Work Text:
"You doing anything tonight?”
Your question stopped Majima dead in his tracks, his arm hovering over the table he had been busy wiping down just a moment ago. To anyone observing this scene — the manager and bartender alone after closing hours in the deserted, dimly-lit hall of The Grand — this question would no doubt be seen as carrying suggestive implications. Most night-time propositions in Sotenbori did, after all.
But while it was true that in the time since you’d started working at the club, the two of you had become close, your bond was far more of a comfortable friendship than anything else. At least, that’s what Majima told himself.
You’d spend wild nights dancing at the Maharaja until your legs gave out and also quiet nights fishing together by the river. When the work day had been particularly shitty, you’d sit for hours at the nearest bar, venting it out. With enough drinks in your systems the conversation would steer to just about any and every topic imaginable, from holes in the ozone layer and which of the bar’s cocktail recipes were clearly poached from your menu, to rumours of underwear-clad perverts and fearsome purple-haired old ladies prowling the streets.
Hanging out with you was addictive and oddly electrifying, but he didn’t dare hope your connection would progress past platonic. A guy with a full set of eyes and actual career prospects would suit you much better in that regard. And though he was aware of just how vexingly that thought squeezed at his heart, he tried his best to banish the feeling.
Tonight, anyway, there were no plans. Truth was that Majima had gone through the day on autopilot, working constantly and tirelessly in the hopes that it would end sooner, even foregoing smoke breaks to throw himself fully into the tumult of cabaret life, with all its rowdy customers and bickering hostesses. It was a strategy he'd started employing increasingly over the past few weeks.
No time for rest meant no time for the guilt and despair to seep back into his brain.
And especially no time to remember that today was May 14th 1987.
That a year ago to the day he was being dragged out of the squalid Hole, his body a limp mass of bruised skin stretched thinly over jutting bones, his consciousness frayed and only able to pick out the sharp smell of the soap they were cleaning him with and a sarcastic voice complaining in the distance...
“Jeez, kyōdai, this what you're giving me? Sure you couldn’t find a prettier corpse?”
That two years ago to the day he was chained in that very Hole, fighting obstinately against the thug that was trying to force-feed him rotten leftovers, his thoughts filled with the same words he’d been repeating for weeks on end...
“Where’s my kyōdai?”
That three years ago to the day he was marvelling at the absolute monster of a cake Yasuko had baked for him (with help from Taiga, allegedly). The cake on whose ingredients they had spent most of that month’s money and had taken the three of them a full week to polish off...
"Damn right yer takin' the last slice, birthday boy. Who do ya think we were savin' it for?"
So much for not remembering. The ghostly tastes of cake, spoiled food scraps and soap mingled sickeningly in his mouth as he realized he’d been standing there in silence for at least a minute, if not more. Finally shaking free of the hallucination, he turned to you, observing that you’d gone back to drying and putting away the drinkware, having seemingly given up on a response.
“Naw... been a helluva day an’ I figured I’d just hit the sack.”
He decided to leave out the part about stopping by the store to grab the largest and cheapest alcohol bottle they had and downing it all before going to sleep - or passing out, most likely.
You chewed your lip as his words hung in the air and he regretted his answer when a glimmer of disappointment crossed your features.
“Ah, all right. I was just... wondering if you'd sit for me? For that portrait we were talking about. I have a vision and a rough sketch, but it would be quite difficult to paint without the model..” you trailed off, shaky laugh betraying an uncharacteristic nervousness.
Oh. A while back you’d confided in Majima about your love for art and since then he’d also learned that finding the inspiration for new works was quite challenging, especially when lacking a camera and having to get by on a bartender’s salary. Life drawings of the drunken revellers in Sotenbori were a fun exercise, but sketches could only take you so far and on more than one occasion you’d even found yourself in trouble hanging around the town’s seedier spots looking for subjects.
So he had actually volunteered to be your muse, half-jokingly, just to save you from bumping into shady characters of course... and maybe also out of a hidden desire to know if you found Majima Goro — the shadiest character of them all — interesting enough to paint. He didn’t think of himself as that much a looker. Definitely not the kinda guy a host club scout would ever approach. But between the long planes of his face, the tuxedo he wore just about everywhere and the inescapably obvious eyepatch, he knew he at least attracted attention, whether that was good or bad.
“I get if you’re too tired of course, but it won’t take much of your time, I promise! Dinner and drinks on me?” you continued, casting a hopeful glance over to where he was standing.
For a moment he felt the same pleasant warmth as when you’d enthusiastically taken him up on the modelling offer course through his body. Why not indulge you... indulge himself? It would also be a way to pass the remaining hours of this excruciatingly long day. Unlike his original “get-blackout-drunk” plan, with this indulgence he wouldn’t have to scramble to look presentable again the next morning. And though he wasn't about to admit it, seeing you get excited about your passion stirred something in him that he was simultaneously keen and afraid to put a name to.
Majima folded and put away the cleaning rag, cracking a half smile as he approached.
“Well if yer gonna wine ‘n dine me, then how could I say no?”
As he leaned out your living room window to finally light his first smoke of the day, Majima felt the alcoholic buzz slowly take hold. With the drinks and the hearty shoyu ramen you'd treated him to settling comfortably in his stomach, his content mood was starting to turn contemplative again, despite his efforts to fight it.
It also didn’t help that the interior of your apartment had this air of intimacy about it, the feel of a space that actually looked lived in. The decor was modest, but leaning more on minimalist than barebones and Majima mused that it probably lent itself well as a painting backdrop. Not that he knew much about these things, but he was certain it at least made for better atmosphere than his dump of a place would have. As soon as the thought entered his head, he instinctively began scanning the shadowy parking lot below, looking for signs of his usual watchers. Although he'd taken care to verify beforehand that he wasn't going out of bounds, he still didn't want to risk dragging you into his mess.
Fortunately, all seemed quiet. Your building was plain-looking and located in a secluded enough part of Sotenbori to not get that many passers-by or stand out in any way, for once affording him the chance to just gaze at the town's lights without having to lock eyes with every shifty vagrant. He was always genuinely grateful for these moments. Occasionally he’d even catch himself imagining he was just another tourist, here to stay for a few nights, blow some cash and make memories with friends. The scenario was silly, sure, but it served as a soothing escape from the harsh reality of his life as a caged dog, forced to count every yen and every day until he’d be set free.
Majima sighed and loosened his collar as he turned back to the room, watching you flit about, gathering brushes and paint tubes. When you retrieved the canvas, he noted it featured the rough outlines of a face, already unmistakably his even in its amorphous, sketchy state. Just as he was about to stub out his cigarette and ask where you wanted him to sit, he noticed you setting up your easel to the left of him.
“Haw? Right here? Don’t ya wanna... pose me or somethin’?” he blinked.
“Not at all. I’m not painting my stern workaholic boss’ portrait, I’m painting Majima-san’s," you stated with a grin, which he returned, though not without a hint of mock indignation.
“You know, Majima-san, the guy who, if it were up to him, would beat all The Grand’s handsy pervs black and blue and drag them out by the scruffs of their necks. And the guy who screams my ear off to the tune of cheesy pop songs every time we go to karaoke.”
He couldn’t suppress a light chuckle at that. Wasn’t his fault that damn Cinderella song was so catchy.
“Just act natural, all right?”
Natural. Somehow lately he’d felt like he was increasingly losing his grasp over what that really meant. The stuffy manager act he knew was a must if he wanted the cash to keep flowing... but wasn’t it all an act anyway?
His desire to get back into the clan, a flimsy muzzle for the voice in his head telling him that by rights he should want to be on death row with Saejima or in a grave next to all the other boys who’d laid their life down for Shimano...
His insistence on keeping everyone at arm's length, a masochistic way of letting loneliness gnaw at his soul, just like he deserved, for not being there when his kyōdai needed him most...
Hell, even his damn accent was a ruse, albeit one that served him well when it came to blending into the Osakan crowd.
As Majima reached for another cigarette, he looked over to you and found that you were engrossed in your work, sweeping your brush over the canvas in alternating motions, some more calculated and others more haphazard. He couldn't deny that there was something unbelievably captivating about the expression of concentration you got while painting. It was a dreamy, far-away kind of look that for a brief moment made him forget his own worries and just try to imagine what you were seeing with your mind's eye.
Not fair, he thought. Not fair how he was all yours to observe, but couldn't also watch you to his heart's content... At least, not discreetly. He had to turn his head almost all the way to the left to even see you properly.
Figuring he should instead take your advice and loosen up, Majima held the cigarette between his lips while he went about removing his bowtie, followed by the jacket. As he unfastened the top few buttons of his shirt, he met your eyes from behind the canvas, but broke contact as soon as an unexpected blush started creeping up his neck.
“You should relax more often, Mr. Manager, ” you spoke softly. Though your face was hidden from view, he could still hear the smile in your voice. “The look really suits you.”
“Yeah, well, no rest for the wicked, y'know...” he replied, trying to pass it off as a joke and yet somehow landing on a much more somber tone than he’d intended. God, when had he turned into such a mopey bastard?
A short while later the rhythmic sound of your brushwork stopped and you addressed him again, this time with a question.
“Would you let down your hair?”
Majima took a long drag of his cigarette before hesitantly nodding. Realistically, there was no good reason for him to be uncomfortable about this. Sagawa had even told him from the beginning that he didn’t care what he chose to do with his hair, as long as it looked “managerial” and less like the rat's nest it resembled when he was fresh out of the Hole. But despite favouring shorter styles, he’d insisted on growing it out, never getting more than the ends trimmed every once in a while. Some romantic part of him had decided that his hair was going to serve as a physical reminder of his sentence, like the day-counting lines a prisoner would carve, just put end to end and growing on his head instead of on a cell wall.
As he fumbled with the hair tie and adjusted the strap of his eyepatch, the long black locks fell free, fanning over his back and the curves of his slim shoulders. One look at the hair's thick, silky texture could tell you Majima took great care of it, which was likely also how it had managed to reach its impressive length, flowing all the way down to almost skim the Hannya's piercing yellow eyes. Or at least it would've skimmed them, if his shirt wasn't covering the demon's face. But Majima really didn't want to think about how you'd react to seeing the extent of his ink.
He felt your gaze linger on him for a few long seconds before you resumed painting, this time with more fervor than before. It was odd how vulnerable and exposed he felt, not just because of the knowledge that every edge of his face was being scrutinized, but also because he hadn't let anyone see him like this before, lost in thought, with his guard down. Not since ‘85.
A comfortable silence fell as Majima worked absently through his pack of smokes and you worked raptly on immortalizing the moment.
With midnight drawing nearer, the bustle of the streets was slowly starting to fade. The early evening party-goers were already sufficiently intoxicated to be stumbling their way to the nearest cab, while the night owls were all mostly holed up in their bars of choice, ready to emerge only at the crack of dawn. With less people around, light from the shopfronts seemed to bleed all the brighter into the sky, blanketing Sotenbori in a fluorescent haze that almost made the town feel like a mythical entity, spawned into existence only after dark. Much like The Lord of the Night, if rumours were to be believed.
Majima huffed. Who'd come up with that fucking nickname anyway? Whoever it was, he had the sneaking suspicion they'd done it to poke fun at him, given how he'd mostly hear it in the hushed conversations of patrons, who'd immediately clam up and fiddle nervously with their drinks if he cast as much as a glance in their direction. Hardly anyone dared call him that to his face, except of course for Sagawa. And of course the old man made sure to flash that slimy sneer of his every time he said it. Smug asshole. He vowed to one day kick his teeth in, at least once for every mocking pet name he had to endure.
Thankfully, he was spared any further scowl-inducing visions of Sagawa when you suddenly stepped away from the canvas and towards him with a decisive stride. He barely had time to turn and face you, let alone say anything, before you reached for one of the front strands of his hair, moving it to sit further back.
You squinted and hummed something about "maybe a little to the left“ and Majima could only stand there frozen under your stare. You appeared to be looking right through him, to your mind’s projection of his form on the canvas. He opened his mouth to speak, but your hand rose again, this time to brush some of the shorter wisps from his forehead and he couldn't help but swallow heavily at the tingling feel of your fingertips floating over his skin.
Heat was steadily rising to his face, but it was only once his cheeks' red tint became more than obvious that you seemed to snap out of it and grow aware of just how close your faces were. Majima heard the beginnings of a “sorry” form on your lips and then melt just as quickly when he succumbed to impulse and leaned forward, now leaving only a few centimetres between the two of you. The hair strand you'd just re-positioned slipped forward to graze your face as his dark, half-lidded eye watched for your reaction. A tense beat passed, during which your own eyes fixed onto his slightly parted lips and then fluttered shut. Much to Majima's relief, you closed the distance.
The sensation of your lips burning hot against his was instantly overwhelming, like you were searing a path down his nerve endings and setting his body alight with a yearning for physical contact that he himself hadn’t fully realized he was harboring. Extinguishing the cigarette as swiftly as he could, he used both arms to envelop you in an embrace so tight, so desperately tight it earned him a quiet gasp from you. But not a moment later he felt your nails dig into his back as you reciprocated his touch, tongue pushing with just as much ardor against his.
Through the fog, the rational part of Majima’s mind chastised him for making it this painfully clear how affection-starved he was. To hell with it. Your body was just so warm and your lips so soft and he could feel your heart pounding against his, flush as your chests were... The need to hold you as close as possible and kiss you as deeply as possible simply overpowered all else.
When you finally parted for air, he felt your hands brush over his temples, fingers combing tenderly through the roots of his hair. He was quickly left breathless again when you proceeded to press a dozen more kisses to his eager mouth, each softer than the one before, until the last one barely grazed the peach fuzz on his upper lip. Majima was very much regretting all those cigarettes now. He was sure he couldn't have tasted nice.
"I should get back to that portrait…" you whispered.
"What's the hurry?"
Despite knowing he should, he was reluctant to let you go. He didn't get a choice, however, when your reply left him stunned enough for his grip to loosen.
"Wouldn't be much of a birthday present if I didn't finish it today."
Birthday present? Confusion swirled in his brain. He hadn’t told a single soul in Sotenbori, how did you…? But his question didn’t need to be voiced — you had already anticipated it. You averted your gaze before starting to explain.
"I tidied up the employee files one night after closing. You had fallen asleep in the back room while sorting through them… I truly didn't mean to pry, yours just happened to be on top of the pile and... It's really no excuse though, I should’ve just asked."
Majima processed your words in silence as you continued, eyes looking everywhere but his face while your hands still rubbed gentle circles on his scalp.
“I guess I wanted to surprise you. Do something nice that would shake off some of the gloom that's been hanging around you lately... I mean it, you know, you really should relax more. That owner works you way too hard, even for a yakuza-run business.”
“Yakuza?” he blurted in an attempt at disbelief. A pretty unconvincing one, judging by your scoff.
“Come on, this is a pleasure district. I know how things work around here. That guy’s too conspicuous anyway, with his prim suit and all the stone-faced goons hanging around him every time he visits. Although, I have to admit…”
Sparks of fluid lightning erupted under Majima's skin as you slid one of your hands from his head, along his neck and just far enough down his chest to ghost over the jagged edges of his tattoo. Wait, his tattoo? Yes, that tattoo, the one that was peeking quite glaringly from the opening of his shirt and had been for God knows how long.
“...I didn’t expect you to also be caught up in that life.”
Well shit. No point pretending now. When your eyes finally rose to meet his, he scoured your face for signs of anger, or disappointment, or fear, but you just offered him a blushing smile and took a step back, breaking the embrace to return to your easel.
“I just need to add some finishing touches, but you can move now, if you want.”
Majima remained rooted to spot, looking like a puppy that had just been kicked. He half expected you to turn him out the door right then and there. Would’ve been the logical choice. Now that you knew, the last thing you needed was to get involved with yakuza, even former ones...
But then he remembered the portrait of course, how you’d put effort into planning it out and had taken time out of your night to work on it. All for an occasion you shouldn’t have cared about. For someone you shouldn’t have cared about. His throat went dry as he attempted to speak and he instead just let his legs carry him mechanically to your side, finally taking in your creation for the first time.
Undoubtedly, the gaunt half-profile of the man in the painting bore his striking likeness, with its sharp cheekbones and sullen, enigmatic expression that aged him far beyond his years. The left half of his face, turned to the viewer, was shrouded mostly in darkness. Just the side of his eyepatch caught a warm, yet dim reflection cast by the room’s lamp. In contrast, the right half was bathed in a velvety glow of moonlight, shadowed only by a few jet black strands drifting loosely in the May breeze. Hints of neon played in his lashes and on the bridge of his nose, as his eye peered far away in the distance, to where a plume of cigarette smoke was wafting. To somewhere that wasn’t this town, or this shitty life.
Gazing at his face on the canvas, his face as you saw it, Majima felt a strange detachment. Like he was looking at the broody protagonist of a crime novel. A character who had every decision made for him and, by virtue of that, was also almost certainly guaranteed a happy ending to his story. Both like and unlike him all at once.
Yet, above all else, one thing shone through clear as day from the portrait: resolve. The dogged resolve of a young man who not long ago had thought he wouldn’t live to see 21 — let alone 23 — and had actually made peace with death.
That fact still stood, much as he had been standing mesmerized in front of the painting for many minutes now, long enough in fact for you to start getting self-conscious. Seemed like today he was more prone to spacing out than ever.
“Sorry I’m no Michelangelo,” you laughed nervously and scrambled to add a few final brushstrokes as he exited his daze.
“Should have shown you from the right, but got a little caught up in the moment..."
After that last sheepish mumble, you straightened up and faced him with determination, like you wanted to make sure these next words would sound right.
"Look, I know you're not keen on sticking around here forever... But for when you do go, I want you to have a memento of these times. Something pleasant to remember them by and maybe... remember me by. Talk about selfish, right? But I—”
Your voice was already starting to falter when Majima interrupted your sentence by slipping his hands around you and pulling you back against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, clinging to you with that same disconsolate need as earlier.
“You kiddin'? I'm the selfish one here, keepin' ya in the dark for this long. 'Bout today... 'bout everythin'," he murmured, surprised at how weak his own voice sounded. But it's not like he needed to be loud when he was close enough for you to feel his warm breath dancing over the shell of your ear.
"This picture's the most amazin’ thing anyone’s ever given me, so don't think I'll go forgettin’ ya any time soon... Thank you.”
As your fingers delicately cupped his cheek and you locked eyes, he wished for nothing more than to have even half of your artistic ability. Then maybe he could also capture the adoring look you were giving him right now. But he settled for just capturing your mouth with his again, kissing you like it was the only thing that mattered in the universe.
He felt you smile as words got lost against his lips.
“Happy birthday, Majima-san.”
The happiest one in a long time, for sure.