Chapter Text
KAMUROCHO
PRESENT DAY, LUNCHTIME
Nishida had always done his best thinking whilst on the move. Not restless in the same way as his tightly wound boss, he found that stretching his legs and taking in the scenery really helped to relax him from the pressures of working as Majima Goro’s faithful dogsbody. Clear his mind. Right now, he was around six miles into a steady stroll, although the sights in the office where he’d parked the treadmill left everything to be desired. Directly in front of him, shirtless and lounging in an office chair, Minami’s pointed face was buried in his games console for the nth day in a row (“Aniki, look! I’ve built a whole ass little town for the family!” “That’s really great, Minami-san.” “”Check it out, the boss’s guy keeps comin’ over to the beach an’ making your little fella cry!” “Thanks, Minami-san.”) He looked up now, just long enough to inquisitively cock his head as if only just noticing that Nishida was even in the room with him.
“Why’s the boss got you doin’ that shit anyway, Aniki? Ain’t he gettin’ the steps in himself, runnin’ riot all over the place?”
Shutting the treadmill off, Nishida allowed himself to slowly glide to the edge where he hopped off and turned back to face Minami. Raising an arm, he tapped the blipping device on his wrist and shook his head.
“That’s just the problem, Minami-san. Saejima-no-ojiki gave oyaji this thing as a gift, but he got mad when it kept telling him that his blood pressure was dangerously high.” He scrunched one eye closed, bent his legs, and stuck out his hands either side of him in a crude, swaying approximation of the boss. “‘Nishida, this shit is a pain in the ass! But I gotta keep up my streak, so I need yer dawdlin’ ass to wear it fer me.’ You know how the boss is at the moment, he’s very keen on his health. So, he wants me doing some low-impact micro-workouts to help him with his somatic healing.”
Nodding thoughtfully, Minami finally set his game down. “Makes sense. Can’t have a mindful recovery when yer as busy as oyaji. Hey, speakin’ of which, where is he today? I ain’t seen him around much. I ain’t even had my ass chewed out!”
Nishida sighed as he changed out of his fitness helmet and into the regular one hanging neatly on the back of the door.
“I believe he said he was going through the tape one last time with Saejima-no-ojiki. Taking it frame by frame and giving him some Nishitani pointers for their next scene. Speaking of which – we’ve got a flight to catch, Minami-san.”
“Huh? Where we headed?”
“Osaka.” Nishida smiled, devilishly. “Sotenbori.”
KAMUROCHO
THREE DAYS EARLIER, AFTERNOON
He hadn’t really had a plan on just how he might get himself involved in the action: only that, after watching Majima pretend to be some dead guy from his past as he split open the cheeks of his shrieking kyodai (dolled up to the nines as a fantastical version of his own alter ego), he’d not been able to think of anything else. It was, for Nishida, a week of torture, and there was no escape. The video tape was the sole source of discussion in the construction company offices: the boss had excitedly gathered everyone around to watch it, and it had been met with raucous applause. The boss was celebrated for his slick moves (“that fuchsia suit really makes your eye pop, boss!” “Thanks, Gary Buster Holmes!”); Saejima was lauded for the elegant figure he cut in his slinky black dress; and – and this really rustled Nishida’s jimmies – Minami was extolled for his superlative camerawork.
(Nishida wasn’t bitter, of course, and he’d taken absolutely no joy from informing Minami that Saejima-no-ojiki actually found his more adventurous shots to be derivative of Murnau, and it had apparently interrupted oyaji’s full immersion of the mise-en-scene “but i’m willin’ to give him another shot ‘cause Rome wasn’t built in a day, or some shit.”)
Everyone’s contribution to the video had been honoured, basically, except for Nishida’s. Of course, he couldn’t confess that he himself had cooked up the torrid scene in all of its sweaty glory. He couldn’t possibly take credit for the whole assembled ragtag crew getting bricked over his handiwork. But heck if he wasn’t still the director of the whole darned thing, and he wasn’t getting even an ounce of recognition for it. As everybody excitedly chatted and hypothesised about other potential scenarios for the ‘jima brothers (“bro, I ain’t gonna stick a fish on my head and pretend I’m a squid for ya, not after what happened last time,” “what if you dreamed Saejima-no-ojiki was a cheeseburger, boss? You could eat onion rings off his-” “Nope, ain’t happenin’. Too greasy,”) Nishida sloped off forlornly to finalise the next instalment in the dark solitude of his office.
Bound in a neat manila envelope, he’d handed this over later that same weekend and stood back as Majima scanned through it. The boss had one hell of a mean poker face: as Nishida stood and sweated nervously, he said nothing, nor betrayed a single thought passing through his head until, finally, he slid the sheaf of papers back into their envelope and sat forward in his seat. He drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, before:
“Nishitani? Again?”
“S-sir, it’s-”
“Makes sense that I’d be dreamin’ about him some more,” interrupted Majima. “I ain’t been able to get that day outta my head all week. But what the hell is that old toad Sagawa Tsukasa doin’ in there?” He tapped an index finger against his forehead. “He ain’t crossed my mind in almost forty years.”
Nishida stammered out a confused whimper. He’d never once so much as heard the name Sagawa Tsukasa, much less written it into the dream journal. What he had done, in a surreptitious bid to further involve himself in some shared praise, was ramp up the spice with a menage a trois dream. Specifically, a trio that incorporated a mysterious person with closely cropped hair and a penchant for neatness, for order. Truth be told, he’d all but self-inserted himself into the narrative: with Minami shooting the thing, the ‘jimas would need to promptly acquire an enthusiastic third, and he’d be damn sure that he was on hand to throw his own construction hat into the ring. This time, reflected glory would be his (albeit somewhat messily).
“I d-don’t think that it mentions a Sag-Sagawa? In it? Oyaji? I-I’m certain that I just wrote… I mean that y-you didn’t give a n-name in… in your sleep that… that night.”
“Nah, it’s ol’ Saggyballs, no doubt about it. Skulkin’ about in my ol’ stompin’ grounds with Nishitani? Ain’t no one else it could be.” Majima gnawed absently on a kiwi fruit. “The spitroast is a surprise, though, I gotta admit.”
“Huh? O-oyaji, the-there’s no spitroast in this, it’s- wait, skulking? I don’t think he was skulking, I-I think he — whoever it was — w-was being very demure, very-”
The boss, however, was already dialling his kyodai and flapping his free hand for quiet. Nishida watched as Saejima’s ear appeared on the screen and a muffled greeting was given over speakerphone (no amount of explanations of the intricacies of Facetime would sink in for either man, despite everyone’s best efforts. It was simply accepted that the men were content in having heated discussions with one another’s blurry earlobes.)
“Yo, kyodai. Yep, new scenario just dropped, fresh out of the ol’ thinker. You still holdin’ onto that Goromi wig from last time? Yeah, yeah, uh huh. Uh huh. Hah, yeah, I would too. Mhm. Mhm. The whole thing? Huh. Well, get it washed an’ get yer ass down here, this one’s gonna rock yer shit.”
SOTENBORI
PRESENT DAY, MID-MORNING
Nishida was eating chowder at the impromptu refreshments table that he’d set up at the back of the Grand. It wasn’t an all-timer – murky greige with mystery lumps floating near the surface. But he hadn’t eaten since they’d touched down in Sotenbori the night before, and so he was gratefully choking it down when a chipper voice and sudden movement alerted him to the presence of a man standing beside him.
“Ah, Nishida!”
“Oh! Rokudaime – sir, I mean, I- wait, what are y-you doing here?”
Laughing heartily, Daigo draped a jovial arm around Nishida’s tensed shoulder.
“No need for any of that formality now, old sport. Oh, do just call me Daigo, everybody else does.” Daigo took a bite of his own chowder and winced. “Ah. Hm. Maybe not. What am I doing here? Oh, well, goodness me if it was the damndest thing but I got a call from Majima-no-niisan yesterday, something about helping you boys out in putting together a spitroast! Just like being back in the wild ‘90s, what? Well, golly, how could I turn that down?”
Nishida sighed. “Nobody is ‘spitroasting’ oyaji, sir, that’s n-not what’s happening.”
“What’s this?” Daigo frowned. “Does Majima-no-niisan not deserve a spitroast? He works rather bloody hard, I’ll have you know, I think the chap has earned himself a little treat.”
“No, you’ve misunderstood, sir. I’m not saying oyaji doesn’t deserve to be spitroasted. I’m just explaining that a spitroast would involve him being filled up at both ends, whereas this-”
“Oi, Daigo-chan, how come you ain’t in yer costume yet? We got a dry run to get through here n’ I only got this dump booked out till seven.”
Nishida and Daigo turned just as Majima and Saejima arrived. It was… Well. Both men were wearing wigs, for a start. The (slightly soiled) Goromi piece from their previous venture was sitting on the boss’s head, neatly tied back into a ponytail. Next to him, Saejima was wearing what Nishida might have mistaken to be a dead vole: the lurid pink suit that he was bursting out of suggested otherwise; that the very essence of Nishitani Homare was now glued haphazardly to the top of his head. He looked disgruntled: without waiting for Daigo to respond to Majima’s question, he asked one of his own.
“Hey, Daigo, what’s goin’ down over here? You n’ Nishida arguin’ over somethin’?”
“Please, Saejima-no-ojiki, I’m j-just tryin’ to explain to the ch-chairman that-”
“This rotter is saying that Majima-no-niisan hasn’t earned himself a spitroast, which I think is a rather ghastly thing to suggest.”
“Huh??” Crossing his arms over his chest, Saejima shook his head in grave disappointment. “Hey, that ain’t cool, little buddy.” He didn’t allow Nishida time to respond, but instead returned to what seemed to be an argument he and Majima had been having before they’d arrived at the chowder station. “Kyodai, I still ain’t understandin’ why I gotta wear this wig. Wouldn’t it make more sense to play that Sagawa creep, I already got the hair fer it, an’ this thing itches like hell.”
“Fuck me, bro, we’ve been over this. You’ve got experience of how Nishitani fucks after I bust your ass as him last time, so you’ve already got more of a handle on the role than Daigo-chan does, and I want this thing done right. Besides, you do wear wigs, you have worn wigs, you will wear wigs. Sorry that shit ain’t fancier, but we’re on a schedule here. Which brings me back to Daigo-chan, who should be over in hair and makeup with Minami right now, not schmoozin’ with Nishida.”
“Oh, crumbs,” Daigo blustered as he abandoned his chowder, “I’m on my way, this very moment! I just wanted to come over and thank the director here for giving me this jolly fine opportunity. It’s going to be a rum old time, and I promise that I shan’t let you down! Pip pip!”
Winking over his shoulder, he strode off to where Minami was waiting with a bald cap, some spirit paste, and a dream. Majima shook his head and tutted. Readjusting his ponytail, he addressed the speechless Nishida.
“Whaddya think, huh? Inspired casting or what?”
“B-boss? Wait, you… you asked the Sixth Chairman t-to play Sagawa? I-I thought… Well, I d-didn’t want to assume, b-but, I thought…” Nishida stammered, aghast.
“Saejima here didn’t believe that Daigo-chan wouldn’t do it. Said that he still wasn’t talkin’ to us after the mess we left in his closet with the shoe incident. Overreaction, if ya ask me. I told him at the time that the walls would be right as rain with a smidge of sugar soap and some elbow grease.”
“Kyodai, it was on the ceiling.”
“Fuck yeah, it was.” They exchanged a quick high five and a chest bump. “Anyway, we were runnin’ through my dream notes yesterday and we realised that if I’m gettin’ good an’ spitroasted (“Sir, please, it’s not-”) then we’re going to need a third, right? My kyodai is good, but he can’t be everywhere at once. Trust me, we’ve tried. So, Daigo-chan has been dropping hints about hookin’ up with us fer years, n’ he’s been such a drag since Mine went all ‘flyin’ nun’ on us. I figured, let's give the kid a chance, see what he’s bringin’ to the table. What he’s got packin’ down in the basement. Smell what the Daigomeister is cookin’-”
“Oyaji, please.”
“Yeah, so long story short, we got ourselves a ‘3jima’ situation for this one. How about that fer some real shit, Nish? The mind works in mysterious ways…”
“Mm.”
“Heh, an’ check this shit out,” Majima trilled as he did a single twirl in the tuxedo Nishida had been up at 5am steaming after dragging it out from storage. “Shit still fits!”
“That’s my kyodai!” beamed Saejima. “Hey, so I guess this means you had long hair back then?”
“Yup, all part of the tragic-ass blah blah blah shit. It was a pain in the dick, but I kept it long so I could stroke it at night n’ pretend it was yers.”
“Bro… that’s the most beautiful thing that I ever heard…”
“Thanks, pookie. Hey, let's go check Minami ain’t screwin’ up Daigo’s bald cap.”
And off they went , leaving Nishida alone, once again, with his table of New England chowder and a sinking pit of despair in his stomach.
SOTENBORI
PRESENT DAY, AFTERNOON
The day’s shoot hadn’t gone well. Daigo had continuously flubbed his lines as Sagawa (on more than one occasion and much to Majima’s chagrin, he’d gotten confused and thought that he was playing Nishitani and insisted on improvising a few hyena-like shrieks of his own), the fruit platter laid out for Majima to recline on was quickly leathering under the Grand’s warm lights, and Minami had spent the dry run trying out some new and experimental camera shots he’d picked up from late night TV. If the boss’s nerves were wearing thin, however, it was nothing compared to those of his intrepid and disgruntled director.
“For the final time,” Nishida whispered, palms massaging the throbbing veins threatening to burst out of his temples, “The… the… it’s n-not a spitroast, it’s… please… just t-try and understand. ‘Nishitani’ is riding oyaji, not fu-filling him up. S-so if we’re being technical, it would be more…more accurate to say that the two of you are running a t-train on him.”
“A train?”
“Yes, Minami. Or you could c-call it a daisy chain – broadly applied to triads wh-where multiple people are connecting through… through a combination of penetrative and oral acts. They’re… words have meanings… they-”
BEEP.
Nishida almost jumped out of his skin as the fitness monitor on his wrist began angrily informing him that his heart rate was rising, and that he ‘might consider taking a short breather or some rest and relaxation :)’ Laid out on the table in front of him, naked but for the squashed fruit smeared across his skin, Majima turned his head and glared at him. He spat Daigo’s dick out of his mouth (“huh-waahh! Hey!”) and raised himself up on his elbows.
“HAW?! Nishida, what the fuck! Is that my fitness whatsit? Why’s it beepin’? I told ya, you were s’posed to be keepin’ it chill fer me, not rilin’ it up! I swear, if you’ve… ugh – fuck, kyodai, do you wanna stop ridin’ my dick fer one…nngh… moment? I need to get the director to calm his shit! An’ stop tryin’ to poke that thing back in my mouth or I’ll bite it off, Daigo-chan! What the fuck is this today, downtown amateur hour?”
“Oh, bother, I do apologise, old chum. I’m afraid I was somewhat caught up in Nishitani’s character there, for a moment. You see, my training was in the method, and I do believe your late friend here would have perhaps-”
“Shut up! Shut the fuck up, Daigo-chan! Shut up! Shut up! Shut uuup! And Nishida! I don’t give a crusty turd if this is a spitroast or a shitroast, I’m just tryin’ to do my therapy here so Naomi-chan will let me an’ the kid can go out on more adventures. How am I meant to get any catharsis over Sagawa when my ears are full of you and yer semantics? If I wanted the low down on runnin’ trains and’ makin’ daisy chains, I’d just ask Siri to bring up Urban Dictionary! Worst of all, I’ve got sticky sparklin’ wine smeared all over my face because someone wouldn’t splash out on real champagne! Actually, d’ya know what, forget this, I should’ve know that involvin’ that twisted old fuck was a mistake from the start. Maybe it’s just my broken ass brain’s way of tryin’ to tell me there ain’t no fixin’ ol’ Majima Goro…”
Jumping off the table and scattering neatly halved bananas everywhere, Majima hopped to his feet and stalked away to the dressing room, boner flapping angrily as Saejima hurried along after him.
Beside him, Minami lowered his camera rig and whistled.
“Ooh, someone’s in big trouble with oyaji now, Nishida…”
“Well, gentlemen, personally I don’t think this would have happened if I’d been given more opportunity to show my range in the role, really get my teeth into Sagawa and what made him tick. His motivation, rather. A most complicated chap, it seems, and-”
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
Collapsing into the nearest booth, Nishida buried his head in his hands and drowned out all the nearby voices. He’d not slept in almost forty hours, the boss was pissed, his barely-veiled suggestions that he might take on the role of Sagawa had been all but ignored, and now? Now he had a thespian chairman to contend with. After allowing himself a few moments of unrestrained wailing into his bunched fists, he stood and addressed nobody in particular.
“Get this fruit cleaned up. I’m going for a walk to clear my head.”
And then, he was gone.