Work Text:
Saejima’s halfway convinced there’s a demon skulking around in his oath brother’s skin. He’s never quite how he ought to be, straining Saejima’s eyes with a twenty five year stereo offset between the present and the man who’s been living in his memories.
He still loves him, he hopes. He has to.
“C’mon, kyoudai. Show me whatcha got.” The dagger flips from one gloved hand to the other, spiraling in tight arcs under his expert control. A nasally cackle punctuates the statement as he lunges forward with his tantō outstretched and takes a bite out of Saejima’s forearm.
“I ain’t in the mood, Majima.” He steps back and frowns at the slick line of red on Majima’s blade. Hot blood drips down his arm and onto the carpet. He’s only just woken up, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes and kicking his messy futon aside before he bleeds on that, too.
“If you’re gonna crash at my place ya gotta make it worth my while.” Majima lilts, leather pants snug on his hips and steel-tipped shoes trodding through his own home. Another lunge with his knife, another line of blood, and a quiet hiss of pain escapes through Saejima’s teeth.
The man in front of him is twitchy in all the wrong ways. Majima was excitable, quick tempered, and flighty, but he wasn’t rabid like this.
“Knock it off. It’s too damn early fer this.” Saejima growls and side-steps the next glittering arc of Majima’s tantō. It’s over committal and leaves Majima off-balance, ripe for a devastating right hook to the jaw. Saejima doesn’t take it, and Majima looks disappointed.
Those openings vanish when Majima fights someone else. Saejima isn’t sure if that’s pity or perversion—both leave a bad taste in his mouth. Majima coils back up like a serpent, wound tight with unfulfilled aggression and oozing murderous intent.
He’s eager to force Saejima’s hand.
The line between sparring and a genuine fight is hazy now and Saejima’s fists go up instinctively. Majima shrieks with glee, and Saejima hates himself a little for treating his sworn brother like a threat. Hates more that he is a threat.
A sudden, shrill chirping cuts through the tension, and Saejima startles.
“‘the hell is that?”
“My phone.”
“...Where’s it at?”
Majima blinks at him, aggression dissolving into mild confusion. He fishes a small rectangle out of his jacket and waves it at Saejima like he thinks he’s stupid. Then he sees the name on the tiny screen and groans.
“Fuckin’ Nishida. I oughta take this.”
“Sure,” Saejima says, because it’s an easy out. Saves both of their pride.
It rankles Saejima, then, when Majima does nothing but hurl abuse at his subordinate. Like those executives they always loathed that thought being a patriarch meant everyone else had to grin and bear it.
Majima can back it up, though. Whatever he’s been doing has been working—Saejima’s seen the strength of the Majima Family, the respect his kyoudai commands around town. Maybe Saejima’s the one still clinging to childish ideals.
It’s just growing pains, he tells himself.
Months pass, and he keeps telling himself that.
Eventually, the excuse wears thin. Two possibilities unfurl in his mind, both equally harrowing: either his kyoudai has changed, irreparably, and the Majima he knew is lost to him, or he never knew Majima half as well as he thought he did.
Saejima’s ready to call it quits when he catches a glimpse of Majima’s smile—his real smile, not the crazed rictus he keeps flashing—and it makes his heart pang like a sprained ankle.
That settles it. He swore an oath; he’s not one to go back on his word. No one else will be able to drag that side of Majima back to the light, no one else can see what Saejima sees in him.
He’ll keep trying, as long as it takes.