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It was early in the morning, early enough that it was still dark outside except for the flash and stutter of the city’s lights, but Majima, naturally, was already awake. Kazuma had no idea how much he normally slept, but when Kazuma was in Majima’s bed he tended to sleep at least three or four hours, but never more than that.
Did he sleep more, when Kazuma wasn’t here? Did he sleep less? Did he sleep differently with other partners, with kobun or with hosts and hostesses, or with other lieutenants, than he did with Kazuma?
It wasn’t the sort of thought Kazuma normally had about anybody, wasn’t the sort of thing he thought about, but since the first time Majima had grabbed him and shoved his tongue down Kazuma’s throat with no warning at all before dragging him home, it was the sort of thing Kazuma thought about.
Who was Majima Goro, when he thought he was unobserved?
Because Kazuma had no doubt he was a different man in moments like this to the usual.
Kazuma’s whole body ached, like it always did when he’d spent a night with Majima – there were bites and scratches all over his back, around his neck, his shoulders, his chest; his ass was fucked open and slightly sore, and his thighs ached from thrusting; his whole body throbbed with a quiet, satisfying ache, more like the one he got from the gym or a good fight than a fuck, but with Majima, all three blended into one.
He was awake when Majima slipped out of bed, and now he laid on his side, his head resting on the pillow, watching him move. He was careful not to move around much, and to keep his body relaxed and still apparently sleepy on the bed – Majima was whip-smart and he had keen instincts, but as much as the vision in his remaining eye was keen, he wasn’t great in the dark, not really.
Majima has a sense of instinct most yakuza would kill for, had the reflexes of a fucking demon – he didn’t need to see you to know that you were moving, where you’d move next, but this wasn’t that. Kazuma wasn’t moving, he was sprawled on the bed, and Majima couldn’t scrutinise his face for little signs he was awake like other people could.
Maybe he did know, secretly. Maybe he did know that often, when Majima slipped out of bed, Kazuma was awake, that Kazuma often watched him before he went back to sleep, but Kazuma didn’t think he knew. He didn’t think he’d be like this, if he knew.
The first thing Majima did when he got out of bed was tie his eyepatch back around head, slotting it into place, but he didn’t get dressed right away – he moved naked around the room, picking up the clothes he’d thrown aside last night and hanging them up on hangers. Kazuma could hear the strange, silky noise of the leathers and silks he wore, different to the linens Kazuma wore, but Majima picked up his clothes too.
He put a kettle over a fire, his face strangely shadowed by the blue flame from the stove, and then he picked up his steamer, got the creases out of Kazuma’s suit with it.
The first time Kazuma had woken up with Majima, he’d been hungover as fuck and still kinda shocked by the whole encounter, and he’d woken up late – Majima had been dressed in a robe, appearing half-asleep, but Kazuma’s suit had been steamed and pressed and waiting for him, there’d been natto and rice and soup waiting for him to eat.
He’d thought Majima had a housekeeper. He’d assumed it, naturally assumed it, because Majima had looked just like Kazuma had, like he’d just rolled out of bed and found all this shit waiting for him, but Kazuma knew better now.
Majima later on would probably put on the same sleepy act he had that day, yawn and stretch and rub at his eye – he wasn’t doing that now, because he didn’t know Kazuma was watching him.
He moved straight-backed through the room, his shoulders square, his posture as perfect as a waiter’s, his movements so smooth and light that he made no sound at all as he moved – even his kettle had a perfect spout, so that you never heard even the quietest splash as he poured.
He didn’t lurch or lunge or pounce or hop around like he did anywhere else, didn’t fidget or move erratically, had no tics or what Kazuma had always assumed were the involuntary movements of a guy who was honestly kind of cracked: everything he did was perfectly, terrifyingly controlled, and not in a particularly stealthy or impressive-looking way. It was unassuming, quiet, reserved: Majima moved in his own home like he was service staff, or like one of those invisible people that dressed all in black so you didn’t see them as they moved the set around at the theatre. He moved like he was invisible – like he should be invisible.
His facial expressions were the strangest thing about it, an utterly blank mask, his eye seeming to stare into the middle distance as he worked, deep in thought, his lips unsmiling.
This morning, after he’d put away all their clothes and steamed them, polished his shoes and Kazuma’s and set them aside, he sipped at a mug of fresh-brewed tea and started to clean and sharpen the knives he normally had secreted around his person. This made a sound – the sound of hot water and cleaning product on the blades, no sound from the towel as he perfectly dried them, and then the smooth, quiet scrape of the whetstone on the blade.
He was murmuring to himself as he worked, and it had taken Kazuma a while to figure out what the fuck he was saying in moments like this, what with Majima’s thick accent and the way he slurred his words together and muttered, but his ear had accustomed to it by now.
“… meet with the boss at eleven, gotta make sure Maeda-kun’s been practising with that pistol like I told him or I’ll make him eat it, call Yuka-chan and check in, send that necklace for Ai-chan’s birthday, maybe go along in person if that shit with the Toyotomi goes smooth… Ha. Like it ever would. Retirement gift for Saeda-san, as if the old fuck’ll actually do it, rough up old Keiji and his boys if they’re still causing trouble by that jeweller’s…”
Kazuma could never make much sense of these to-do lists – on the rare occasion he actually recognised some of the names Majima murmured to himself, it was in contexts he’d never heard them before, and was almost always about shit he never really imagined Majima doing.
Kazuma rolled over in bed, giving Majima time to go quiet as he sat up on his elbows, looking around the room as if he didn’t know exactly where Majima was.
“Majima?” he asked – good, his voice was hoarse and husky from the drink and from sleep.
“Kiryu-chan,” said Majima, in a voice completely unlike the one he’d been using to murmur to himself. “You need your beauty sleep, tiger, put that fucking head down.”
“C’mere,” said Kazuma, his eyes half-closed, and Majima moved so fast that Kazuma couldn’t even see him: Majima’s hand was in Kazuma’s hair, grabbing it hard from the scalp, and Kazuma grunted quietly as Majima forced his head up to look at him, his chin on Majima’s sternum. Kazuma slipped his hands onto Majima’s waist, and then slid further down, against his lower back, cupping his ass.
“Kiryu-chan, Kiryu-chan,” said Majima in a sing-song voice. “Don’tcha know what happens to little boys who don’t obey their bedtimes?”
Kazuma shoved him down, and before Majima could wriggle or dance around or threaten to fight him, Kazuma went limp and dropped on top of Majima’s chest, put all his weight on top of him.
“Ha,” Majima chuckled, softening, and two of his fingers slid down Kazuma’s back. “I look like a teddy bear to you, Kiryu-chan?”
“Exactly like a teddy bear, oniisan. Fucking ugly teddy bear.”
Majima liked that: his laugh was a quiet rumble that Kazuma could feel through his chest, and Kazuma leaned right into him, closed his eyes again, knew that as soon as he was really, genuinely asleep again, Majima would be up and doing his household work again, but he didn’t really give a fuck.
Maybe he would sleep a little more, with Kazuma lying on top of him.
“That’s my boy,” murmured Majima just as Kazuma was almost drifting out of awareness – it was the normal voice, the unobserved voice, the calm voice he used to mutter to himself, and Kazuma wanted to wonder what meant. Was it a confession? An invitation? An admission?
Did he think Kazuma was already asleep?
But it was too late, really, to think about it – he was already asleep again, and when he woke up a few hours later, Majima was sprawled in his robe and pretending to be sleepy, but was also being loud and erratic and giggling and…
Yeah.
Majima Goro, under observation.