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An Unfamiliar Tuxedo

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                The skin over his wrist was the color of a pale jellyfish floating in the water. It always had been, and that daikon-radish flesh that laid over the knob of a bone, arm still thin—later to be coiled with muscle—jutted out from the crisp and lintless cuff of an unfamiliar tuxedo.

                Kiryu watched the smallest sliver of flesh peek out from what was normally hidden and immediately recognized that hand. A throb went through his chest. It was the same kind of excitement that aroused him when Majima would stretch his arm up over his head to raise the baseball bat, when the flash of pale white would split the space between leather and snakeskin, mapped with veins.

                Sense memory overwhelmed Kiryu, and as the Grand’s manager set down the flute of champagne, his hand seized the joint of Majima’s wrist. He knew it was him before even looking at his face, and although he didn’t mentally register this meeting as anything like ‘fate’ or ‘unreal,’ he was driven by something strangely instinctual.

                When Kiryu finally made eye-contact with that scowl—and there he really was—he opened his mouth and took in a sharp breath. The air tasted like nicotine.

                “Hey, what are ya doin’?” the hostess Kiryu had been sitting across from whispered. Her plucked brows were knit in concern.

                Kiryu stared openly. He was the same man, certainly: the plum-red lips, the thin, sallow face stretched over high cheekbones, the missing eye obscured in a patch of leather (although this eyepatch wasn’t adorned with the daimon of a silver snake), the furious grimace. But he was beardless, and that neat, short cut that brushed cutely past his temples when he threw his head back for a cackle was now long, inky, held back in a band at the back of his head.

                “Excuse me, sir,” he began, and his voice was smoother than in Kiryu’s dreams, lower-pitched and less catlike, “But touchin’ ain’t allowed in the Grand. Even the manager.”

                “You…” Kiryu’s voice went breathless, wheezy, like he’d just had his abdomen slugged by a Majima that was rowdier, madder, that only existed in his head. “Do you know me?”

                No recognition flickered over that black eye. He inspected Kiryu’s face, pupil jiggling in a sclera that wasn’t nearly as red and inflamed as Kiryu’s dream-Majima had. “I’m afraid I don’t.”


                Majima wasn’t a stranger to his Lord of the Night reputation preceding him, so he was eager to pry Kiryu’s hand off his arm and bring him, pleasantly, to the exit. Guy was obviously off his rocker, intoxicated, some frantic stalker, or looking to hurt him. There was no question that he was a yakuza, and he didn’t doubt that despite Sagawa preaching a tentative (but lasting) protection, that he wasn’t against dirty tactics.

                “Goro, do you know me?”

                That had his brows knitting. ‘Goro’ wasn’t common vernacular, even among cabaret club regulars.

                “Sir, I just told ya, I ain’t seen ya before in my life.”

                Kiryu gripped the table with his free hand, the other still restraining Majima where he stood. A strange combination of uneasiness and euphoria cut through him. It was the sensation of relief, like finding your car keys after looking for who knows how long—but that sensation held.

                Here he could not differentiate his memories with his reality. He had woken up today in Sotenbori, stuck alone inside a love hotel bedroom, the morning sun cool and grey behind bunched autumntime clouds. There was no prostitute or hostess or date accompanying him, and he couldn’t remember ever checking in. He had rolled over and felt the top of dresser for a small, grey device that flipped open, that had a screen above a telephone’s normal Dialpad, but much smaller.

                When he couldn’t find it, he registered that such a device certainly couldn’t exist, because the telephone was right there: squarish, large, beige. And besides, why would he want to make a call? To who? As he sat on the end of his bed, he looked in the full-body mirror across him and saw himself as he was.

                Head swimming, he tried to reconcile his own familiar image with the unfamiliar surroundings.

                My name is Kiryu Kazuma. I am thirty-eight. My father, Shintaro Kazama, is dead. My oath brother, Nishikiyama Akira, is dead. I have an adopted daughter named Haruka Sawamura. My closest friend and lover is named Majima Goro.

                He stood up, turned around, and inspected his back. His dragon was fully colored, faded with time, as though it’d been comfortably embedded in his skin for years. And it had been, hadn’t it? He splayed his hand over his shoulder blade—scar-riddled, white, raised lines cutting through muscle that had been honed for almost four decades.



                He couldn’t register Haruka as anything but a dream. He could not imagine her existing in this world, at this time, enduring the tragedy of seeking out a lost mother, in her outfit that seemed so anachronistic, with a taste in music that simply couldn’t exist.

                And Nishiki—his last image was a brutal one—but it was there, clear as day, gun held in a strong arm, mouth coiled into a manic grin, hair slicked back over a bruised, high forehead, ambition and madness overtaking him.

                But that couldn’t be, either, could it? Because Nishiki was certainly alive, back in Kamurocho, barhopping and lazing in his expensive car, listening to era-appropriate music that was not backed by the throbbing development of new, vocalized synthesizers that won’t exist for another ten years.

                Kiryu had pressed his fingers to his face and inspected the wrinkled skin between his brows from the perpetual furrow he wore. Wasn’t his hair longer now? He had the impression he’d been asleep for a very long time, that he’d imagined a strange, alternative dream world of his life, and that he’d simply dropped into Sotenbori for a vacation—from what?

                Prison time? But he’d never been to prison.

                And this Majima, like Haruka—he couldn’t exist, either. There was no person like that he’d ever met, a single-minded yakuza with uncoiled snakes upon his chest and a penchant for physical, brutal fighting, for feline-ish giggles after being caught for stalking Kiryu. He was aware of the Shimano Family from hearsay, because his father (also most certainly alive), had spoken of them. But why would there be some Osakan madman headlining the Tokyo syndicate?

                After registering this hazy strangeness, and the memory lapse (he still couldn’t remember how he’d gotten to Sotenbori), as a particularly bad hangover, Kiryu had simply delineated the whole ordeal a dream. An intense, long dream, perhaps a premonition of sorts, but nothing to put stock into.

                And he didn’t question why he was thirty-eight in 1988.

                He simply pulled on his suit (neatly hung in the dresser for unknown reasons) and left the hotel, intent on having a good time. Kiryu didn’t want to reconcile his blank period with introspection, with self-analysis over a dream.

Dreams are dreams are dreams are dreams, after all.

                Until they aren’t.

                Majima began pulling away and Kiryu let his grip slide out of his hand, still watching with his tongue pressed behind the walls of his teeth, gawking openly at the Grand’s manager.

                “I’m—I’m sorry, Majima-san.”

                Majima rolled his hand on his wrist, rubbing feeling back into it. He was younger than he’d imagined, and a lot less humorous and crazed. But even so, he scrunched his nose up in a way that had Kiryu feeling threads of affection, crawling through his veins, making his fingers twitch, his palms sweat. “You’re a pretty strong guy, huh?” Majima mumbled, and then he gave a deep, courteous bow to Kiryu and the hostess he no longer had a sliver of interest in, and said, “Enjoy your night, sir.”

                As he walked down the velvet-lined hallway of the Grand, toward a sloping, extravagant staircase, Kiryu watched him. Majima stopped halfway down the stairs, and gave a small, almost imperceptible look over his shoulder at Kiryu.

                A strange smile came over those pursed lips and he raised a pale, gloveless hand. His palm was not riddled with the callouses Kiryu dreamed about. Could it really have been a dream? Those details were so idiosyncratic, so real…

Then he descended the stairs, lankier than he’d pictured, strangely courteous and well-put-together. He sort of bounced when he walked, as though there was power and energy boiling beneath the surface of that neat mask.

                And Kiryu knew he was in love.


                “I—I promise… that I know you.”

                Majima turned around from where he squatted outside, near the dumpsters where he deposited empty bottles of whiskey and chicken bones and Sagawa’s used napkins, holding a cigarette between two elegant fingers, smoke billowing from his lips. His brows knit and he sighed. It was after closing time, that sort of dim, hopeless time of night where he watched the eyes watching him, where he felt seen and entrapped, like a lab rat beneath a sterile-white light. Where in the nebulous spray of colors of the city, there were scowls pointed at him, and he was locked in four walls, placed upon a dust-covered apartment floor, thinking of the time passing by. That miserable four in the morning time of night.

                The sound of the gangster appearing behind him had his heart rate going up. But he couldn’t quite register it as fear… It was more like anticipation.

                “You again? Come on, man, I ain’t a goddamn celebrity. You don’t gotta flatter me, Kiryu-ch—”

                Majima’s lips sealed tight and a strange flicker of recognition came over his face. His lips pursed, brows knitting. “Huh. Kiryu-chan? That your name?”

                Kiryu nodded slowly. “That’s what you call me.”

                “Weird. Feels like… I got déjà vu. But I don’t remember you. We ain’t work together before, have we?” his implication was obvious: are you Tojo Clan?

                Kiryu walked over, standing beside him, looking toweringly high as Majima craned his neck back to scrutinize this weird, knowing individual. His mouth filled with spit, and he took a long drag to occupy his mouth as he scanned Kiryu up and down.

                Majima answered himself. “No. I’ve never seen you before.” Perhaps he’d subconsciously overheard the hostess calling him that babyish moniker. Because although Kiryu was unfamiliar in appearance—goddamn, would he recognize someone this strong and handsome if he’d met him before—he had an essence radiating off of him, heat like the bluest end of a flame that was so recognizable that it filled Majima with a relief of sorts. Like he’d just gotten the call that he was back in the Tojo Clan. Like he’d just met up with someone he was sure was perfect over the phone and had come to find that he was.

                “I suppose I haven’t either,” Kiryu admitted, looking away to stare at the river water reflecting the myriad neon from the sleepless tourist city.

                “Are you stalking me or something?” Majima hissed. A strange tic of Kiryu’s lips made him squirm. It was like Kiryu was on the borderline of remembering something or admitting that he was violating some law by following Majima around. But he shook his head and the irony left his expression.

                “It’s a strange coincidence, isn’t it? You know my name, I know yours… You’re familiar in the strangest way, and I feel like I can list off a million ways we’ve spoken before. I’d even go so far as to call you a doppelganger of sorts. But then, when I really think about it, none of those memories can be true. I’ve never met a ‘Majima Goro.’ Until now. But I think I just had a dream about someone who looked like you. But not quite. Maybe I heard about you last night and passed out, subconsciously embedded you into my head, and now my dream prompted me to come here.”

                “That could be the case. Doesn’t explain me knowin’ your name, though. I think I might have overheard it from the hostess or somethin’,” he can’t help but be curious, though. “Tell me about the dream, ‘bout how this other Majima Goro acted.”

                “Hm. Dream Goro was—older than you. Insane, too, but not a bad person. He was kind of a wildcard. Hard to predict. He looked different: he had a beard, and shorter hair. And he had a tattoo of a Hannya on his back—”

                “Wait, what?”

                “Like, a demon goddess, a Hannya—”

                “No, I know what that is, I—” he stood up, flicking his cigarette butt into the dumpster. He looked around for any lingering employees that might see his back and figure out his past criminality. When he found none, he still took a cautious step toward the staircase that was damp with a recent rain, the excess slicking the aged concrete, dripping on his hair. He unbuttoned his shirt, after pulling off the stupid bowtie and shoving it in his pocket. Prying it open, he shrugged the shirt halfway down his waist to rest, the cloth bunched up over his forearms. He turned around and showed off the tattoo. The colors were fresher, glossier than they’d been in Kiryu’s dream.

                But an exact replica of what he’d imagined.

                “That… doesn’t seem like a coincidence,” Kiryu muttered, reaching forward—he wanted to smooth his palm over the demon’s face, wanted to touch the flower petals behind them. But it seemed inappropriate, even though his palm was itching to predict the heat he’d most certainly feel.

                The slope of your back goes in deeper than usual at the base, maybe from scoliosis. You have a knob beneath your neck, between your shoulder blades, that protrudes. And you emit a feral whine when I rub it, because it feels good.

                “Fuck it,” Majima said, turning around to face him once more. Kiryu quickly dropped his arm to his side. Majima’s nipples were hard on his chest from the biting air, and Kiryu had to avert his eyes. He was obnoxiously, overwhelmingly attracted to him like he’d never been for a stranger before. Like they’d already explored everything about one another. “Let’s go back inside. Figure this weird shit out over a drink.”


                The club, when empty, had an aura of abandonment. Everything was still lit in gold, but the emptiness of the seats was depressing, as was the instrumentless stage. Like a concert hall without any performers. The silence, too, contrasted with the mad chattering and the jazz music that pierced through the night everywhere else in Sotenbori, everything breathy and alcoholic and Osakan in sound. Majima could hear his own footsteps as he approached a bar that was almost offensively stocked. He could probably pay his way back into the Tojo Clan if he spent what they did on alcohol.

                “What can I get for ya?”

                At the same time, they said, “Hibiki?”

                They blinked.

                Even if Kiryu was some mad stalker who was intent on becoming his friend—or enemy—for whatever reason, it still didn’t explain the coincidental knowledge Majima had been imbued with that seemed to match Kiryu’s.

                They each had a glass in silence, Majima inspecting Kiryu, noncommittally dragging his line of vision elsewhere, then back to Kiryu—all as Kiryu practically stared him down.

                “I don’t get it,” Majima finally said. Curt, blunt, forward. He shrugged, weakly.

                “Does this have the quality of a dream to you, too?” Kiryu mumbled. The ice clinked against his lips as he took another sip.


                “I can’t leave you alone. I just feel like I shouldn’t.”

                “No,” Majima said, too knee-jerk of a response, “Don’t leave me alone.” I’m sick of being alone.


                “How did you know about my tattoo?”

                “I—I didn’t. I promise. I’ve only seen you in some other fashion, in my head. I promise, I never would have even guessed you were a Cabaret owner here, because in my dream you were in Kamurocho.”

                “So, what, you a shitty psychic or somethin’?”

                “I don’t know. I’m not—… Majima-san… It was all intuitive, coincidental, unreal. I don’t even know if I’m awake right now. I feel like… this is a familiar place, but not because of you. But you’re still a familiar face.”

                Majima gave him a lazy tilt of his head, eye narrowing. It was very attractive, in a sleek, scrutinizing way. Kiryu’s never been intimidated by Majima, even at his most wild, but he still felt shy around this version of him. Perhaps the circumstances in their meeting weren’t the best, and he felt guilty for freaking the poor guy out with his conventions about him that turned out to be true. Perhaps Majima just had the energy of someone who didn’t want to be bothered by a huge, invasive ex-yakuza, with private, intimate information revealed to him.

                Before Kiryu could sputter out another apology, Majima slammed his cup down on the bar and said, “Fuck it. Tell me more about myself that you know. Shit you can’t find out from gossip, from hearsay. Call me a fuckin’ narcissist, but I’d like to hear it.”

                He went around the bar to settle himself on one of the plush, large sofas acting as the booths.

                Kiryu sat beside him, a few inches away. He wished there was some music on, something besides the sound of his own breath and the neat, mincing steps of Majima’s silver-toed shoes on the freshly mopped floor.

                “You want me to stay?”

                “Yeah. And let’s drink some more. Expensive shit. I don’t care. You ain’t gotta pay, either,” Majima propped his legs up on the table, crossing one over the other. His hand went to the back of his head, and it attached itself to the band holding his hair up, pulling it off in one smooth motion. His hair fell around his face, sleek and long and shiny, looking like a courtesan painted on a woodblock. His profile was just as angular and pale as he’d imagined it, and draped in that shield of raven hair, he took on a quality of the feminine.

                “Feels like there’ll be no consequences tonight,” Majima mused, “Besides, you remind me of someone I like.”


                “You’re really into disco music. You have an alter ego that’s an idol, who wears roller skates.”

                Majima shrieked out a laugh as he tossed back his drink, and the sound was that which would creep up through Kamurocho alleys, from within trash cans, wearing a police uniform, before a bat connected with the back of Kiryu’s head.

                “How’d you know?!”

                Kiryu gave a small, nervous looking smile. It made Majima smile too. He didn’t know if it was from the seeming physical safety that this large, kind-voiced man provided, or if it was the alcohol, but being around Kiryu had him feeling strangely giddy. It was like the feeling he had when around a particular favorite person of his, but he couldn’t place why.

                The word came to mind again: innate.

                “You also have an alter ego named Goromi. She’s a hostess.”

                “Haw! I dunno about that. But I’ll file the name away for later.”

                “Hm…” Kiryu was pleasantly tipsy now, slouched in the seats with a sort of self-fulfilled ease in his posture. His big legs were spread and Majima had his feet in his lap. It was a comfortable, intimate position, given dream-Majima’s penchant for being pampered. Apparently the real one did too. He had his hair tucked behind his ear, but it was getting messy, because he kept laying back.

                “You’re in the Shimano Family.”

                “Hey now. I ain’t no gangster. …Anymore. I was in the Shimano Family,” although Majima seemed to answer this with humor in his voice, his eye took on a strange, distant, hateful look. He shifted uncomfortably.

                “And… Shimano mistreated you.”

                A beat of silence. The clink of a glass set upon the table. “…Yeah.”

                “Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought that bit up.”

                Majima shrugged, acting unbothered, and then sat up on an elbow from where he splayed on the couch. He scooted forward after pulling his legs from Kiryu’s lap, and easily draped himself upon it instead. And despite this—seemingly—being their first meeting, the weight was so comfortably recognizable, so easy, the motion seeming so practiced, that Kiryu just sat back and let his hand fall on the curve of his spine once more. He helped Majima shrug off his suit jacket.

                Majima rested his palms on his chest, looking sleepily at him.

                “I ain’t usually this easy, you know. I’ll let a guy fuck me and fuck off once in a blue moon. But it’s been a while.”

                He pillowed his cheek against the top of Kiryu’s head. His long hair brushed Kiryu’s ears, tickled his nose. He smelled comforting. It was like when he rolled over and gathered a sleeping, sex-sated Majima in his arms, and then he would take in that iron-blood and nicotine-and-cologne smell every time they shared a futon, back in Kamurocho.

                It’d be embedded in the sheets, and now here it was, strong and tucked against the Lord of the Night’s neck. The Lord of the Night—didn’t Majima bring that up once, too? Yes, that’s right… In that bartender outfit, back in Bantam.

                No longer able to separate which Majima was real and which wasn’t, Kiryu knew that whatever the form, he was still his—still his partner, his attacker, his stalker, his friend, a protector and a lover. Didn’t matter that he was in his twenties suddenly, thinner and more nuanced, less of a social exhibitionist.

                It was still him.

                “Thought I couldn’t touch the manager in the club,” Kiryu rumbled, voice low and smooth. It had goosebumps crawling over Majima’s back.

                “Don’t count after hours. Tell me more about myself.”

                Kiryu tilted his head up to make eye-contact.

                “You don’t like to take off your eyepatch unless you’re comfortable. Because you’re hardly comfortable, you almost never take it off.”

                Majima let an amused snort pass. He hooked a thumb in the strap and pulled it off, revealing the flat, smooth lid. “Comfortable now. Somethin’ else.”

                “Hmm…” Kiryu mused, “You’re a big fan of karaoke. And so am I. And you’d do duets with me now, if you could.”

                Majima grinned.


                “You’re a glutton for pain. Not the brutal kind that you can’t reciprocate. You like fights, and strength.”

                Majima tilted his chin back, presenting the sloped column of his white throat, as if a challenge. His lips curled into a smirk, and Kiryu took the bait, because they’d been here before, haven’t they? He knew this song and dance. He leaned forward and clamped his jaw down on his pulse, not too hard, but just hard enough. He felt Majima sag with relief, as if he’d just been hit with a shot of downers to relieve his pain.

                “’specially yours,” Majima murmured, fingers trailing through Kiryu’s short hair. This was strange—really fucking strange—the kind of intimacy and affection he had for this stranger. Majima was always on high alert, his guard was always up. But this comfort was almost in his nature. Kiryu knew him and he seemed to have no ill intentions, he seemed to be so eager to take care of him, to make him feel good. He was a foreign and strange deliverance from everything else around him.

                He began to unbutton his own shirt as his pulse thundered beneath Kiryu’s wet teeth. Kiryu removed himself from his throat to watch, admiring the purplish patch left behind from the pressure.

                He kissed down his sternum, the way he always did, the way that was comfortable for him. But Majima seemed new to the sensation, and he swallowed. When Kiryu, stooped low to kiss at Majima’s abdomen, tight and trembling with excitement, he turned his eyes up. Mapping the skin, he noted the lack of a scar cutting his belly from where Majima took the knife in his place, back at the batting cages.

                Pulling back, Kiryu surveyed him with half-mast eyes, lips parted. He wanted to go further, but this Majima didn’t seem half as experienced, half as secure. In Kamurocho, an older, shorter-haired, madder Majima would already be pinning him to the ground by now.

                This one sat beautifully on his lap, head tilted, his hair falling over a shoulder, which was still shiny with a newish tattoo. He seemed unsure, good eye squinted, fingers resting on his bottom lip in thought.

                “Kiryu-chan,” he cooed, “Teach me more about myself.”


                The vinyl Maijma wanted on the record player was by a singer named Hako Yamasaki, and the jazz-funk was as blue as her face. But it spread through the club as a fitting, dreamy soundtrack. Normally, Majima would go for something harder, wilder—at least in Kiryu’s memory. A pulsing club beat that matched his shiny teeth flashing in the pink neon of Debolah, a leather-clad thigh shoved between his legs in the crowded club. But this seemed to match this strange, subdued version from Sotenbori, as cool as the river water, her voice as rich as the velvet lining the Grand.

                Majima had his thighs spread, his arms tied behind his back by Kiryu’s belt, looking modelesque and sharp with his head tilted back challengingly, and a hard cock standing alert against his belly.

                It had started like this:

                You like being tied up.

                Do I?

                You like it when you’re restrained, and hard, and I can drag it out of you over time, never letting you come, begging for more—until you can’t take it...

                Do I?

                You like it when I take control—sometimes. You like it when I take care of you.

                Then show me.

                A lot of people had the impression that Kiryu was a shyer man than he was. That he was too honorable and had some sacred virtues preventing him from even having an erection. But Kiryu had experience in a variety of hostess clubs, and when he was younger, he could croon into telephones and say the right shit if he was on his game. In prison, he lost the ability for a bit, and things were awkward as he tenuously stepped back into the world of sex after meeting Majima.

                Of course, he had a shortcut now; although they were meeting for the “first time,” Kiryu couldn’t help but think about how he could map every part of Majima, could make him tremble under his touch. Majima might presume he was some all-knowing sex god, some player—but Kiryu had a cheat sheet in his head from that strange alternate world Majima, who crooned and curled his toes and let his tongue loll out, who giggled and bit the tips of his own leather-covered fingers.

                Kiryu wasn’t an expert in sex, but he was an expert at making Majima cum.

                As for Majima, the belt affixing his wrists together had been almost panic inducing. The last time he’d been restrained, he was in the hole, with blood dried on his cheek and his eyeball split somewhere on a foul-smelling, concrete floor that was cold everywhere but where his feet touched. He almost thought to protest, but something about Kiryu’s gentle hands wrapping the belt, something about the innate trust he had for this stranger (that he should logically have no trust for) calmed him.

                Besides, it’s hard to say no to a tall, soft-eyed man who kissed your ear and whispered “Majima-no-nii-san” over and over, a palm cupping the curved length of your shaft with lazy, loving pumps of his hand.

                Now Kiryu kneeled in front of him, leaning forward to bite the inside of his slim thighs over and over, leaving a variety of marks like rings of pomegranate juice stained upon polished, blond wood. Majima’s body gave a full shudder, eye closed as his breath came in short, sharp inhales, Kiryu’s lips searing hot and whiskey-damp against the junction of his inner thighs.

                The essence of being so near to his cock was as intoxicating as the whiskey. It didn’t send Kiryu’s heart stuttering in excitement, it just had his mouth filling with spit, his eyes going half-mast. He felt the way a man does, when he can comfortably come home to his willing, honeymoon-new lover and spread his legs apart, and bury his dick between them. He had done this countless times before, he felt, but this Majima had not. He squirmed and let out nervous, skittish little whimpers. His wide eye tracked every movement Kiryu made. The delicate flesh of his skin was still soft, yet to strengthen into the powerful thighs that’d wrap around his head in Kamurocho. (Whether in an attempt to strangle him or sit on his face, depending on the day.)

                Then Kiryu’s lips parted and he sucked Majima’s balls into his mouth, the skin of his scrotum delicate and sensitive, seizing up tight upon Kiryu’s wet tongue. Majima gasped and his shoulders jerked forward. Kiryu’s eyes slanted in amusement as he watched him, knowing that—if he could—he’d affix those long fingers in his hair and pull him closer.


                Laving over the sensitive glans, he popped off after nursing them for a moment, and watched with pleasant amusement as Majima’s cockhead beaded with precum.

                Kiryu didn’t touch him, just draped his arms over Majima’s thighs, and leaned forward. He blew gently on the head and wrenched out a breathy, horny laugh from Majima.

                “Oi, quit clownin’ around,” he huffed, “Get yer mouth on my cock.”

                Never one to deny him, Kiryu leaned forward and stuck his tongue out, slowly mapping the veins that crossed the underside of his cock in a way that he knew would make Majima twitch and moan. He suckled at one for a while, gently, like he was trying to get the honey out of a stem. Every touch was feather-light, purposefully teasing. Majima’s cheeks went crimson.

                “Haah—that’s fuckin’ it…” Majima mumbled, tossing his head back. His hair fell over his bad eye and a smirk of satisfaction crawled over his mouth. When Kiryu wrapped his lips around the head and went down on him in one smooth motion—long since mastering his gag reflex, he realized—Majima cried out sensitively, and his legs came up to drape over Kiryu’s broad, muscular shoulders. That throat was so tight and cloying, and it pulsed hotly around his shaft with every purposeful inhale. It felt like he was encased in fucking velvet.

                Kiryu held him in his throat, swallowing reflexively. Drool began to build around where his jaw was achingly pried open, but he simply let Majima’s cock warm in his throat. He then pulled off of him with a loud, messy sound, dragging his tongue expertly around the head as he pulled away. All the while his eyes were turned up at him, adoring, like Majima was his goddamn valentine or something.

                Just as Majima’s precum bloomed salty over his tongue in that telltale prelude to an orgasm, Kiryu pulled away completely, leaving Majima’s cock without the warmth of his mouth. Majima whined, angrily, and shifted on the booth.

                “Hey! Why’d ya stop, I was almost fuckin’ finished!”

                Kiryu grinned and pressed his face against his knee in a way that made his cheek bunch up, made his eye crease beneath the skin. It was offensively cute for someone who’d just been sucking his dick. He dragged the tip of his pointer finger lightly—extraordinarily delicate—over the underside of his cock, dug the pad of it against Majima’s urethra, eliciting a hiss, before he ceased to touch him completely.

                “Yer—such a fuckin’—tease, Kiryu-chan…” he huffed, sweat beading on his brow.

                Easing Majima’s legs off his shoulders, Kiryu stood up and walked to the bar. “I like it when you get demanding.”

                “Yeah?” Majima huffed, “I demand you to touch my goddamn penis, then.”

                Kiryu laughed softly and poured out the last of the Hibiki in the crystal glass, feeling warm-faced and pleasant, eyes on Majima’s pink, runny cock. He kneeled in front of him and inspected it, almost medicinally.

                His fingers dipped into his glass and he pulled out a cube of half-melted ice.

                “Wa—wait wait wait wa—aah…hah!”

                Majima threw his head back, teeth gritted into a rictus, as Kiryu rubbed down his cock with a fistful of searing, whiskey-covered ice. “There. To cool you down.”

                His erection wilted only moderately, but it was enough to continue their game without him jizzing too early. Kiryu looked smug as he sat in front of Majima’s dick, dripping with both ice water and both of their bodily fluids.

                Majima couldn’t help but wonder what eyes were on him now. Thankfully, Sagawa seemed to be merciful when it came to letting Majima have sex in private. Majima was never interrupted by Tojo goons or inspected by a surprise visit from Sagawa when he was letting some nobody with a hard dick slot it up against his ass inside of the dingy apartment that he called home.

                Kiryu stayed on his knees, taking slow, purposeful sips of his whiskey as he waited for Majima to soften up more. He stared down at him, obstinate in refusing to beg, it seemed. Of course, he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t know what he himself wanted, would he?

                After Kiryu maintained his silence, Majima’s lips parted, and he breathily let the request out.

                “Kiryu-chan… Please keep touchin’ me…”

                Kiryu gave him a blank, meaningless look.


                “My—my fuckin’ cock. Please.”

                “Beg me.”

                Majima’s cheeks filled with air as he huffed. It was cute, this shyer, less brash Majima, who squirmed uncomfortably before eking out, “Kiryu-chan, I need you to keep touchin’ my cock, please, I need it—I—”

                He took a deep breath.

                “Go on,” Kiryu purred, as if he knew what he was about to say.

                “I’m a needy bitch. Make me cum.”

                Face sufficiently on fire, Majima squeezed his eye shut and tossed his head back.

                There was a rustle of cloth, the shift of Kiryu’s knees on the ground, and before Majima could open his eye and confront Kiryu, he felt the pillowing cushion of pressure on either side of his cock. His eye flew open and he looked down with an open mouth as he saw Kiryu’s chest—uncovered for the first time—pressed around his dick.

                “Oh my god—oh my fuckin’ god, Kiryu-chan,” he whimpered, the ice water on his dick rapidly warming against Kiryu’s soft, substantial tits.

                “Catching flies?”

                Majima snapped his mouth shut but giggled softly at his own gawking. It was like he’d never even let himself imagine getting off between the pecs of a man before, like he couldn’t even believe what he was seeing. There was something hypnotizing about the way they dragged around his foreskin, the way his nipples, when pushed up with the help of Kiryu’s hands, brushed cutely against his cock.

                “God, wish my fuckin’ hands were free.”

                “Then you’d touch your own cock.”

                “Naw… I wanna touch yer tits,” he said, and the word made his tongue go dry. His tits—there was something lewd about the feminization of someone that was all-encompassing masculine. It had his cockhead dribbling out another load of precum, and the slick-slick sound that came from the wetness between Kiryu’s chest muscles had his balls tensing, his teeth gritting—

                “Aw, FUCK NO!”

                Majima whined as Kiryu pulled away, the orgasm never overcoming its precipice. He stared at Kiryu’s sternum, slick with fluid. Kiryu pressed a finger to his pecs, curiously, and Majima groaned as the sticky fluid came away stretchily on his fingertip. He licked at it and made a show of his pleasure, licking around his mouth with a noisy “mmh.”

                “Yer—yer like… a fuckin’ whore or somethin’.”

                “Only for Majima-san,” Kiryu corrected. He stood up now and Majima eyed the bulge in his grey slacks that were going to darken if Kiryu didn’t do something about them as soon as possible.

                He swallowed. It looked—big.

                “Majima-san,” Kiryu said, and caught Majima’s face in his palms. He held him carefully, gentle fingers tracing a jawline, freshly shaven and smooth. His bad eye looked worse for wear than he pictured it, giving off the impression that the gouging was more recent than it’d been in dream-Majima’s world. The eyelid was loose, still cut up along the place where the eyelashes grew, and sort of pinkish, like he’d been rubbing it for a long time.

                Majima’s lips parted, tacit permission given.

                Kiryu leaned down and pressed their lips together in a gentle pass, his tongue catching on his jagged teeth. Majima’s tentative lips didn’t bite at and suck at them like he expected. It was like a practice kiss, curious and testing. But he kissed back, nonetheless.

                “Can I put it in you?” Kiryu murmured when they broke away. He pushed his fingers through Majima’s hair, resting his palm on his forehead, and gave a tender scratch of his scalp. Majima stared up at him reverentially, like he was some miracle doctor curing him of his wounds.

                Majima breathlessly nodded, tasting of sweet, burning whiskey and excitement.

                “Will you let me fuckin’ cum if I say ‘yes’?”

                “Yes,” Kiryu unzipped his slacks, and began working them down his strong, sun-kissed thighs, “And nothing will ever compare to the orgasm I’m about to give you, Majima-no-nii-san.”


                It wasn’t like Majima didn’t expect him to be big. Everything about Kiryu screamed masculinity, and there was no way he could ignore the fact that his cock would most certainly match the large hands, the long limbs, the full, girthy musculature of his frame. Still, he hadn’t taken something this big since—

                Well, he didn’t like to think about it.

                But it was okay, he reminded himself, head tossed back. They’d used a lot of lube. (The container was in the office, near the towel heater, because despite his all-consuming scumminess, sometimes Majima would have his nights with the old fuck and wake up with teeth grit in regret and a sore ass.)

                Kiryu’s cockhead took a while to push through, because the tenderhearted guy—bless him—kept stilling, leaning forward to rub sweet, loving circles into Majima’s shoulders every time he’d so much as wince, let out a sharp breath, let his brows hitch.

                But once he bottomed out in that inner heat, Majima’s body trembled with a new absolution of being. Call him dramatic, but there was something that got his head heavy, got his heart thudding. As he was filled with cock, stuffed like some whore, hands tied up on the booth of a public property that he owned—he felt angelic. It wasn’t the whiskey making him feel like the humanization of a gleam on ocean water, the personification of the best orgasm, the full breadth of honeymoon sunlight the first day after a wedding. It was just Kiryu, who held him by his thighs, who rocked his hips, who had his rim tugging along with each thrust, who’d lean down to kiss at his parted mouth. It was alleviation above all things: a comforting, particularly good dream, a long sleep, a day at the spa; it wasn’t a good fucking lay, it was the best fucking lay.

                Majima still hadn’t cum, his hands still bound behind his back.

                “Oh my god,” Majima kept saying, his head lolled on his shoulder, his eye half-lidded and his mouth slack. He kept having to tuck his tongue back into his mouth, as it’d fall out to rest on the kittenish curl of his lips.

                Kiryu pounded his hole with these practiced, slow thrusts. It was never brutal, never too-rough, like Kiryu knew—miraculously, he probably would—that Majima couldn’t hack anything that made him feel like some fucktoy, like someone being fucked with scorn. The way Kiryu touched him was with the loving detail a painter’s brushstroke applies to a masterpiece: deferential.

                There was a note of possession in the way Kiryu’s hand came around to squeeze, gently, at Majima’s inner, bitten thigh. He watched himself fuck Majima’s hole, watched the fat jut of his dick meet that rim that was pink and tight and twitching with pleasure, with nervousness.

                “Don’t come.”

                Majima nodded, huffing through his open mouth. His cock was aching, neglected, dripping its juices over his own belly. His precum was so ample that it was making a small, but sizable, little pool in the hollow of his stomach.

                “You’re so beautiful, Majima-san,” Kiryu said, as if the thought just occurred to him, “You’re like—” he didn’t finish the sentence, but a playful grin came over his face. He didn’t want to dish out the romance, the adoration—fuck it, the love—too early.

                He didn’t want to scare this thinner, more withdrawn, less broken Majima away.

                “Like whaa-at?” he wheedled, higher-pitched. His calves squeezed Kiryu’s sides.

                Kiryu didn’t know what he wanted to say. Majima reminded him of beautiful and wild things. He reminded him of all of the irezumi prints he saw, so bright and animated and uncontrollable, stopped in time, or like a kabuki actor. But now, this Majima reminded him of a lotus flower on the water at the turn of winter. Kiryu, suddenly overcome with a strange burst of adoration, buried himself deep inside and pushed Majima onto his back, clambering over him so he could press flush to his body. Majima’s legs came up to wrap around his waist, giving Kiryu free rein to nail at his prostate.

                Chest to chest, Kiryu could feel Majima’s heart thudding against his, could feel his cock flex between their stomachs, could slant his mouth against his in a needy, obsessive kiss.


                “Don’t come.”

                “Kiryu—I can’t help—”

                Kiryu thrusted in brutally, nailing him down on the booth, Majima’s toes curling behind his arched back. He could feel it, then: the warm spurt of cum, the twitching of that candy-pink, curved dick, the spasm of his asshole around his dick.

                Majima let out a pant, a long, drawn out moan, before he went boneless beneath Kiryu, tongue lolling out of his mouth openly now, like he’d just run a marathon. “Fuck, Kiryu-chan,” he mumbled, arching up to lick over Kiryu’s slack jaw, “Your cock’s so fuckin’ good, fuckin’ me up—”

                “You like it when I wreck this ass of yours?”

                “Yes!” Majima howled, “Love it—love feelin’ you in me, in my guts.”


                And finally—after Majima’s orgasm, Kiryu sat back, and placed a hand on his cock. Majima cried out immediately. “Oh fuck—too much. Kiryu…”

                Running his palm over the sensitive flesh, he smeared his thumb through the cum dribbling down the angry red flesh. It was an impressive puddle, sticky. More than he usually came—he must not have gotten off in a while. There was a flush on Majima’s face, a haziness in his eye, that said as much. It really felt like Kiryu was changing his world, just by plugging up his rectum with a fat cock and sliding Majima’s sensitive foreskin up and down his cockhead.

                Shockwaves of pleasure had him twitching, had him trying to squirm his hips out of his grasp. It felt good against Kiryu’s cock. “Hurts…”

                “You like it when it hurts good,” Kiryu told him, and Majima nodded. He didn’t know how Kiryu knew that he could take pain, not brutalization; but he knew.

                Then Kiryu squeezed around his shaft and Majima jolted upright, but with his arms still tied behind his back, aching and sore, he couldn’t find purchase, and fell back down on the cushions. The motion had Kiryu seizing up with one, two more thrusts, before he spilled his load inside Majima fully. Majima’s eye rolled back and he panted, because the sensation of a hand on his sensitive cock, a dick in his overworked hole, jamming semen into him—it had his hips thrusting with slight abandon as another orgasm overcame him. His dick was pins and needles in the best way, jerking of its own accord in Kiryu’s grip, smearing that hand with pearly splatters.

                “Sensitive little thing,” Kiryu huffed, chest sweaty and heaving, slicked over with both of their shared bodily fluids. He held Majima beneath him, hands pinning his hips to the couch, before he slowly pulled out. He watched Majima’s hole gape as it fluttered, then kissed the head of his cock on its way out.

                “Cute…” Kiryu mumbled, a bit absent-mindedly.

                “Ain’t no one ever called my asshole cute before,” Majima quipped exhaustedly, spread out on the couch with no small amount of exhaustion. He wanted to sleep here.

                Kiryu, with great reluctance, stood up and helped Majima upright. He reached over and undid the belt tying his wrists together. His heart thudded with the clunk-clunk sound of the vinyl that had long since ended playing its A-side.

                Kneeling in front of him once more, he pillowed his cheek on his thigh, as he did earlier, and took Majima’s wrists into either hand. They were pinkish, the belt searing two leather-marked bracelets upon the flesh. He rubbed them, thumbing over his veins, the white flesh of his skin looking just as it had as it set down the flute of champagne. His hands aroused him the way they always did: when he’d peel off those gloves, when he’d cup his face, when they’d seize a baseball bat, when they’d spread lewdly in a V-shape over his smirking mouth.

                As he massaged them, Majima’s ring finger twitched faintly.

                Kiryu leaned forward and kissed the tip of it.

                “Thank you, Majima-no-nii-san.”

                “Hmm… Thank you.”


                Majima gave a tired, curt nod of his head. He was voiceless now, exhausted, but he was smiling slightly, sated. He had a tilted head and a pleased, smug crease of his eye. His face was honeyed, and he smelled of sex.

                “Good. I got a hotel room, anyway—you should come over.”


                Going to bed with Majima for the first time felt like the hundredth time. As he tucked Majima’s sleepy, tired body beneath his chin, pulled against his frame, hidden in the safety of the blankets, Kiryu mapped his arms, his back, with his hand. The tattoo was raised, fresher. His skin was without the aged scars of time. His hair tickled his nose, splayed against the pillows, and his voice wasn’t as worn from years of cigarettes.

                Testily, Kiryu reached up and ran his hand around the smooth chain secured around his neck. It was an iconic piece for Majima, Mad Dog and Cabaret Owner alike, and he guarded it with the same tenacity that he guarded his eyepatch. It was attractive, glinting gold and polychromatic in the neon lights of Kamurocho. Kiryu always thought it looked uncomfortable to sleep in, especially given the reddish imprints left against the skin of his chest, but that didn't stop the Mad Dog. His fingers deftly slipped up his sternum, and found the clasp that had slipped along to the front. Normally, he'd have his wrist seized and pushed away, told to keep his hands off the ice.

                But now, Majima simply lifted his chin, and allowed Kiryu to remove it. He set it on the nightstand, and then rested his palm warmly over his chest.

                Majima's hand found Kiryu’s all the same, and he squeezed it.

                “Goodnight, Kiryu-chan,” Majima murmured.

                All the same, Kiryu pressed his lips against his neck, and said, “Goodnight, Mad Dog.”