Work Text:
May 13th, 1989
The slow, dark nights that had closed out 1988 had given way to refreshing spring showers which, in turn, were succeeded now by the balmy evenings that heralded the early days of another hot Sotenbori summer. A season had come and gone, and yet the 500 million yen noose around Majima’s throat felt no looser now that it had done at Christmas. Meanwhile, the thick heat was stirring the languid, black depths of the river that streaked past the bolthole apartment hidden just out of sight from its banks. The acrid stench drew him out from his monkish apartment each morning and welcomed him back to its ascetic embrace many hours later. Every possible moment of the day was spent treading the mercifully air conditioned atrium of the Grand. Time that couldn’t be filled with meticulous inventory checks and timesheets, Majima began to fill with enrichment sought via other avenues.
In carefully scheduled snatches of downtime, he would disassemble himself piece by piece; neither the Lord of the Night, nor whomsoever Majima Goro may have once been prior to his stagnant vacation at Shimano’s pleasure. He became instead a nameless shadow clinging to the darkened city alleyways and propping up the seedier bars where clientele were unlikely to recognise the Grand’s erstwhile manager. Those who did may have been inclined to agree that complete discretion was a mutually beneficial arrangement under the circumstances. Always spent but never sated, Mr. Manager would re-emerge seemingly intact to the naked eye, whilst the deepening chasm inside threatened to pull him apart at his bursting seams.
Increasingly isolated and with threadbare patience stretched taut, Majima’s second recourse of action over that lifeless winter had been to find new forms of entertainment via his establishment’s owner. With the bounty for reinstatement under Shimano now quintipled, nothing pleased Sagawa Tsukasa more than to watch his juicy, fat worm squirming pathetically on its hook. His visits had become more frequent, his mindgames more esoteric. Majima needled him in return, finding new buttons to press and treading heavily against the boundaries that had been so carefully constructed and maintained since his ceremonial exhumation from Anagura. A game of mouse-and-cat, a means to revel in the sparse morsel of attention that his transgressions might afford him. Sotenbori was, however, a comparatively small place lined with deep pockets. Enough furtive ventures into its underbelly and one was bound to finally cause ripples in the wrong places, and “when” Sagawa discovered his extracurricular activities quickly supplanted “if”.
At the end of an especially dismal week of lower-than-anticipated takings and pushier-than-usual patrons, Majima had stayed behind once all of his staff had said their final goodbyes and vanished out of the side entrance for the night. Carefree twenty-somethings, laughing and joking, making and breaking plans for their weekend, and leaving Majima, he hoped, alone with his thoughts and his liquor. With any luck, the hour would close not with sleep but with blind-drunk fumbling and desperately whispered promises to be forgotten. These best-laid plans were scuppered no sooner than he had stepped into his harshly lit office: fluorescent incandescence illuminating the streak of shit-brown propped up the sofa in a cloud of sandalwood and soap. The streak turned to the door and nodded in Majima’s general direction with a knowing smirk.
“Ah, Mr. Eyepatch Manager has finally arrived. I had a feeling you’d not be calling it a night with the others, call it gut instinct. A parent’s intuition, even.”
“Mr. Owner.” Swallowing back the bile that heaved up and out of his stomach, Majima moved forward to fill Sagawa’s cut-glass highball. “To what do I owe the pleasure at this time?”
“Hm.” Taking the proffered drink and reclining back with arms languid across the back of the sofa, Sagawa allowed himself a wry chortle. Carefully, he readjusted his face into a grotesquerie of grave disappointment. “You’ve been getting sloppy, Majima-chan.”
Back turned, Majima didn’t respond. Teeth grit as he busied himself with a sheaf of papers on the desk, he grimaced slightly at the accusatory clatter as several empty coffee cans tumbled over under his tired arms. Unperturbed or uninterested, Sagawa continued on.
“Had a bit of feedback that you’ve not been your usual self, lately. That old ‘Customer is King’ mantra of yours has been slipping. As far as I can tell, the takings are going with it. Never going to hit that half-bill with a lousy attitude, tiger.”
Majima bristled at the reminder. “I’m providin’ the very best service to be expected at a place owned by someone of such high esteem ‘n good taste.” Sagawa rolled his eyes at the thinly veiled bar before uncrossing his legs and rising to his feet. Setting his drink down, he moved around the desk until both men were eye-to-eye, inches apart. Hips pressed against the desk on just the wrong side of discomfort, Majima bit his lip and held his breath in anticipation of… something, some inkling that maybe, just maybe he’d needled the owner in just the right way; that he might, for once, provoke some response beyond Sagawa’s usual dry demeanour. The wisps of bar soap and expensive cologne were thick in the air between them as he drawled out a response.
“I’ve been far, far too easy on you this whole time, buddy. Far too… accommodating. But you understand that I have to take complaints from my concerned stakeholders very seriously, that I have to run a tight ship. I’ve had to reassure them all thoroughly that the manager would be getting a… well, a full refresher course in gold-standard customer service. Don’t we want to encourage a bespoke experience that’ll benefit both the customers and - well, and me as the owner.” He didn’t move position as he spoke, and granted Majima no leeway to move his. The scent of Sagawa’s brandy-soaked throat prised itself into his mouth and moved richly, sweetly over his tongue. Majima shook his head to regain his composure and spat out a response, all courtesy spent.
“Haw? The fuck’re ya talkin’ about, old man? Maybe I’ve been a little short with some’a the assholes who’ve deserved it, but ain’t nothin’ worthy of complaints. I dunno what your game is, but I knew yer bullshittin’ me.”
Sagawa only laughed, raising up a cordial hand and letting it rest – firmly – on Majima’s upper arm. Slowly, he drew forward on his underling’s blind side, breathing in deeply as he whispered into a pale ear surrounded by goose-pimpled flesh.
“It’s your after hours behaviour, tiger,” he cooed. Majima froze beneath him. “Got a certain level of expectations with my staff, you know. Did you think that I wouldn’t find out about all your late night escapades? Think I want that reputation for the manager of my hottest club? So… I think I have a right to set you back in line, do I not?” Sagawa punctuated the question with a harder squeeze of Majima’s stiffened arm; let the tip of his nose run lightly along the fine hairs of the underside of his earlobe. It was a moment, a long, desperately long moment before Majima cleared his dry throat and responded.
“So, what? Yer wantin’ to show me who’s boss, gimme a lesson in customer service, s’that it? This about you… this about ya gettin’ yer dick wet, or what?” Before Sagawa could answer there was a hard rap at the closed door and Majima startled at the unexpected intrusion. The knocking otherwise fell on deaf ears.
“Thing is, Majima-chan, I’m not the customer, am I? I’m just the owner here,” – his grip tightened – “so, I don’t need you to give me your best five star service, much less do I want it.” The knocking grew heavier, more urgent. Without loosening his hold, Sagawa turned and acknowledged the new arrival, calling the unseen visitor into the office.
Majima’s view was partially obscured by his keeper boxing him in on his good side, but the man who oozed into the room filled it with a presence of lurid fuchsia, sharp cologne, and swaggering confidence. He went to speak, to ask Sagawa who the fuck this was s’posed to be, but his tongue was suddenly too large, too cumbersome in his parched mouth. Cold sweat began to pool at the nape of his neck, moving idly, timorously down and settling at the small of his back. Still, the newcomer never once spoke, nor did he take his eyes off Majima. A broad hyena grin under a shock of black hair and sparkling eyes, the man looked him up and down: a piece of prize ex-Tojo meat, trussed up and helpless. Rooted. And, to Majima’s further consternation, oddly in awe at the man’s dripping charisma that filled the room between them in a near-tangible miasma. As Sagawa finally released him and stepped back, he could have almost sworn that the visitor – the creature – licked its lips with a wolfish hunger. A pin glinted on his neat lapel: Omi alliance. Majima broke his gaze and looked over to Sagawa for an explanation that was promptly offered.
“This is Nishitani Homare, tiger. Another Omi retainer; head of the Kijin family. A colleague, if you will. A colleague who’s usually best kept at arm’s length, but… well, either way, we take care of our own in the alliance.”
Nishitani nodded and growled out his approval. “I’ve been hearin’ a whole lot about the so-called ‘Lord of the Night’ ‘round these parts. Really been meanin’ to come down and check out the sitch for myself, but y’know how it is. Duties always callin’, and that. Still, when Sagawa-han told me he had a job that’d be perfect for him – somethin’ about returnin’ a favour he owned me from before Christmas – ohh, my dick was already leakin’ before I knew who it was I was gonna be workin’ with…”
“Been in Sotenbori a good while but I ain’t never heard of ya, or this Kijin family. Can’t be anythin’ that specia–” Nishitani threw his head back and roared with laughter as Majima’s riposte was cut short by Sagawa’s hand grasping his chin and painfully twisting his head around to face him.
“Nishitani-han is going to be helping me out by playing the role of your customer in our little training exercise. You got that, Majima-chan? I want to see you showing him the time of his life during his visit to the Grand. And whatever you think you’ve been secretly getting up to at night, that stops here. You answer only to me. Me. You got that?” Majima glowered at him but said nothing. His silence was enough of a response for Sagawa who released him and patted a cheek stretched over gritted teeth. “There’s a good boy, tiger. Shall we get to it?”
“I’ve been hearin’ all kinds’a fun things about this whole ‘Customer is King’ shebang, yunno. Heard that grumpy ol’ Mr. Manager will even get down on his knees and lick a customer’s shoes clean for ‘em, if they’re so inclined.” Nishitani paused to readjust his silk tie and Majima, standing stiff to the side with a fresh bucket of champagne, took the opportunity to snatch a better look at him. Beneath the lurid suit he was clearly well-built; would certainly be able to handle himself one-on-one. It didn’t appear to be a fight that the grinning Kijin patriarch was looking for, though. Working his jaw, Majima plastered on what might have passed to untrained eyes as a congenial, customer service smile: porcelain teeth gleaming under the tasteful ambience of the stage lighting that Sagawa and his guest were now seated in front of. They lounged at either end of the plush red booth, separated by a grand platter of rich, jewel-toned fruit. The newer arrival was seated with his feet up on the table’s marble top.
“For paying customers,” he purred, “we always aim to please.”
This earned him a smirk as Nishitani reached slowly into his jacket. As it fell open, Majima caught a glimpse of a knife handle: its pearlescent tip gleamed for a spine-quaking moment before vanishing again. A heavy clip of bank notes had emerged instead, nonchalantly tossed down onto the table and landing beside Nishitani’s feet. Majima stared down at it as a rumbling cackle erupted from its benefactor.
“Lucky fer me, the owner here saw fit to give me some spendin’ money just fer the occasion.”
There was something in the way that Nishitani’s eyes settled on Majima that disquieted him, something in the way that he could feel them on his back even when he turned away. More unsettling still was that way Majima enjoyed the sensation; how his gut pulled at his ribs and tried to drag him back around so that he could meet that hungry gaze, sate his own appetite and drink in the magnetic, animal force that threatened to pull him in. It was something wordless, primal. Instead, he simply set down the bucket and bowed neatly, asking if there was anything else that he might bring for the gentlemen. Any other refreshments? Sagawa clicked his tongue in loud disapproval and Majima’s head snapped round at the unpleasant reminder that they weren’t alone.
“No band tonight, champ? No entertainment? And what’s this…” he looked around with his palms outspread in mock consternation, “no girls? Not what I’d expect from the top club in town, Mr. Eyepatch Manager.”
“Regrettably, your impromptu after-hours party hasn’t allowed for our usual standard of hospitality to be arranged, gentlemen.” Silver-tongued and well-rehearsed, Majima bowed his head in an earnest show of apology and topped up the two glass flutes he placed down by the fruit platter. “I humbly request that you accept this champagne as a complementary token from the management in the hopes that it enriches your evening’s activities.”
Leisurely picking up the half-filled bottle, Sagawa fixed Majima with a steady look as he leaned over the table and held it a good arm's length above Nishitani's brogues as in some perverse toast. Then, lip curling up on one side, he slowly tipped its contents out and over the soft, brown leather. The liquid ran down the soles and pooled on the table, still fizzing and bubbling as it moved out toward the edge and began dripping down onto thick carpet. All three men remained silent; entirely stationary barring Sagawa's arm as he tilted the bottle and let the last few expensive drops splash down onto smart wingtips. Then, it tumbled down onto the floor with a soft thud as it rolled away under the table. The champagne was still dripping down as Majima finally spoke, quickly apologising to Nishitani for the incident and offering to go retrieve a towel for him. Sagawa folded his arms, sitting back as a shit-eating smirk played across his face. To his left, Nishitani sighed loudly and shook his head, gesturing down at his soaked feet.
"What's this, Sagawa-han? Barely been here five minutes and Mr. Manager already ain't comin' good on his promises!"
The penny dropped. Majima looked from one man to the other, but received no further instruction; no further clue as to what was expected of him. No other avenue out of the situation he had found himself trapped in. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he adjusted his bow tie. Nishitani's cologne still encircled him at every move, blissfully threatening to drown out the usual scent that lingered around Sagawa. Spices, rich black peppers. Cedar. He stepped forward and clambered up and onto the table, nudging aside the fruit platter and various other ignored detritus. Without once breaking contact with Nishitani's deep, brown eyes, he lowered his head over the tips of his shoes. They looked expensive; shoes that belonged to a man with enough money to toy with others as he pleased. To toy with him. And, most objectionably: Majima was going to let him.
The champagne was sweet on his tongue, tempered by bitter leather and polish. They gleamed under the broad strokes he carefully, professionally applied, ensuring that every surface inch was met. His movements were measured, slow: a stolid front against the hungry pull in his loins and up through his gut. It worked through him with invisible fingers, puppeteering him, pressing his head down into a steady bob over Nishitani's feet and moving his hands up, bring them to rest around strong calves so that his movements were more controlled. To only be of perfect, unwavering use to the other man. On the wet marble his knees slipped a little but he caught himself with managerial poise. Only a slight gasp escaped his lips, but it was enough. Enough for Nishitani to catch the intentions carried through that involuntary sigh of breath. He growled, jerking forward and roughly grasping Majima by the hair. Dazed, he looked up from his careful administrations.
"Don't think we're gonna be callin' for much more entertainment with a delicious little thing like you here. Hope I'm gonna get my money's worth, Majima-chaaan."
"You heard the man, tiger. Looks like entertainment's all going to be on you, this evening."
Majima didn't see Nishitani move, only felt the white-hot pain as his head was yanked back by his hair and he was pulled down with his back against the table. The contact was hard, and stars bloomed in his eye. Glasses both empty and filled scattered and tumbled to the floor. The fruit platter skidded along the marble, grapes and fresh strawberry rolling past and just out of his eyeline. Before he could even catch his breath, a firm pair of hands was tearing at his shirt. It tore, freely. Buttons popped and vanished and his jacket with them: Nishitani was a red whirlwind over him as he pulled and tore and shed the Lord of the Night's armour from him, exposing him. Pale and thin, a mass of sharpened corners and sharper edges, his heart pounded down through his back against the cold table surface as the Kijin patriarch leered down over him.
"Yer a fuckin' five-course meal, Mr. Manager," he cooed, honeyed words dripping down into Majima's desperate ears. In spite of himself, he felt his body arching up; hips angling forward and towards Nishitani's heat. For his excitement - visible to all, now that his garments had been ripped from him and carelessly tossed away - he earned himself a hard slap against the cheek. The sting bloomed out and his pleasure-pained gasp was unavoidable. The hand drew back. No fuchsia sleeve, only the familiar old taupe. Disappointment pitted in his chest as Sagawa bent down near his face and clucked his tongue.
"Now, Majima-chan. What kind of manager would you be if you weren't ensuring that your guests are always satisfied ahead of your own needs?" There was a rough tug at his ponytail as Majima felt his hair elastic being removed. His loosened hair fanned out around him, wetted in pools of champagne and catching flecks from the squashed pineapple and mango that had broken his collision. Vacantly, he nodded. Placid smile. Can I offer you a warm towel, gentlemen? Any refreshments? The two men were blurred shapes moving overhead, clothing shucked until he could recognise neither shape. Their smells, however, were distinct. Near his head, Sagawa's fresh soap. Down by his hips, cracked black pepper and woody undertones. He mumbled something indistinct, and then yelped as the stolen hair elastic was snapped around the base of his cock.
"Hate to do it to ya pal, but ol' Saggy Balls here is right. As much as I want to see that pretty face of yers all twisted up and moanin' fer me, I'm here to teach you that the customer always comes first. Or is always right, whatever bullshit yer s'posed to say."
He throbbed pathetically as the Nishitani-ish blur came slowly back into focus. He was stripped naked, inked maple leaves flowing down his arms and thighs and thick knife-wounds puckering the skin. Haloed by the lights behind him, to Majima he was everything. Clenching his fists until tidy nails bit against rough skin, he reminded himself of the situation: Nishitani was here for a purpose, for one thing. To give an exercise in perfect customer service. Laid on his back in a coulis of puréed fruit and sticky champagne, his bound dick purpling desperately, customer service was the farthest thing from his unspooling mind. But... he looked up at his guest again, waiting impatiently beside the table for a response. Majima cleared his throat.
"Sir... as the manager here... it would be... it would do me the greatest honour to... uhhmm... it would be an honour to be of full service to you... tonight."
The words were faint, a barely mumbled whisper. Still, they were the starting gun that Nishitani needed. With a cackling holler, he leaped up onto the table and grasped Majima by the shoulders. A dog in heat, he howled and ground down against his erection. He was wet; fully prepared.
"Oh, fuck me Mr. Manager, yer killin' me with those pretty words'a yours. So polite... ungh..." he squirmed as he positioned himself properly, finding Majima with his entrance and moving against it teasingly, "so fuckin' polite, Majima-chan."
With a stuttering whimper, Majima felt himself be swallowed down to the base as Nishitani continued to rock against him; rough thrusts that hungrily took him in. He was hot, so fucking hot, walls pressing tight against him and sliding deliciously, agonisingly from root to tip and back again. Each stroke was possession; Nishitani staking his claim of his purchase, taking all of it in with satisfied shrieks of pleasure. Majima followed in kind. Dick still tightly bound, every movement was blissful agony. His breath hitched and caught and he drooled down the side of his face, arms and legs thrashing for purchase and knocking carefully cut banana halves flying along with the last remaining glasses. Nishitani's own hands were a whirlwind, grasping and grabbing and clawing, clutching, clasping flesh wherever it gave way to him. Majima's nipples were tweaked and caressed into hard, purple beads and deep purple scratches blossomed under exploring nails. His moans were pitched and laboured, stuttered words and pleas breaking through the more anonymously whimpered howls. It was ecstasy and it was agony, his orgasm nowhere in reach but his mind obliterated, every thought and every concern eradicated and
"Majima-chan."
His own name was a glass of ice-cold water. Not purred or barked from Nishitani's lips, but a mocking call from his keeper. Blearily, Majima watched as Sagawa swam into vision. He, too, was stripped bare.
"You didn't think it would be that simple, would you? Me standing by and watching your lesson in customer service turn into some kind of reward just for you? Don't be so naive, tiger."
As though completely removed from it, floating high above the scene as it unfolded beneath him, Majima felt his body being readjusted. Nishitani was still sat astride him - a perfect, warm counterweight - but he was pulled and tugged until his head dangled limply off the table's edge. Long strands of wet and slimy hair followed, whipping against his skin and hanging lankly down toward the carpet. The cloud of soap moved closer to his face, coupled now with a slight undertone of sweat.
"The truth of it is, buddy, you're only giving about a five out of ten at the moment. A real manager knows how to give exemplary customer service whilst... multitasking."
And then Majima felt Sagawa pressing into him, searching into his mouth and moving down deeper until he was filled completely. The angle was awkward but he took it well, swallowing around it and quickly readjusting. Below, his narrow eyeline afforded him a mess of broken glass, spilled liquid, and crushed fruit in the deep carpet. I'm terribly sorry about the unacceptable state of the booth, gentlemen. Please accept this complimentary round of drinks, courtesy of the management. At either end of him, the Omi patriarchs shifted and acclimatised. Then, they began to move.
It was a difficult rhythm to master, Majima would have been the first to admit. As Nishitani ground bruisingly down onto him and set a breakneck pace, Sagawa's movements were jerky, erratic: fast one moment, sluggish the next. It was the efficiency of a good cabaret manager, however, to accommodate their requirements. As his hips met Nishitani's with furious abandon, Majima's mouth carefully worked Sagawa's shaft, licking and sucking and allowing the owner to use it as he pleased. Unlike their shrieking guest, Sagawa was quiet as he moved, offering only a few self-satisfied grunts as he twitched and stirred in the base of Majima's throat. His own noises were limited to rumbling moans that vibrated up and over the shaft, an added twist of pleasure easing Sagawa toward his climax.
Then, he was empty. His mouth closed and opened vacantly against nothing, whilst his weeping, angry dick bobbed uselessly in the open air. Majima was to the evening's curtain call of entertainment; a tasteful work of art to be displayed and admired by his esteemed guests. Panting and swearing, both Sagawa and Nishitani finished over Majima's torso, painting him thickly with their Michelin star approval. Then, they were gone. No debrief. No performance review or feedback. Just Majima laid out, spread eagle, decorated in vibrant splashes of passionfruit and soaked still in champagne. In a daze, he sat up and winced as the hairband pinched at a few hairs that had been caught beneath it. Surrounding him was broken glass, torn garments, smeared food: a disarray that would see him finishing up here until dawn broke. Shaking the crashing blur of static in his head loose, Majima sighed deeply and gingerly pulled the elastic up his shaft and began to finish himself off in the quiet solitude left in the patriarchs' wake.