low, steady purr, as finally, the first drops of coffee pooled slowly like molasses into his cup.
Kiryu had never been much of a coffee guy. He had his vices, sure: they were alcohol, nicotine, and sometimes, punching through a gang of rowdy punks so hard they’d regret being born. But for all his thirty-nine years on earth, he had so far avoided developing a crippling dependency on a 7 a.m serving of ground beans and hot water.
But maybe, he thought, catching the man’s eye again as he slid the steaming cup over the counter, it was time he started.
He noticed, for the first time, that the man was wearing leather gloves.
“Double espresso, extra hot, for—?”
“Kiryu,” he said, and the man’s smile widened.
“Kiryu-san, then.”
Kiryu nodded over his coffee. It was hot and bitter on his tongue, scalding the last remnants of his morning cigarette off his tastebuds. Exactly the way he liked it.
“New in town?”
“How’d you know?”
A single, dark eye swept over the neatly gelled hair and sharp ridge of Kiryu’s brow, lingering briefly over the stretch of tanned skin across his collarbones, framed by the buttons of the wine-coloured shirt he’d left undone.
“Guy with a face like yours, ain’t somethin’ I’d forget.”
“Oh.” Kiryu frowned. “Why? Is there something wrong with it?”
He was met with a slow blink and a bewildered stare. “No—I’m sayin’—damn, are ya stupid or somethin’? It’s a compliment.”
Huh.
“Is that how you usually talk to paying customers?” But he was smirking now, too.
“Tch.” The man rolled his eye, crossing his arms over his apron. “It ain’t, but ya haven’t paid yet, have ya?”
“Well, I was planning on it.”
The man stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “So if I tell ya it’s on the house, you’ll let me call ya whatever I want?”
The logic wasn’t exactly watertight, but Kiryu was in a financial position where he’d happily overlook a bit of flawed reasoning to save a couple hundred yen.
“Deal.”
“Fantastic. Enjoy the drink, Kiryu-chan.”
Kiryu opened his mouth to reply — wait, not like that — but before he could, the door bell tinkled, signalling the arrival of another customer, and the man moved to begin his espresso-pulling ritual once again.
“Just one more thing,” Kiryu said, finally remembering why he was even here, trading the remnants of his dignity for a free cup of coffee from a one-eyed barista in the first place. Pulling the laptop from his briefcase, he stole another glance at the now-smudged note on his palm.
“Hm?”
“I wanted to ask… If it’s quite alright… Can I get your—um—”
The man’s eyebrows rose, and he leaned forwards on the counter, close enough for Kiryu to smell the cologne on his skin, sweet and woody and slightly of tobacco.
Kiryu swallowed, his train of thought stumbling over itself.
“…Wi-Fi password?”
The man huffed.
“Free drink and now ya want the damn Wi-Fi, too? Yer bleedin’ me dry here, Kiryu-chan,” he grumbled. “It’s Cafe Alps, one-two-three, all caps, no spaces.”
“Thanks.” Kiryu gave a grateful smile. “And your name?”
“Majima.”
“Majima,” Kiryu repeated. “You make really good coffee, Majima-san.”
The grin returned.
“Don’t I know it,” Majima said.
***
The internet was slow and confusing and, Kiryu was sure, some cursed invention that had been dredged up from the deepest levels of hell. Still, as usual, he persisted, and by the time afternoon rolled around, he’d successfully created an email address and learnt that he didn’t have to sign off every google search with his full name.
He punctuated his struggles with the occasional, furtive (or so he hoped) glance at his barista; he could feel Majima doing the same between the slow trickle of customers that wandered into the shop. The man was fairly personable, and happily engaged in small talk with most patrons, Kiryu noticed, but rarely did Majima’s smile go beyond a slight twitch of the lips, and never into the toothy grin he’d flashed at Kiryu at least three times earlier on.
“Can I clean that up for ya?”
At some point, Kiryu had downed the last drop of his coffee, and Majima, with his uncanny ability to appear silently and suddenly in front of him, was already there to whisk his empty cup away.
“Go ahead,” Kiryu said. “It was probably one of the better coffees I’ve ever had.”
Majima gave a dry smile. “I’m real flattered, Kiryu-chan, but ya only gotta tell me once. Can’t make it any more free.”
“I’d say so even if it wasn’t.”
“Would ya now.”
He’d turned around to place the cup and saucer in the sink; Kiryu couldn’t read his expression any more.
“I guess the bar’s pretty low. I normally just buy a couple of cans of Boss from vending machine and call it a day.”
“That’s no way fer a man to live.” Majima returned with a damp cloth, and was now wiping down the counter with a brutal efficiency. “Can’t give ya free drinks forever, but swear you’ll stop drinkin’ that hundred-yen sewer water. Nothin’ beats a real coffee, made fresh to order.”
“I can’t help but think you’re a little financially motivated to say that.”
Majima chuckled. “Boss makes a dollar, I make a dime. Maybe I jus’ want somethin’ nice to look at on company time.”
As if on cue, the door bell jingled once again, and Majima slipped away to leave Kiryu ruminating on what exactly that was meant to mean.
If he was being honest with himself, the man had an air of vague mystery that intrigued him much more than his job search did. Kiryu had done his fair share of ogling cute waitstaff, especially in his younger years, but nothing had ever stuck in his mind once he’d paid the bill and left. There was just something especially… mesmerising, about the way Majima carried himself, every movement sharp and precise, slender fingers moving with an indescribable grace that seemed out of place in the tiny cramped kitchen of a coffee shop. At one point, Majima extended an arm to grab something slightly out of his reach, and Kiryu was quietly taken aback at the way the fabric of his uniform stretched, taut over his shoulders, betraying a well-toned, muscular build. Not exactly the kind of muscle you needed to froth milk.
Somewhere between his musings, a little red light began blinking, and he read the notification that popped up at the bottom of his screen: battery below 10%.
Shit, he’d forgotten momentarily about the scientific phenomenon of electricity. Kiryu resolved to ask Haruka about bringing a charger next time, and snapped the lid of his laptop shut.
“Leavin’ me already, Kiryu-chan?”
Majima had propped himself up on his elbows, wolfish grin back on his lips. The way he leaned forwards reminded Kiryu of a snake, waiting to strike.
“I’ve been here for four hours.”
“An’ my shift ain’t over for another three.”
Kiryu found it difficult not to chuckle.
“My laptop’s out of battery,” he explained.
“Can’t help ya with that one,” Majima sighed. “Alright, get outta here, then. Unless you’d like another coffee. Then I’d be happy to assist.”
Kiryu mulled the offer over. He felt a little obliged, but the caffeine from his earlier espresso had barely abated. He hardly wanted to show up at Haruka’s school gates shaking like a man possessed.
“I can’t now, but…”
“Anythin’ else?”
He decided to take his chances.
“Majima-san, would you know anything about… converting a file to a p-d-f?”
“Tch.” Majima clicked his tongue. “Ya really got some nerve, Kiryu-chan. Alright, come back tomorrow, and if I’m feelin’ nice I might tell ya.” He closed his eye in a gesture that might have been a wink. “And ya gotta buy a drink, next time.”
Kiryu smiled. “I was planning on it.”