Work Text:
When Majima leans in, lips parted, Nishida can feel the acrid burn of alcohol on his breath. His own head is hazy and his center of balance is unreliable at best, leaving him clutching at the wall beside him, but the position leaves him suddenly feeling starkly sober.
Nishida is facing diagonally, halfway in the direction of the sidewalk’s path and halfway to the street. Majima is beside him – he registers vaguely that he’s trapped at least on one side, Majima’s right palm planted firmly on the wall of a nameless pink street business, creating a barrier behind Nishida. He tries to remember how they got here, out of the party to celebrate and welcome a few new members, but can’t. It doesn’t seem all that important, now, anyway.
He blinks and Majima is crystal clear, the wrinkles in his furrowed brow illuminated in the harsh streetlight, the sweat along his hairline shining. It’s like he’s put on glasses with the right prescription for the first time. Distantly, he wonders if he will be able to remember this in the morning in such sharp definition, but the thought slips between his fingers.
They’re both drunk. Majima’s eye is heavy-lidded, and Nishida’s thoughts are slow and his emotions high. Majima sways, face dangerously close to Nishida’s, whose heart jackrabbits against his ribcage in an echo that fills his ears. He strains to hear Majima’s voice, but he’s saying nothing, instead breathing in little puffs of air that rise and dissipate like smoke in the cold night.
They stare at one another. Majima is still drifting, his arm on the wall bending as they get closer and closer, pulled together by some invisible string made irrefutably stronger through the power of bad judgment and liquid courage. Majima twists around his front, until Nishida can’t see the sidewalk stretching out in front of him, populated sparsely by the few addicts and party goers that deign to stay out into these odd hours of in-between.
His head is tilted, and there’s something almost pretty about the slack, intense gaze he pins Nishida with, until it breaks out suddenly in a sly, manic grin. He pitches forward. Cut off and choked, he says, “Nishida,” and Nishida tries to catch him but staggers backward, and in place of the last syllable of Nishida’s name he vomits on the shoulder and down the back of Nishida’s button up. It splatters on the grow, coating the heels of his shoes and the hems of his pants, but Nishida can barely be bothered with that.
They stumble into the wall, Nishida with his back against it and Majima pressed flush against him. Nishida’s head hits it painfully, and he grimaces. Majima raises his head, and the grin is still there, stained with the sight and smell of vomit.
When he drifts forward again, Nishida raises his hand and blocks Majima’s mouth. He feels the smooth, slimy drag of bared teeth and the soft pull of lips against the skin of his palm. “You’re drunk,” Nishida says, eyes wide. High, too, maybe, but whatever he is, it’s a worse state than Nishida’s.
Majima turns his head slowly, sliding beneath but not away from Nishida’s hand. It comes to rest sloppily over his jaw, the tips of Nishida’s fingers on his neck just beneath his ear. The heel of his palm is shocked coldly from wet spit. “I’m drunk,” parrots Majima, but it falls from his lips in a drawl that’s almost lewd. Even in the chill, the skin of his neck is burning against Nishida’s fingertips.
Nishida stares dumbly. He’s half holding Majima’s face, half pushing it away from his own. He smells terrible and Nishida feels terrible. His heart is beating erratically and the fear and want that clenches his throat, keeps him pressed tight against the wall and holding the warmth of Majima’s jaw, is dizzying.
“Yer so small,” Majima mumbles. It’s quiet and slurred enough that Nishida doesn’t actually understand it, but he can’t be bothered to try and decipher it. Majima is a good eight or nine inches taller than Nishida is; as they’re standing, Majima is hunched over him and if he really needed to, Nishida could muscle through the arms bracketing him limply and run. He doesn’t. Majima jerks forward again, this time to nearly double over – Nishida’s hand is left midair, and the front of his outfit is painted in a line of bile as Majima vomits, again. He feels it drench through the thin button up, already heavy with sweat, and it sticks to his chest.
“Urgh,” Majima grunts. Nishida feels like crying. He looks up into the sky, all stars obscured by light pollution, and revels in the sting of winter on his eyes.
After a moment Nishida shakily undoes the buttons of his soiled shirt, shrugging it off and balling it in one hand, using the relatively clean arms as handholds. The feverish heat as his body tries to sweat away the alcohol, and his flush from their closeness just moments before, keep him warm enough.
Nishida ducks down and nestles himself under Majima’s arm, slinging it over his shoulders. He wraps the arm with the shirt around Majima’s waist and hoists him into a position that’s more standing than dead weight which, thankfully, Majima follows. He wraps his other hand around the wrist of the arm over his shoulder to keep them firmly entwined.
“Let’s go, boss,” Nishida says softly. Majima grunts inarticulately in response, and they continue their trek down the street, slow-going and unsteady. Nishida tosses the shirt in the first garbage bin they pass. It was scratchy, anyway.
There are no cabs around right now, drivers having already braved through the rush of nightlife looking for a lift home, so Nishida drags Majima along to a shitty love motel. The attendant doesn’t pay them much mind but for the uneasy look sent at their tattoos on display. Nishida doesn’t give them a chance to ogle; he moves quickly.
He deposits Majima on the bed, wrangles his jacket off which goes carefully over the dresser, and turns Majima on his side. Once he’s assured that the boss won’t suffocate on his own vomit Nishida takes a long shower and tries, fruitlessly, to scrub the feeling of filth from his pores. The cheap soap sucks all moisture from his skin and only makes it worse.
Nishida tries to sleep on the floor in his shoes and pants, a fresh towel laid down as a makeshift mat because he doesn’t think he can handle direct contact with the floor right now. Majima snores.
The next morning is predictably horrible. Majima is in a sour mood, downing the water Nishida left on the bedside table in a few long swallows that ends in a gasp and sputtering, dribbling down the front of his chest. He scowls and twitches and rubs his face raw with water over the bathroom sink. Nishida stays skillfully just out of his sightline.
An inverted reflection of last night, Majima snaps, “Let’s go, Nishida,” looking at him properly for the first time that morning. He does a double take. “What– the hell are you shirtless for?” Before Nishida can answer, he continues, looking vaguely sick, “Wait, we didn’t-”
“No,” Nishida interjects quickly. The situation is suspicious, especially to the blur of Majima’s no doubt substance-induced amnesia. A love hotel, both of them shirtless… even with their pants and shoes on, trying to put it all together must be startling. “No, sir, my shirt was ruined. Throw-up. That’s all.”
“Oh,” replies Majima. The shock of the thought had thrown him off his rhythm, and Nishida’s assurance first looks to relieve and embarrass him, and then agitates him again. “Serves it right, that cheap shit. I pay you well enough! Get better clothes.” Majima swivels on his heel and lets the automatic yes, sir Nishida answers with follow him through the door – as well as the man himself because, really, what else could Nishida ever do but follow him?
Nishida falls asleep at the office often. Which wouldn’t be an issue, except that Majima practically lives there, and Majima is a strange man who makes a habit of watching Nishida sleep.
Nishida catches him at it now and then. As the family captain, Nishida has his own, small office, and on one end he’s put an old, comfortable couch with a blanket draped over the back. In the dead of night, a few days after the party, Nishida blinks his eyes open, cozy in a cocoon of body heat and wool. Majima’s silhouette, illuminated by the large window behind him and the city lights that bleed through, is sitting in Nishida’s chair with his feet kicked up on the desk. He’s holding his tanto, twisting it absently in his hand, but the shadow of his face is directed at Nishida.
The first few times this had happened sent Nishida into a fit of paranoia. Now, he watches Majima silently. Most times he can’t tell if Majima is really looking at him, or if he just wants the company of another living person. A sleeping Nishida is poor company but, Nishida supposes, to Majima him awake probably isn’t much better.
“You snore ,” Majima says. He over-articulates it to drive home just how much. Nishida’s eyelids are heavy, and he’s very warm. He doesn’t say anything. “You ignorin’ me?”
Now a response is expected. Nishida blinks and squints at the flash of light from Majima’s blade, reflecting from some light out of the window. “No, sir,” he says roughly.
Majima hums. Nishida still can’t see his face, but he sees very clearly as Majima rises and walks around the desk. His footsteps are muffled, and Nishida realizes that he’s not wearing his shoes. Stubbornly, Nishida keeps himself in the safety of the blanket, but the prospect of being able to go back to sleep is slipping away by the second.
“So, yer awake,” Majima mumbles. He crouches down; the tanto held loosely in his hand keeps Nishida’s attention from the corner of his eyes. Slowly Majima’s features come into view. He’s just a few inches from Nishida’s face; his one eye is open and alert, but his eyebrows are relaxed. He smells faintly of booze, but not any more than he generally does.
“Whenever you need me,” Nishida whispers. The quiet seems disrespectful to break. A soft hum of heating from the vents swells in the silence, making it feel occupied and buzzing.
Majima answers with a scowl and a jab of his tanto at Nishida’s face. He flinches away, sleep slipping out of reach instantly, heart jolting in his chest. The edge is lined silver from what little light there is from that uncovered window. “I never need you,” he sneers. He says it like a slur.
Nishida, sensing that sucking up and reassurance would do nothing for Majima’s mood, doesn’t answer. The blade falls away, Majima rises, and Nishida breathes deeply. The sigh he lets out takes the dredges of sleep with it, leaving him with the exhaustion sleep can’t fix and learned restlessness that urges him to move. Majima orders, “Go make some tea.”
Rolling onto his back and stretching his entire body rewards him with a few resounding cracks of his bones popping. “What kind, boss?”
“Matcha,” Majima answers easily. Nishida rises, scratching at the back of his head and clearing his eyes of any remaining sleep sand.
“Hot or iced?”
“The hell kinda question is that?” Majima’s silhouette stands there judgingly. “It’s the middle of winter. Who asks that? What kinda person asks that? ‘Hot or iced’, my ass. Fuckin’ moron.”
Nishida stares at him. “...sir?”
“Iced,” Majima finally answers. Nishida feels vindicated in asking, because he’s not sure Majima had even considered which one he wanted right now, but he doesn’t try to push his luck with any snark. He leaves the room with a nod.
It’s equally quiet through the rest of the office, though there are a few lingering souls here and there. Work waits for no one, after all. Nishida nods as he passes someone in the hallway, and again at a group playing cards. Half of the lights are off, though he still has to squint and adjust at first. The dim lighting casts sharp, heavy shadows through every doorway and around every corner. It feels like the building is coiled and ready to pounce, now that he’s left the safety of his office.
The communal kitchen is dark. He flicks the light on, blinking and cursing at the burst of white from the long, flat LEDs overhead. When he’s no longer stunned, he goes through the motions of making iced matcha tea, just the way he knows Majima likes it. He kisses a night of sleep goodbye, resigning himself to a steady high of energy from the caffeine.
He returns to his office with two glasses of iced matcha. Majima is sprawled across the couch, head upside down over the armrest and watching the door. He straightens out when Nishida enters, quiet. Nishida doesn’t turn on the light, and he closes the door behind himself with a gentle press of his foot. Majima takes a massive gulp of it, catching an ice cube, as well. He crunches down. It puffs in his cheek for a moment.
Nishida takes the other end of the couch, pulling his legs up and onto the cushions. He cradles his tea in his hands and lets his eyes slip shut for a moment of respite. He’s still rather comfortable, dressed in worn baggy sweatpants, a t-shirt and socks. Sleeping here happens often enough that he has various changes of clothes.
Majima has caught another ice cube in his teeth. The squeak-crunch of ice between teeth used to make him cringe. But a lot of things don’t bother Nishida as much as they used to. In contrast to Nishida’s more casual loungewear, Majima is still fully dressed in his patriarch getup, snakeskin jacket and bare chest and all. The only thing missing, as noted earlier, are the shoes. They’re sitting almost domestically by Nishida’s own at the foot of the couch nearest to the desk.
Nishida takes a small sip of his tea and narrows his eyes at the clock. It’s just past two am in the morning. Glancing to his left shows that Majima is almost done with his drink already, and Nishida takes one long swallow to show comradery, but it barely sinks the top level line. When Majima reaches to take the drink from him, setting his empty glass on the floor, Nishida passes it over without complaint.
Majima takes longer on this one. He sips at it, where Nishida’s own lips just were, and swallows slowly in a bob of his throat. Nishida is annoyed at himself for noticing. He leans back against the couch, head falling to look upward, and waits.
It takes a while for Majima to say anything else. Nishida only opens his eyes again when he feels Majima’s expectant stare on his cheek. “Sir?”
Majima takes a sip from his tea. “Yer a real goofy guy, Nishida.”
Nishida smiles, bemused. “Uhm.”
“Goofy numbnut.” Another sip. “You’d do anything I told ya to.”
“Probably, sir.”
“Haw? Probably?” Majima glares at him. “Whaddya mean, probably ?”
Nishida amends, “I would.”
“Ya would?”
“Do anything,” Nishida clarifies. Majima turns his head away, satisfied. His mood, despite pretenses of aggression, is a good one, subdued by the late hour and a belly full of tea. Nishida dares to add, softly, “...probably.”
The way Majima whips his head around is almost cartoonish. Nishida’s mouth upturns, and before he can stifle it, a chuckle rises from his throat. Majima pauses, caught out. Slowly, he says, suspicion too obvious to be serious lacing his tone, “You fuckin’ with me?”
Nishida takes a second to assess the situation. Will Majima blow up on him? He may, but he doesn’t think so right now. The short foot of distance between them is something physical, something felt, suddenly. Majima sounded almost playful. Nishida replies, with a touch of exaggerated sincerity, “Never, sir.”
A ghostly smile flashes over Majima’s face. Then he abruptly jerks forward, upper body breaching the distance of the couch. They’re face to face, close together. They’re like that often, these days.
The remains of the matcha tea are shoved into Nishida’s face. “Drink,” Majima orders, and Nishida accepts the cup. Majima stands from the couch in one smooth motion and wanders to the window. The room, with its one source of light half covered by Majima’s body, is suddenly much darker. Nishida always forgets how black the night can be.
It’s silent for a little while. Nishida finishes the dregs of Majima’s leftovers and leaves the glass of ice next to its empty twin. After a while Majima circles back around, and pats a hand flat and wide over the top of Nishida’s head. His buzzcut splays between Majima’s fingers smoothly, like trimmed grass. He tilts Nishida’s head back imperceptibly, until Nishida is gazing up at him, frozen under the grip of Majima’s hand. Nishida thinks back to the night of the party, that Majima most assuredly doesn’t remember. The implication that any of that might exist beyond the realm of being phenomenally fucked up leaves Nishida dazed.
His heart jackrabbits against his ribcage. Nishida wonders if Majima likes this, him below, looking up. Silent and unmoving under his touch. His skin flushes.
Majima leans down until they’re nose to nose. Nishida flicks his eyes over Majima’s face in the darkness, trying to pick out the details that he knows are there but can’t see; the scars and stubble and tan line beneath the eyepatch strap.
Majima’s hand on his head loosens, running featherlight down the side of his face. Nishida swallows, the noise overly loud, and suddenly Majima snatches at his jaw – he grips either cheek with one hand, four fingers on one and thumb on the other. The soft flesh squishes upward and presses against his teeth in a dull ache, forcing Nishida to raise his chin. His lips are forced into a distorted, fishlike position. Majima’s lips tug and flatten, and Nishida’s skin burns beneath the grip of his fingers.
He doesn’t know what he wants, but he feels electric. It would be so easy for Majima to close the gap between them. It would be so easy for Nishida to close the gap between them. Never, though, would he be so presumptuous. And still never would he let Majima make that kind of decision in the state he was in just a few nights ago.
But he’s not in that state. And he’s the one holding Nishida’s face, staring at him like predator to prey. He seems to be waiting, which is an odd twist, because Nishida only knows how to wait on Majima.
Slowly he releases Nishida’s face. His hand falls to the left of Nishida, boxing him in. Nishida can smell his sweat and that faint stench of alcohol and he wishes he could bury himself in it.
It could be so easy. To feel it. To taste it. To cover that distance. It’s killing him. Lean in, Majima, lean in.
He pulls back, arms retreating and leaving Nishida feeling oddly barren and exposed. Nishida sways forward at first, chasing the warmth of a body close to his, but then Majima is too far. And he’s looking at Nishida with an expression shadowed, impossible to see, and retreating to the window again.
Nishida falls against the couch. He watches Majima’s back, and feels the phantom of his touch as a tremor in his nerves, and wonders what game he’s caught up in.