There’s a knock knock at the back door of Serena. “It's Pizza-La!”
Wow, perfect timing. Kiryu was just getting hungry. Today marks the 3rd straight week of cycling through self destructive hobbies; where today was designated ‘drink to forget’ night, and he had already downed one too many to go outside without getting into altercations on purpose. He was trying to save that for tomorrow: ‘needlessly participate in street fights’ day.
His stomach has probably been emptier, but Akaushimaru and the Poppo on the corner have never felt further away.
Kiryu answers the door, the concept of pizza wet on his tongue, realizing a moment too late that he a) did not order pizza; and b) did not know that Majima delivered pizza in his free time.
This second realization comes after a flash of an eyepatch, followed by a familiar dagger to his neck.
“Too slow, Kiryu-chan” Kiryu can hear the smile in Majima’s voice and hot breath on the back of his neck, and the whiskey slugging through his body makes him feel happy to see Majima, somehow, though he’s being held hostage and what might’ve been a pleasant (and free) snack was sliding out of the box and curling in on itself on the ground.
“Majima-no-niisan,” he slurs, and then adds with a hint of disappointment: "you dropped the pizza."
Majima clicks his tongue, sliding the flat side of his tanto against Kiryu's Adam's apple.
“I could bleed ya out right now, and yer worried about a damn pizza?”
Normally, Kiryu is much more adamant about getting from underneath Majima’s knife, but his reaction time was shot and he was lonely , an emotion usually pressed aside but now laid bare and aching in his intoxication.
“Yes. Five second rule.” He says, finally, slumping in Majima's grip. It has been much longer than five seconds, but good pizza is still good pizza. In theory. He's far too uninhibited by the alcohol in his system to bother with being on the defensive or even the offensive, and Majima watches him mouth agape as he crouches to the ground, shovels the pizza back into the box and sets it on the bar counter.
The cardboard container hardly makes it to the safe zone before Majima grabs Kiryu by the back of his shirt sleeve and whirls him around, looking? Angry, maybe. His eye is wide and his brows are flared up, tight with tension in the middle of his forehead. He's forgotten his blade on the floor, fists clenched, and Kiryu can't read him. Never has been able to anyway, but the closed-off something in his stare isn't communicating anything Kiryu is adept enough to understand.
They're standing close, Kiryu's gaze hazy from the drink and proximity. He thinks Majima might be itching to strike him, but doesn’t get that far because Kiryu leans in instead, asking permission for something else entirely. Majima’s lips look deceptively pillow soft in the low light, slightly chapped when he tilts his head and connects their mouths.
Kissing Majima drunk feels a lot like swimming. All teeth and tongues, Kiryu can’t quite make out where he ends and Majima starts; wading out into the deep before Majima pulls him back into calmer waters. Majima guides them both towards the edge of the bar, pressing his own back up against it and allowing Kiryu to lean over him. It can’t possibly be comfortable; but it isn’t Kiryu’s back and it gives him more leverage to press into Majima’s mouth so he makes no protest, sneaking his hand up the front of Majima’s uniform to paw at his chest.
While the Pizza-La shirt was much lower profile than his usual jacket, Kiryu could admit that he misses the accessibility of Majima’s usual outfit. The eroticism of the occasional nip slip. He’d never confess either of these aloud—it would only succeed in bolstering Majima’s pride in his… unique fashion sense, but he was definitely onto something with the whole ‘easy access’ philosophy.
Kiryu feels bubbly, bold even. Drank himself right past the usual ‘fight-horny’ and ‘inconsolably depressed’ stages that he’s more familiar with. He knows they’ll be back if he doesn’t sleep on them, they always come back, but for now he can enjoy his head buzz, the pleasant liquid fullness of his body, and the way Majima radiates heat underneath him. He doesn’t even notice the location of his wandering hands, too occupied with absorbing the taste of every corner of Majima’s mouth, until Majima is pulling them off of him, tugging a heavy palm away from the inside of his thigh.
He hums, part disappointment, part contemplation and Kiryu trembles with the reverb, looking confused.
“Raincheck. I'm not fuckin' ya if yer wasted like this.”
“I'm not wasted ,” Kiryu insists, words sliding out of his throat like he's been drinking them out of a straw, swaying as he disengages with Majima’s form.
“Ok, trashed, then. C'mon stud, pack it up. Bedtime.” Majima claps his hands a few times, muted leather fuzzy like Kiryu’s head, and he doesn't understand why Majima's being so mean to him.
Whenever Majima wants to fight, he fights, but the minute he gets a little tipsy and wants to do some (horny) touching… Kiryu knows in his head that he's being unreasonable, that Majima is right regardless of how much Kiryu wishes he wasn't, but he clasps at Majima’s wrist and tries meeting somewhere in the middle.
“Stay?” Kiryu can't imagine the face he must be making, but whatever it is melts Majima's from displeasure, the hard edge of his brow easing away into tired acquiescence.
All Kiryu can do is watch Majima shift to his other foot, slip his arm out of Kiryu’s hold. He’s simply a bystander, small and sluggish in his own body as Majima scratches at his chest through the polo of his stolen Pizza-La uniform, rubbing the back of his neck. Majima’s head rolls on his shoulders then, and the curve of his mouth bends into something like helpless pity, like he can’t help himself from making that expression.
“Ya know I can’t say no when ya look at me like that…” He mutters, almost too low to hear and sounding less bitter about it than Kiryu thinks he was trying to.
It’s not explicit agreement, but it doesn’t have to be when Majima coddles Kiryu the entire 10 steps to the closet he’s been sleeping in for the past few weeks, shooing him into the cramped space. He strips down on unsteady feet, changing into a stale pair of grey sweats. His suit lays discarded in bits across the back of a chair or three. Majima's still in his leather pants but ditched the shirt and his belt, standing at the edge of the crumpled futon on the floor.
Kiryu tilts his chin down and lowers his eyebrows, something he likes to think works as both a wooing and an intimidation tactic, and then cocks his head to the side. “Why are you all the way over there? If you didn’t want to stay, you could’ve said no.”
Majima inhales then, letting it out in an exasperated huff and flopping onto the tight futon. He sneezes immediately afterwards.
“Hell, Kiryu-chan. Ya really been sleeping on this dust trap?”
“It’s not a dust trap, it’s my bed.”
Majima closes his eye and raises his eyebrows in disbelief, shaking his head.
“Oh. I was going to ask if you wanted to borrow some of my…” and then he thinks about how making it to the laundromat has not been a recent priority of his and doesn't finish his sentence.
“Some of yer what?”
“Nevermind. It's nothing.”
Majima’s really just making faces at him, huh. He shows his teeth before wriggling out of his leather pants, tossing them at Kiryu before flopping back down. They hit him square in the face with a dull smack, too, and Kiryu only thinks to put his hands up to catch after the damage is already done.
“I was going to offer a pair of my pants, but they're not clean.” He finishes, tossing Majima’s slacks atop his own clothes.
“What, you piss through the front of ‘em? I’m sure it's fine.”
Kiryu crinkles his nose, turning to dig through his meager, but hopefully clean clothing collection. They smelled a little… musty, but didn’t everything in this room? Surely it wasn't his fault. He turns back, thoughts immediately derailed by new sensory input; the vast milkiness of Majima’s long, long legs, neatly partitioned by his tattoo. Kiryu always admired the starkness of it, the amount of time it must have taken in comparison to his own.
He can’t seem to remember why he even offered getting pants to cover these up, but he also didn’t anticipate Majima taking his pants off at all, so maybe he was just trying his best. As he always does. He puts his nose to a couple of spares before settling on one, folding them in front of Majima before handing them over. A black pair with a slim athletic cut to the leg. Maybe he’d look nice with them on in public…
Majima immediately shakes them out, eyes them appraisingly, and gives them a sniff himself.
“Don't smell them.”
He replies with a scoff and a withering look, rolling over to slide them on. They're a little large in the waist, as expected, and sit low on Majima's hips from where he hasn't bothered to tie the strings. Even over such a small thing, Kiryu’s brain makes quick work of short circuiting.
Majima must be able to tell because he yanks Kiryu hard by the leg and pulls him down, thankfully not busting his shit open on one of these hardass seats. As that would be incredibly unsexy and not conducive to anything. Forget being concussed, he wouldn’t even make it to the raincheck.
He catches himself somewhere between the cushions of one of the chairs and the futon, caging Majima in before deciding to drop down right on top of him. To the detriment of both of their lungs. Majima heaves out a breath and subsequently jabs him in the gut with a hand, bullying him into a better position for them both. Kiryu challenges the arrangement, ultimately wrestling Majima until he’s pressed tight against his chest, arms hooked around his waist and resting on his stomach.
He’s not too tipsy to realize that he’s riling Majima up so he’s quick to restrain him before they end up fighting for real, tightening his hold until Majima stops squirming against him. In an attempt at petty revenge, Majima settles for pressing his cold feet into Kiryu’s shins and biting his blunt fingernails into the meat of Kiryu’s forearm.
“Yer such a little shit, you know that?”
Kiryu huffs, amused, and presses his face into Majima’s bare shoulder, peppering it with chaste kisses until he falls asleep.
Morning arrives swaddled in a translucent sheet. Kiryu rouses from sleep like he's traversing fog, uncertain and a little damp. Majima has shifted little in his sleep, still tangled up in Kiryu’s killer grip. His hair is wild on one side, mussed by the pillow, and making a series of loops where it was trapped under the shifting band of his eyepatch.
It’s cute in a way that gives Kiryu worrying heart palpitations, but he’s just so warm and non-threatening for once that Kiryu’s hands are touching him without thinking about it. A thumb brushing his hip bone; fingers on the other hand tracing his collarbones, rubbing at the edges of his tattoo.
This is rude, maybe. Actually, scratch that. It’s definitely rude that he’s pressing himself against Majima’s ass. His movements are idle enough that he could pass it off as drowsy, half-asleep arousal, apologize and move on; but he thinks of the unsatisfying bits and pieces of the night before, sees how comfortable Majima seems in his sleep and can't bear to wake him. He wishes Majima were awake, though. Imagining Majima stirring to consciousness ready to go makes Kiryu hungry for it in his gut, adding heat to his previously ignorable morning stiff.
He weighs his underlying guilt with how good it feels to rut against Majima’s ass like he’s a teenager all over again and the hormones win out. To make up for it, he brainstorms several ways he can wake up Majima with the smallest amount of fallout, but doesn’t have the chance to enact any of them.
“Good mornin’ t’you too, I guess.” Oops.
“Sorry,” He murmurs, one palm wide across Majima's chest and the other holding his hip, fingers teased under the band of his underwear. Asking for forgiveness is better than not asking anything at all, right?
Majima calls him out on his apparent lack of repentance, even though he brings his hand back to Kiryu’s thigh to pull him closer at the same time. “Yea fuckin' right,” He hums, rolling back, and Kiryu meets him halfway, teething at the junction of his neck and shoulder.
“Will you forgive me anyway?” And he presses his little smile to Majima’s skin, hoping he feels the cheekiness. His hands are loose enough for Majima to whirl himself around, flipping over to bite at Kiryu’s lips. Feisty in what Kiryu assumes to be the early hours of morning but could easily be mid afternoon with how dry his mouth is, how his brain feels full of cotton.
In lieu of an answer, Majima licks into Kiryu’s mouth, shoving one of his legs into the part of Kiryu’s own and pressing in with vigor. The borrowed sweats are sliding down, down, like sweat down the back of Kiryu’s neck when Majima brings a hand up to ruffle through the crop of his nape.
“Is this my raincheck, then?” Kiryu asks when he’s finally allowed breath, drawing Majima ever closer to him with strategically placed hands on his ass.
“Hush.” Majima gripes, like he isn’t the one who’s usually guilty of talking too much.
Kiryu slides his cheek over Majima’s to reach his ear, bringing the lobe between his teeth. “Just trying to make sure I’m not too drunk to ‘get fucked’, nii-san. Am I wrong for asking that?” Absolutely spoiled rotten, there’s amusement in the ends of his sentences. “Are you going to do me, Majima-no-niisan?”
“In a second the only thing I’m about to ‘do’ is kill ya.”
“You can try.” But Kiryu thinks Majima’s efforts would be better spent doing other things, at least at the moment. Like this: sliding a hand down the front of his sweats and touching him properly, bringing a warm hand to the half hardness in his briefs. He even coaches Majima through it in his endless benevolence, entwining their fingers on Majima’s free hand and pulling them to his desired location.
And Kiryu answers honestly, earnestly, “yes,” in a way that stills Majima’s palm for a moment before he’s gripping Kiryu even tighter, firm grasp on his cock. Kiryu doesn’t need to be told ‘me too’ to reciprocate, eager to get his hands all over Majima from the get-go. He glides his palms over Majima’s waist, his lower back, soaking up the leathery smoothness of his tattooed skin before putting in effort where Majima actually wants him. He finally grabs his dick. Gently.
Majima hisses in relief, curling around himself in order to headbutt Kiryu in the collarbone. Kiryu has to adjust his hand to the new position, tangling their legs further before deciding they’d both be better off if Majima was on top of him. It’s the smartest idea he’s had all day. All week, really, if he’s being honest with himself. But really there’s no need to do all of that, so he rolls onto his back and takes Majima with him, hoisting him up like he’s made of nothing, just a bag of air and skin.
Majima mouths obscenities into Kiryu’s chest, panting and rolling his hips into their now combined grip. Kiryu presses his nose into Majima’s messy hair, sticking out everywhere and slightly tacky from the remains of day-old styling gel. He’s curled up for leverage but Kiryu wants to kiss him again, says as much, and removes his hand when Majima makes a frustrated grunt in response instead of moving his head up.
“Yer not threatening me. I know how to get myself off.”
“I’m asking, though. And you never gave me an answer.”
“Fine.” Majima leans up to peck him on the lips. “Happy?”
“Yer so fuckin’ spoiled. Who did that to you?”
“I wonder.” and the quirk in the corner of Kiryu's mouth speaks as wide as a grin when Majima kisses it off of him. Kiryu opens his mouth in short order, coaxing Majima to kiss him deeper, and he groans low in his throat when Majima does that something with his wrist that’s inches away from sending him over every time.
He’s working on it, he really is, but Kiryu’s endurance isn’t what it used to be. The minutes he lasts with Majima’s hand on his dick and his tongue down his throat feel like seconds, and he drags his own hand faster, pulling his grip tight the way he remembers Majima liking it in hopes that it keeps him from coming all by himself.
It seems to do the trick enough, Majima rutting himself against Kiryu’s stilled hand and spend-wet cock for a few more moments before cumming as well. He bites hard on Kiryu’s bottom lip through his orgasm and Kiryu headbutts him in misplaced reflex, immediately turning his head to nurse his bloody lip in the safety of his own mouth. “ Nii-san .”
“What? Big fuckin’ drama queen. So damn needy, too... See if I ever do anything for you again.” Majima gripes, sitting up and rubbing his forehead with his clean hand.
At how disgruntled he sounds, it’s easy for Kiryu to let the tiny, smug curve of his lips answer for him. “Since you did something for me, why don’t I do something for you?” To make up for the headbutt remains unvoiced.
“I’ll... take care of you.” Majima eyes him with unveiled curiosity, eyebrows pitched up in anticipation of what Kiryu might have in store for him.
Kiryu rolls Majima into the plush of the futon, dipping his head down into Majima’s cum dirty palm. It stings his lip a little, but he takes care to brush his tongue over every inch of it, bringing each finger into his mouth and laving over them from knuckle to fingertip. There isn’t as much mess on his stomach as anticipated, but he laps at it anyway, dawdling purposefully over already clean areas just to catalogue the way Majima’s core twitches in what has to be ticklish sensitivity.
Thighs are next, and Kiryu slides the borrowed pants and underwear the rest of the way off and tosses them to the side so he can get at them, pressing his nose tight to the junction of Majima’s groin and pressing his teeth into thin skin. Majima hisses, the noise pulled from his throat unbidden, and his leg jumps. There’s nothing there, but it’s another weak plea for time before he brings Majima’s dick into his mouth, arguably the main attraction in this whole debacle. Majima sucks in a sharp breath, and Kiryu makes a valiant effort at ignoring it.
He feels his face getting hot at even offering to do this, but there’s something satisfying in the simplicity of it, in the act of providing a service. Being useful. In reality it’s far less practical than getting a couple of tissues or a damp washcloth, but Kiryu enjoys it in its intimacy, in the way Majima grips too tight at his hair as he tongue bathes his cock too long to be considered explicitly non-sexual.
He pulls off when Majima finally taps out, tugging at Kiryu’s hair with enough force to imply bald spots, and the only thing Kiryu has the mind to say in the wake of narrowly avoided hair loss is “Do you think the pizza you brought is still good?”