Chapter Text
It’s one of those deceptively cold December evenings, where winter hasn’t had chance to sink her claws in just yet but the wind tunnels between high-rises to pierce bitter through you, and as such, the Shimano family office is sweltering. Though the shoji have been wrenched open, baring the bleeding neon sky that leers dark and hungry over the meticulously pruned courtyard garden, things ain’t so old-fashioned any more. Behind, thick, double-glazed glass separates the inside from out, and not even the constant rumble of trains on the tracks leaks through. All Majima can hear is the rush of blood in his own ears, and despite the underfloor heating cranked up to a hundred and two, he feels ice cold.
By all accounts, it’s standard procedure. Bossman calls from out of the blue, Majima answers. Sits seiza and leaves his cup of nihonshu mostly untouched, refills Shimano’s drinks and lights his cigars like a good little subordinate. Puts up with the smell of sashimi and calculated small talk until the boss gets tired of playing with his food and cuts to the chase.
This time, though, the penny just won’t seem to drop. It was still light out when Majima arrived. That must have been hours ago. He’s not sure. Time has no real meaning, here. Now, the only light in the room comes from the andon at Shimano’s back, casting him in dark relief. It’s all part of the game, Majima knows. Lure him into a false sense of security, only to bring up a major infraction when he least expects it. He caught onto that one quick. Honestly, he thinks that’s part of his fun.
It's always worse when Majima doesn't know what he's done to get called in.
“If you don’t mind me asking, boss…” Majima starts, and the words are like ash in his mouth. “Why did you call me here today?’
Shimano smirks, fleshy, like he’s won.
“Patience, Majima,” he says. “Just waitin’ for confirmation on something, that’s all.”
“...I see.”
“Drink up. Loosen up. Might be a while yet,” Shimano says, and downs his cup in one fluid gulp. His words say one thing but his eyes another, fixed on his cup where it now sits on the tabletop, and Majima refills it before picking up his own. Shimano’s lip twists. Majima drinks it all down, and it tastes like shame. He holds out his cup as Shimano reaches for the flask, and then drinks the second pour too. It’ll be easier that way, he thinks.
The silence is heavy. They sit in it for who knows how long, until the alcohol runs out and even Shimano begins to check his watch impatiently. Majima drums his fingers upon his knees, trying to keep time with the rising and falling of his chest, and then the phone rings.
Shimano takes his time getting up to answer the call. Majima does not move, or breathe. Fisting his hands into the leather of his pants, he strains white-knuckled to listen but he can barely hear Shimano’s responses over his own pounding heartbeat, let alone the voice on the other end. He can’t think of anything he’s fucked up. Nothing new, anyway. The conversation seems to be wearing thin, words turning to grunts and then silence, before he hangs up entirely.
“The hell you lookin’ so scared for, Majima?” Shimano has moved to tower over him, and Majima has to resist the urge to shrink away. “You done something I should know about?”
“No, boss.”
Majima has been under his meaty thumb long enough to know that there’s no right answer to that question. Chances are, the boss already knows, and wants to catch him in a lie. And if not, he gets a confession. Either way, it never ends in anything good. Shimano stares him down for a moment, scrutinising. Looking through him.
He always did say he knows him better than he knows himself.
“Easy, boy,” Shimano breaks into a guffawing laugh, and cuffs him upside the head. “Dunno how the hell you ended up so high-strung.”
“That was my informant, on the line.” He continues when Majima does not react, savouring every word. Not willing to show any of his cards.
Majima swallows deliberately. “Anything interesting?”
“Word on the street is Kazama’s boy just got out the slammer. Kiryu. Had it confirmed, just now.”
Damn. It’s been a long time since Majima heard that name. Too long. He must have perked up, because Shimano is looking down at him with one of those rare, sharp-toothed smiles that means something is in the works. Not that Shimano isn’t a scheming bastard all the time, but Majima being let in on it is a rare thing indeed. Usually he’s just the attack dog. Bite first, ask questions later.
A heavy hand claps down onto his shoulder, and Majima cannot help the flinch that jolts through him.
“Fight him. Hell, fuck him for all I care. Do whatever it is you do, Majima. But keep tabs on him. I have a feeling shit’s about to get real interesting round here.”
Shimano’s hand snakes round to the scruff of his neck, tightening its grip as Majima tries to process whatever that means. He doesn’t like the sound of it. Not one bit. But, boss says jump, Majima asks how high – and he’s not going to refuse an opportunity to get down and dirty. Been a long time since he had a good old fair fight, after all.
Too damn long.
“Yes, boss,” he says, and it’s the beginning of the end.