Chapter Text
I’ve been assigned to this account, you understand, but imagine my surprise when I found the transaction. December ‘88, 1 billion in cash. Completely untraceable. No contract attached. No job. What could have possibly been worth that kind of money?
It’s early Monday morning in the old bathhouse. Golden light filters through frosted glass. Dark tiles cover everything floor to ceiling. Silky mist rises from still water. A single figure sits alone in the bath at the far corner, hiding in shadow, having full view of the empty room. One eye is concealed by an eyepatch, the other is closed in relaxation. His upper body is covered in ink, two white snakes on his chest, black clouds and red blossoms on his shoulders, the rest submerged. On his head, a small white towel. He’s taking in the quiet while he can. It won’t last long.
Majima Goro felt the tension drain from his body. He’d been in a few fights these days which had decorated his un-inked skin with its own set of asymmetrical black and red markings. He breathed in deeply, enjoying precious time alone. It’d been a luxury of late. What time was not taken up by family business, was given to his partner and often accompanied by crescendoing moans. He couldn’t complain, but he’d missed the stillness.
He was taken out of his moment of luxury by the sound of swinging doors, footsteps and, eventually, voices. Clan men were starting to pour in. Only officers were allowed in the morning so things stayed bearable, but it was more people than Majima cared to put up with. Not that any would choose to get in the same bath as him, but eventually the others would get full and the inevitable would happen. Then, he’d have to leave.
Resigned, he scanned the room for familiar faces. So far, smaller families. One good thing about the set up was the gossip. Yakuza never exactly put their guard down, but bathhouses provided opportunity for idle chatter. Especially if they didn’t realise anyone was listening. If you wanted to know which way the wind in the Tojo was blowing, this was the place. And right now the wind was blowing in the direction of the soon to be 3 rd chairman.
Sera was going to be the Tojo’s youngest top man. Since the big wipe out of ’88, new blood had risen to positions of power across both the rival Omi and the Tojo. Majima was part of the shift. He’d been the youngest patriarch. He sometimes wondered how long he’d do this for. He looked around at some of the older brass’s irezumi. Some were rare art pieces now, their creators long gone, their wearers actual walking museums.
As more people arrived, the chatter got livelier. Majima listened to murmurs of Dojima’s diminishing relevance, the continued expansion of the Shimano family (he smirked at that), Kazama’s understated, yet steady influence on Tojo politics, Nihara’s declining health. He caught some whispers about things in the East, Goda’s established authority, the fates of the remnants of the Sagawa family and the Kijin clan.
He felt a small pang of… something. Grief, maybe. It’d been nearly four years since Nishitani had given his life for him. He honoured his memory by being the craziest motherfucker this town had ever seen. Nobody knew what the Mad Dog would do next. He would go his whole life channelling that bastard. He owed him that much. He wondered what he would have made of him being in a relationship for nearly two years. Laugh and still try to fuck him, probably.
He suddenly realised the bathhouse was growing exceedingly quiet. He looked around, assuming top brass had walked in, but something else altogether was happening. A younger yakuza, likely the youngest in the room, had stepped in from the lockers, towel around his waist. Tall, broad and built like god had broken the mould after making him. His eyes, deep-set and warm, were punctuated by a scowl far too deep for his age, that would have made most people clear his path or, if suicidal, challenge him to a fight. Though still holding some of its boyish softness, his face was framed by strong cheekbones and a jawline to die for, his mouth the kind you wanted to push your thumb into. His muscles perfectly outlined, though having more room to grow, pecs begging to be grabbed, wide shoulders and strong biceps, abs to empty your load onto, hips to grab onto while you fucked him to heaven and back.
If you were in the middle of these thoughts, they would be halted as the man turned around, taking off his towel to wash himself, revealing his full irezumi. At that point you’d be wondering if you would even survive the encounter or if you would find yourself devoured by those eyes and crushed by those muscles, offering yourself up to the dragon god, another discarded offering in his pile of gold and bones. And as the man finished washing and stood up to head to the bath, your eye would involuntarily wander to the dick you were pledging your life to and you would know that you didn’t care if you were going to be swallowed whole, you would sacrifice yourself just for one night around those thighs and maybe, just maybe, between them, too.
“Have mercy,” a voice somewhere near Majima whispered. Half the room was staring, holding its breath. The other half, not quite as interested, was either oblivious or amused.
Kiryu Kazuma, the Dragon of Dojima, was making his first visit to the bathhouse. He’d been made Lieutenant Advisor the week before and no doubt introduced to the world of the Tojo officers’ early morning club. He hadn’t thought to mention this to Majima and Majima hadn’t mentioned he liked to frequent the place himself when time allowed. It was therefore the case that neither man was expecting to see the other. Except that Kiryu hadn’t seen Majima yet and right now Majima was thinking of keeping it that way.
Kiryu sank into the water two baths down and Majima saw the man next to him take an interest. He watched as he wet his lips, shifted his shoulders and titled his head before going in for the kill. He was HQ and his name completely escaped him, but the way he eyed Kiryu like candy did not. So when Kiryu started responding to whatever the fuck the suit could possibly be saying, Majima watched curiously on.
Nothing in Kiryu’s demeanour changed. His body remained in the same state of alertness it always was. The only time Kiryu relaxed was when Majima was inside him. He let go of everything then, the scowl softened, the lips parted, his eyes pleaded until they closed in ecstasy. Majima had memorised every muscle on that body, traced every scar, tasted every inch. He knew the reaction to every touch, the exact rhythm of Kiryu’s pre-orgasmic moans, the number of seconds between the first spasm and the cum that followed. Watching Kiryu come was heaven. It made him feel like a god.
Nothing in Kiryu’s demeanour changed, but… his eyes softened. Whatever it was that the suit was saying, well, it wasn’t subtle. The predator had caught the scent and was in it for the kill. People tried to get Kiryu’s attention in vain all the time. But right now, for whatever reason, Kiryu was reacting. And as curiosity gave way to something else, Majima felt a pang he hadn’t known before. He got out of the bath, careful not to cross Kiryu’s line of sight, and left the spa.
The smell of autumn had reached Kamurocho and, despite the lingering warmth, Majima felt the change in the seasons as he walked down Nakamichi Alley. He lit his last cigarette in the fading evening light, squashed his empty pack and looked around for a bin. All he could see were piles of overflowing rubbish bags. He rolled his eyes and was putting the empty pack back in his pocket when he noticed Kiryu standing at the shrine. At least, it seemed to be Kiryu from that angle. No one else was around. Kiryu just stood there.
A woman’s cry broke the moment making Majima look her way and when he turned back around, Kiryu was gone. Had that even been him? He clicked his tongue, rested his cigarette on top of an electric cabinet and took his frustration out on the thugs the woman was trying to escape. When he picked the cigarette back up it was half-burnt. He wiped the blood from his gloves on his jacket and walked down Pink Street.
Barkers were out in force, praying on salarymen and tourists ready for the picking. Hostesses greeted clients at the door as others waved the earlier ones goodbye. Cramped AV stores catered to those looking for a quieter evening. Massage parlours saw to solitary needs. Business was booming. Majima felt the emptiness of it all. His first conversation with Kiryu in Shellac came to mind. Sex is everywhere.
He wandered aimlessly towards Shangri-la. He hated that building. Its fake grand exterior dominated the street corner like a mockery of civilisation. Brothels should be honest. Dark and lewd and built for what they’re made for. They shouldn’t hide behind imitation marble statues and cheap grand staircases. They shouldn’t come with euphemisms and a system that pretended things didn’t exist because they came with bathwater. He felt sick.
A few hours later he was dropping his keys on the table by the door of their apartment and taking off his boots. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, its light the only thing illuminating the kitchen. He walked towards the large open living space, its glass wall offering his favourite view. He sat in the dark on the brown leather sofa looking out into the vastness of the city at night, silently soaking in the distance. He sipped, too tired for coherent ruminations. The pager in his pocket broke the perfect silence. Kiryu would be late. Business. He stood to get another beer, leaving the empty bottle on the table, reaching for the fridge.
There was a part of him that’d braced for this moment since the very first time Kiryu had asked to be his. He’d agreed, knowingly; the time would come when Kiryu would get curious about what it’s like to be with someone else. And Majima would want to pull out their entrails and hang them up as a warning to others, but he would let him do what he needed to do because it was Kiryu and he deserved to taste. To live. He deserved to experience what he wanted and he wasn’t going to be an obstacle to him. Nor would he throw away what they had for something so flippant. They were stronger than this. So what was this burn in his chest that got hotter and hotter and—
He let his legs give way as he sank to the kitchen floor, cupboard handles pressing against his back, chest aching like someone had reached in and squeezed. It’d been a while since this. Since he’d overdosed on his own adrenaline bracing for an invisible enemy he couldn’t stick a knife into. He tried to breathe. Instead, he cried.
It was nearly dawn when he heard Kiryu come home. He’d slept on and off, unable to stop his mind racing, too exhausted to stay awake. Footsteps came up the stairs and past the room. The sound of running water. What did that mean. Would he be having a shower at this hour? Not if he was trying to be quiet. But maybe if there was blood on him. He could get up and find out. But he didn’t. The water stopped and the footsteps approached. He felt Kiryu’s weight on the bed, his arm around him, his lips on his hair, breath on his neck. He felt Kiryu hold him tighter than he ever normally did.
Guilt. It was guilt.