Chapter Text
Tomishika adjusted a small tray next to the futon, glass bottles of Nara ink clinking against the metal. Once more ink was supplied, he laid a hand on Mine’s burning ass and continued to color in the hooves of the Kirin between his spread fingers. The thin array of needles punctured his skin and Mine worked his jaw through the pain. In and out, Tomishika delicately dappled the skin, swapping out inks as he detailed his lower half. Thousands and thousands of micro stab wounds. He had assured Mine several sessions ago, when he created the outline, that it took this much time because he painted the skin deliberately. Not fast with his work, but he promised powerful quality.
Mine had been hesitant with where to begin getting his irezumi when he first joined the yakuza. Kanda had suggested his artist and told Mine he could get whatever powerful deity he wanted, if he paid him enough cash. It never sat right forcing his own idea onto the artist’s page, so he held off until he was confident in his choice. During his first night out with the Sixth Chairman, as they walked away after their fight against the blackmailers, Daigo had suggested the artist who did his irezumi. An apprentice of the famous tattoo artist, Utabori.
“I wanted Utabori, but Kiryu-san suggested his best apprentice instead. Felt fitting, given how the torch got passed down from him to me. I’ll call him for you and tell him to take you in. If you’re interested, of course.”
Yes—when the suggestion left Daigo’s mouth, it was correct. To both have been under the same needle and man, grunting at the pain of the process and laying down bare on the futon. Wondering about their respective futures in the Clan. Destiny chosen and inscribed in ink along their backs.
Tomishika agreed to the Chairman’s request, but when Mine had arrived for the first appointment, Tomishika berated him with pointed questions. It seemed like a questionnaire built for grade schoolers, not yakuza. In his irritation, Mine had snapped at him for prying, and Tomishika just grinned and put out his cigarette. “I just wanted to see what kind of man you are. First impressions are important. How do you think you presented yourself?”
“I think that you already have an idea of who I am, and wanted to push my buttons. I’m here on Chairman Dojima’s request. If you insist on fooling around, I can take my money elsewhere, to someone just as talented.”
“The Chairman, he told me a lot about you, you know. Alright. Let’s get started.”
A Kirin was an apt choice. A sprawling, painful one, but a magnificent one nonetheless. Any doubts had fallen away when Tomishika finished the outline, and Mine saw the blood and black ink on his back. He looked forward to seeing the mythical creature completed.
But—that was in the future. For now, Mine had to focus on keeping his pain centered and controlled. He had gotten through the other sessions with minimal grunting and measured breathing, but given the fast schedule he demanded, his whole back was raw. Sweat beaded at his temples and hairline, breaking the pulled-back style into cascading over his forehead. He pressed his lips into his folded hands on the pillow and focused on his breathing.
He slipped back into a trance, his sharp mind following the rhythm of the needle against skin and chest pushing against the futon when he breathed deeply. A familiar space to when he exercised in a gym or delved deep in documents. Focused intent.
Abruptly, a shrill tone pulled him out of the depths. Mine blinked, wincing at another stab. The hours-long session must’ve had more of an impact than he thought, because it took him a moment to focus his vision. His cell phone buzzed again, still awaiting a response.
Tomishika paused and scowled at the back of Mine’s head. Mine ignored the social misstep and reached to take his Motorola from the folded pile of clothes in front of him. “I said no calls,” Tomishika grunted. “And don’t move.”
Mine brightened the screen to see that Katase had forwarded a call to him, despite his request to field them. “It’s the Chairman,” he stated, then answered the call. He laid his chin down on his other hand. Just before he spoke, Tomishika resumed his work on the tattoo, and Mine flinched. He cleared his throat, “What can I do for you, Chairman?”
“Just a quick inquiry.” Mine could hear the creak of a door opening on the other side of the line. “Sorry to bother you while you’re still getting your irezumi done. Is it almost finished?”
“Yes.” Too short of an answer… What if he was calling on more casual terms? Mine licked his lips. “I’ll be done this afternoon. I’ve cleared my schedule for the rest of the evening, if you have something in mind?”
“Like drinks? Can’t, unfortunately, but you should spend your evening recovering anyway. Feels like it was yesterday when you told me you started. How bad is your scabbing? It has to look like a crime scene,” Daigo chuckled, and Mine felt some tension ease out of his shoulders at the sound.
Tomishika took more ink and climbed up the leg of the Kirin. Closer along his lower waist, the pain flared and Mine grit his teeth. He gripped the futon and phone with white knuckles as a wet cloth dabbed along his back to catch some blood. Mine sucked in another breath, mouth dry, and breathed, “Manageable.” He closed his eyes. “I make sure to clean it carefully and keep it wrapped up properly. I expect it’ll be fully healed in two weeks.”
The metal tray rattled again from something being placed on it. Then, Mine heard a chunk of plastic slide against the wood floor just before Tomishika stood up and walked behind him, towards his feet. Another plastic snap of something sliding into place, and as Mine debated looking over his shoulder, there was a clean mechanical click! in the air. Followed by a churning whirl of a Polaroid photo sliding out of a camera.
What? Shit—he was naked too.
Upon his request, Tomishika had taken a photograph of his outline when it was finished, but that was more of an impulsive ‘capture the memory’ instinct. He posed for better lighting in that one, too. This photo he did not care for, and he wanted to tear into Tomishika for overstepping the line, but his Chairman was still on the phone.
“I see,” Daigo hummed, a touch lost in thought. He brightened up when he spoke next. “Then in two weeks, let’s celebrate. A trip to an onsen. I never got to go to the bathhouse and drunkenly attempt to play ping pong after I finished mine. Seems only right to make sure you get that.”
Mine’s whole body seemed to stagger at the suggestion. Kanda had said something similar, but it seemed like open trouble to let his Aniki into a place where women bathed behind a half wall. Hostess clubs were already a handful with him. But Daigo was not Kanda, nowhere close in fact. The two celebrations could happen separately. Surely, he could convince Kanda of a bar instead.
Off-kilter and exposed from the photo and planned outing, Mine couldn’t hide the unprofessional excitement in his voice. “That sounds perfect, Chairman. I’ll make sure to keep my schedule open for that.”
“Perfect. I’m looking forward to it. Now, for the other matter. I have a special assignment for you.”
Ah—Mine steadied his breathing again and subconsciously straightened his back.
The curtain drew to a close on the pain and cigarette ash-tainted environment. Tomishika, bare feet padding on the wood, languidly walked in front of him. Mine scowled up at him, hoping his glare could tell him to fuck off, but it had no effect. Tomishika looked aged and bored with his messy mop of a hairstyle. His silk robe draped over him like snow on a tree as he extended the photograph to Mine.
Sighing, Mine took it and stared at the photo of himself.
“I’ll send Katase the finer details, but this request will require another visit to Okinawa for me. I need you to—“
A clap of thunder rattled the windows of the decrepit inn and hung like static in the air. The sound was nigh to a furious drumbeat and Mine could feel the storm cut all the way down through his body and thump his heart. Rain poured down in fat streams, flooding the gravel road with waterlogged potholes and tropical debris. The far rural edge of Ryukyu shuttered to a stop under the downpour, giving him no option but to stand and stare at the shuttered-up buildings from under his umbrella.
What a miserable affair it had been. Mine was to play negotiator between an allied Tojo Clan Family and a rival Clan, but it had failed. Not only did it result in their patriarch’s death and the Family dissolving in the bloody shootout, but it also meant the land they held could not be leveraged for the resort deal. Considering the Chairman’s policy of staying out of that deal, Mine was likely sent to repair tensions between the Tojo and Okinawan Yakuza Families.
There was no one left alive to even pin his failure on, not like he could convincingly do so even if there was a man left standing. Those idiots shot themselves to death on their own. Having already thrown his weight around on this island twice, it was likely Mine was going to be permanently removed from anything regarding Okinawa, Kiryu, or the resort deal.
A foolish, frustrating choice.
Mine adjusted his grip on his umbrella and scowled at the grassy hills beyond where his town car would pick him up and get him to the airport, without another shootout.
After nights of Daigo opening up about his admiration for the Fourth Chairman, detailing childhood stories, and sharing things with him no one else in the Clan got the privilege to hear… that continued future was now in jeopardy. Mine should’ve stuck around the Family’s office during that raid and taken the bullet. At least then he could’ve died with Daigo proud of him. Now he was just an embarrassment that had betrayed his trust.
Mine took in a shaky breath, thankful for the glum weather to disguise the turmoil wrecking his body. Regret crystallized into a ball and sat in his gut, forcing him to taste his guilt as he stood. He’d been on the receiving end of betrayal more times than he could count, and just as many, if not more times, holding the knife himself. But this was the first time he felt such deep pain for doing so.
A shrill tone persisted over the thunder, and Mine sighed. It was so humid that he already felt drowned, and the water had not helped the itchy feeling over his back. Dread making his limbs move slow, he reached into the inner breast pocket of his coat and pulled out his phone. He didn’t need to check the caller ID to know who it was. He answered with trembling fingers and waited for the hammer to come down.
A low hum of static filled his ears. It took a few beats before he heard the Sixth Chairman speak. “Mine.” Short, curt, yet the casual moniker made the stark tone carve a chunk out of Mine’s chest. Was it appropriate to swallow his pride and grovel? He’d apologize, but in person. Daigo deserved better than such a distant apology. Show him that he’d get on his knees and soak his Armani suit in a mudslide for him.
Out of shame, he kept his mouth shut.
“Take the train going north from Millennium Tower and get off at the seventh stop. Head east, down the hill, until you get to a park and look for a yellow building. Ask the receptionist inside to let you into the garden. Tell her I sent you. Meet me there in five days.”
A click. Dial tone.
Mine tucked his phone back into his pocket. His Chairman could be quite cruel when he wanted to be. Denying him the apology and meeting for five more days, letting him sit with his mistake privately for that long. There was unlikely to be any casual calls or stray meetings during this punishment period, either.
Lightning struck down on the sea in the far-off distance, and another roll of thunder joined a harsh gust of wind. He shivered and grimaced.
At least his tattoo will have healed by then.
Daigo sat at the edge of the sofa in his office, staring at a knot of wood in the table. In one hand was a glass of half-sipped whiskey, draped between his spread thighs, dangling at an angle and practically forgotten. His other hand was occupied at his chin, propping it up through his knee on his thigh as he hunched. Idly, he ran the pad of his thumb over his chapped lips.
There was a half-knock, half-bang at the door before Majima sauntered in. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut with a flat frown. He scowled at Daigo, then sneered, “Whatever’s on yer mind, you’re overthinkin’ it. Trust yer gut, Daigo.” He jabbed a thumb behind his shoulder, towards the door. “And I bet Kashiwagi-san would say the same. Now. Where’s the damn thing you needed my signature for?”
“On my desk.”
Majima didn’t hesitate. He made a beeline for the organized catastrophe, leather-clad fingers picking up a stray pen and the yellow page before scribbling off his signature. He let out a heated sigh then turned back around, pace thundering with annoyance.
Majima wrapped his hand around the door handle, cocked his head to the side, and stared at the wood in front of him. His sharp eye squinted, clicking things together he didn’t want to bother with. After a moment, he groaned, practically hissing out a displeased sigh. “Awright. Spit it out. Ya didn’t want me here just to sign something stupid.”
Daigo’s eyes flickered over to him, but remained passive and defensive in his gaze, posture, and tone. “This is a situation that requires tact and understanding.”
“The fuck you call me for then?”
Daigo continued to rub his lips, nail running along chapped lines. “Simple. It’s about discipline.”
Majima shook his head and flapped his hand at him, face scrunching up like wrinkled tissue paper at the thought. “Daigo-chan, I thought we figured out that you don’t need me for anything like that.”
“Not quite,” Daigo lowered his hand to firmly grip his hung wrist between his thighs. Yet he didn’t move to take a drink or straighten his back from his hunched-over position. “I will still use my own methods. I just have a question on how loyalty is garnered through your method of violence.”
“Ain’t it obvious?” Majima raised his hands, spreading his arms wide to receive something thrown into his gut. “Fear. Fantastic motivator.”
“That’s not all it is, though,” Daigo said, quirking an eyebrow. His voice had not left the same smooth tone, keeping with a steady, somber melody. “To your men, it achieves respect. What’s the internal logic that makes them not live like a skittish rabbit or take revenge against you, what makes them end up with loyalty?”
Majima blinked at him before pursing his lips and shrugging. “I don’t know what the hell happened, but ya shouldn’t bother me with it. Old man Kashiwagi’s yer free shrink.”
“Majima-san.” Daigo scowled. “I’m asking you.”
He sighed and flopped his head back, staring at the ceiling for a few moments. Daigo eased up the grip over his own wrist and rubbed a red mark under his TAG Heuer.
The longer the silence remained between them, the longer the pressure cooker had time to make Majima squirm. Based on his annoyed growl after a few more moments, Majima cut to the chase and let the pressure pop. Under the steam, he caught the source of tension in his hands. His head snapped back down, aimed at Daigo, and he pointed an accusatory finger at him. “It’s that!”
Daigo squinted and sat up straighter, caught off guard by the accusation. He had no clue what he was being spotlighted on. Majima continued, voice creaking with annoyance.
“People need proof. They gotta look ya in the eye and make the judgement on if yer worth it or not. ‘Cause believe it or not, most people prefer bein’ told what to do. That good enough of an answer?”
“Hm.” Daigo tilted his head and looked back into a middle distance. He removed his hand from his wrist and brought up his drink to sip at it. His jaw shifted and he nodded. “Yes,” he murmured, then flashed a smirk. “Somewhat, at least.”
“Whatever. Good luck with taming your Kirin.”
Daigo hid his smile behind another sip of whiskey as Majima slammed the door shut.