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The flight to Tokyo was long and uneventful, and even though Saejima had booked them seats with extra legroom, Majima just couldn’t seem to arrange his body in a position comfortable enough to allow for sleep. Now it was past 10pm as they landed and he felt a throbbing headache at his temples, like two invisible palms pressing at the sides of his head, steadily crushing his skull.
The moment he stepped out of the airplane hatch and onto the stairs though, every minor inconvenience that had plagued him through the trip home, quietly retreated into the background. Suddenly it all felt too familiar- too real. He stole a glance at Saejima next to him and breathed in deep, filling his lungs with the crisp evening air of the city. Dry and cold. His bones-and the impressive collection of injuries he’d accumulated in his sixty years of life-could definitely do with a break from the humid Hawaiian weather.
“What is it?” Saejima asked, perceptive as always-especially when it came to his kyodai.
“Nothin’, I-” Majima scrambled for an excuse. “Forgot to snatch one of those little blankets they handed out. Would’ve been handy.”
Saejima only snorted, his palm resting gently against Majima’s back to usher him forward.
Majima took the first step down the stairs, the metallic impact louder than he expected. The stewardess bid him goodbye with a taut, polished smile. Suddenly, he could feel the miles and miles of distance separating them from the golden shores of Rich Island. It felt like waking up from the strangest dream.
Thankfully, they didn’t have to wait long for their suitcases. Majima’s shoulder protested as he pulled his off the luggage belt, still recovering from an injury sustained somewhere between his brief captivity in Madlantis and the fight with Raymond.
“We callin’ a taxi?” he asked Saejima, who checked on him a little too often, but knew better than to offer to carry his luggage.
“Daigo’s pickin’ us up.”
“Daigo-chan? Yer draggin’ the Sixth Chairman all the way to the airport at this hour?”
“He was the one who insisted.” Saejima shrugged. “You’ve been gone a while, and after everythin’… guess he’s eager to see yer mug again.”
“Heh. ‘Course he is.”
“Probably itchin’ to give ya an earful, too.” Majima didn’t miss the way his kyodai’s smile faltered as he added: “Ya had us pretty worried for a while, ya know.”
He could’ve shot back something like “Yeah, well, he ain’t my boss no more” or “The two of ya should be used to me by now,” but he couldn’t ignore the old familiar weight of guilt steadily pooling inside of him. Setting sail on a quixotic quest to save Kiryu-chan’s life was as grand and noble as gestures came, until examined under the lens of pragmatism: in the end all he’d done was abandon Saejima, Daigo, and worst of all, Kiryu, when they needed him the most. He could shrug it off all he wanted, say that’s just who the Mad Dog was, but it sure as hell didn’t excuse his actions.
Daigo was waiting outside the arrivals area, leaning against the inconspicuous, trusty Toyota Corolla he was driving these days. An unlit cigarette rested between his fingers, his gaze drifting over the pavement and the smoking-area bench where weary travelers paused to catch a breath before catching a taxi. When he spotted Majima and Saejima, relief flickered across his face, chasing away some of the heaviness he carried.
“Majima-san!” he called, his voice warm as he hurried over. He looked much the same as Majima remembered: worn around the edges, but with a shine in his eyes, and a smile that came a little easier than usual. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise, Daigo-chan” Majima replied fondly.
“You must both be exhausted,” Daigo said, though his eyes lingered on Majima a little longer than they needed to. “I’ll drive you straight home.”
“Actually-” Majima caught his kyodai’s eye, “I could use a drink before I call it a night. What d’ ya say?”
Saejima scoffed, turning to Daigo. “Guess we’ll be troublin’ ya a little while longer.”
………
Not having the energy to face the buzz of Kamurocho, the trio opted for a quieter nightlife scene, settling on a small boutique bar that looked like it had stood the test of time, only to be bought out by some hip kids who’d traded good whiskey with obscure cocktails. The music inside was loud, but fortunately the place had a smoking area out back, overlooking a narrow canal.
Majima, whose palate and cocktail knowledge had expanded during his time in Hawaii, idly sipped on a watermelon daiquiri as his brain struggled to reconcile the drab scenery of Tokyo’s backstreets with the ocean views he’d enjoyed aboard the Goromaru.
“Second round, anyone?” Saejima asked, not ten minutes after ordering his first pint of beer. A man of his size could handle alcohol better than most, even at his age. Daigo and Majima wouldn’t stand a chance trying to keep up, so they both declined.
It was a weekday, and the small bar’s customers could be counted on one hand. When Saejima headed inside for his refill, only Majima and Daigo remained in the poorly lit backyard.
“Yer awfully quiet tonight,” Majima observed, casting a sideways glance at the younger man as they leaned against the railing, overlooking the dark waters of the canal. “Were ya always this quiet?”
“No, I…” Daigo began out of reflex, but the words collapsed into a shallow huff of breath. His shoulders sagged, as if someone had draped a lead blanket over him.
“Yer mad at me, aren’t ya?” Majima asked. It was meant as an invitation, rather than a question; Go on , he thought. Have a go at me. It’s only fair.
But Daigo didn’t bite.
“I’m not mad,” he said quietly.
“Well, what’s yer problem then?”
Daigo turned to face him. No frustration in his eyes-just a weary patience as he studied Majima in silence.
“You’ve lost weight,” he said at last.
“Huh?”
The younger man didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on Majima, then slid away, fixed somewhere between the shadows of the few remaining trees that lined the concrete shores of the canal. His fingers drummed once against the railing separating the elevated garden from the walkway below, before curling around it. For a moment it seemed like he might leave it at that, but then he drew in a breath.
“Majima no niisan,” he said, “I know you and Kiryu, Saejima too… you’re the kind of men who’ll throw yourselves into the fire if it means helping others. Then maybe your life’ll be worth a damn, right? Like he said, back in the fishing village.”
As much as he tried to mask it, Majima still caught the bitterness in his voice. Years of practice had taught him how to pry at Daigo’s stoic shell, the shield he used to keep both enemies and allies at bay.
“I… I don’t know why you can’t see it, but your life matters to those around you.”
Though he couldn’t bring himself to look Daigo in the eye, Majima noticed the younger man’s fingers, tight around the railing.
“It matters to me ”
“Daigo…”
Daigo shook his head, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his leather jacket. “Forget it”, he said, his voice steady again, as he offered Majima one. “It is what it is”.
“Damn,” Majima muttered, taking the cigarette. Daigo lit it for him the moment it touched his lips. “I kinda wish you’d yelled at me instead.”
Daigo forced a half-smile.
“I'm sorry, kiddo”
Majima wrapped an arm around Daigo's shoulders and squeezed. The way the other man leaned into his touch was just another drop in that pool of guilt already swamping his insides.
“Just don't-" Daigo sighed, struggling to finish his sentence, like the conversation had already taken a toll on him. "Not again, okay?”
Majima took a drag from his cigarette, considering his next words carefully, before he made a promise he couldn’t keep. What he finally decided to settle on was:
“I'll try”