Chapter Text
For nights so marked by stillness and quiet, there's a thrum of something alive to those spent on the Goromaru, especially once everybody else is in their bunks and Jason’s the last one still sitting at the bar, nursing the dregs of a last drink.
(Please note, dear readers, that “last drink” has supposedly applied to his last four, but there's no longer anybody else awake to count them).
At the very least, though, he's cleaning up after himself at this point – he drains the remainder. Puts the empty glass into the sink. Masaru’ll get it clean in the morning.
Though the ship itself rocks and hums with this mysterious sense of life in the middle of the night, that kinda energy’s nowhere to be found below deck at this hour. It's more about the moment when Jason climbs, a little unsteady after his myriad last drinks, up to the deck proper and takes in the cloudless sky. Stars wink at him from all angles, in the heavens and reflected in the water, like visual surround sound. Some of ‘em feel closer than they ought to, and some of ‘em feel just as far as they should.
Like – like his fuckin’ family. Fuck. Too far, even within a couple days’ journey on the water; still uncomfortably close enough that any one of his girls could be standing right behind him if he looks over his shoulder. Fuck. It's always been that way. World’s too small – or at least Hawaii and its surrounding shitty little nothing islands are. He sighs, looks up and around, rotates in a circle. Dizzy. Nausea threatens to seep into his belly. Fuck.
He misses Moana. Naomi.
Jane.
…
Looks over his shoulder, just to check. You there, sweetheart?
…
Any of you?
…
Whatever. Whatever. Focus on the stars. Nature. The water, reflecting the shine of the big fuckin’ moon. Treasure hunting. Yippee!
Really makes Jason think about the vastness of the universe, or something. Dunno. Doesn't fuckin’ matter, ultimately.
Another blurry look around, now trying to shake the stars rather than watch them, alerts him to the captain’s presence on the upper deck. Majima’s turned away from him and towards the water, feet planted squarely and sturdily shoulder-width apart to steady against the subtle rocking of the ship. Solid as a bulwark, still, somehow, despite everything.
For what it's worth, the two of them don't usually cross paths this late. At least not at this point in the game, when Majima’s muscled bodyguard and supposed brother from a life forgotten is notably no longer bunking with the rest of the crew. Doesn't take a sober mind to figure out what the fuck’s going on there. Fuckin’ anybody with eyes can see the storied history between ‘em, even if it's a little one-sided right now. Nishida and Minami, too, seem relieved by it, like it’s a step towards “back to normal” with their oyaji (or, captain, now, say their eager, simpering mouths that kiss the ground where Majima walks, steel-tipped shoes leaving big fat metaphorical footprints in their wake).
But, at this very moment, there's no sight of Saejima. Nobody to size Jason up with silent, stoic skepticism. Nobody to read into or worry over Majima’s questionable vulnerability.
(Not that anybody’d begrudge Majima a moment of weakness from time to time, of course, but Jason’s just simply not sure the man’s capable of visibly experiencing one and he doesn’t know if he really wants to know what it looks like, anyway.)
Jason’s careful not to startle the captain ahead of him as he ascends the stairs while Majima’s back’s turned – he knows he'd be on the losing end of that sharp blade quick as a whip, wherever it is. Probably stuffed down the back of his tight-ass pants ready to unsheathe at the first sign of trouble. Fuckin’ crazy how fast that wiry fucker is. There's a frightening grace to the way he moves, the way he fights. Having been on the receiving end of Majima’s knife not so long ago, Jason’s got a comprehensive appreciation for the unpredictable hurricane of a man, scarily competent even in memory loss, freakishly fearsome whether he's in his low-slung leather pants or that slutty little hot pink minidress and fishnets he'd presumably picked up in a less savory part of town last time they were ashore.
On that topic – everything fits Majima like a glove, too, but that's beside the point, isn't it? Motherfucker. Jason blinks a few times.
Last week the man had complimented his baseball cap, of all things, and he thinks maybe he's been riding that high ever since.
Whatever. Fuckin’ hell. Doesn’t mean shit.
Jason begins to close the distance. The two of them’ll probably have a nice conversation in the wee small hours. Majima'll say something thoughtless and rough around the edges, maybe even a little callous, and still somehow stupidly profound. It’ll make Jason think of his wife, the way she'd be so goddamn sensible in every situation when he himself was flighty and impulsive, delusions of grandeur blurring at the edges of his vision (even before he was a no-good fuckin’ deadbeat drunk) no matter how many times he'd try to refocus. He'd wake in the middle of the night to find Jane’s side of the bed empty. Would find her in the kitchen, washing dishes, practical and steadfast even in sleeplessness, in the perfect position for him to plant a soft kiss on the side of her pretty neck. I'm sorry. I can be better. Lift her up to sit on the edge of the counter, sink to his knees between her legs, apologize with his tongue but no more words, thank you, that's enough.
The gentle rocking of the ship’s giving him a headache. Was Majima ever married, maybe to a woman, d’you think, or has it been big hulking boyfriends exclusively? He at least likes women, Jason knows; he's seen him sweet-talk a pretty broad or six in Madlantis, graze their jawlines with leather-gloved fingers, warm brown eye simmering with an easy charm that didn't suffer the same fate as his memories. Ladies fall all over the guy. Hope he still looks even remotely as good as the captain ten years from now. Not like it’s any comparison – apples and fuckin’ oranges.
(Probably oughta slow down on the drinking if he wants to even make it that far, let alone have any say in the state of his body, but that's a problem that can be addressed tomorrow. Or the next day. Et cetera.)
The captain’s hair has gotten shaggier still in the weeks they’ve been adventuring. Looks a little like Jane’s when he first started dating her, back when they were barely outta their teens. S’pretty. It lifts off the nape of Majima’s neck, ruffling slightly in the breeze. Jason could trace its path around and along Majima’s jaw like Majima himself were one of those ladies beckoning to him from a dingy corner of pirate heaven.
Yeah, Jason might not be as big as Saejima, but he's still pretty substantial, he thinks, head swimming with more than just drink. Could lift Majima up by the waist. To sit on the kitchen counter. Or wherever.
The closer Jason slinks, leering, the more he can appreciate the soft glow of the moon reflecting off of that strip of skin – not so pale as it once was – above the collar of her loose tee.
I’m sorry. Kitchen counter. Put down the dishes, baby.
There's my girl.
Before he knows it, he’s got his hands on her waist and his mouth on her neck, inhaling sea salt and the coconut oil Majima uses to make his stylishly disheveled hair fall just right.
“Yo. Jason.”
Skin’s cool; smooth but for the places he knows. A little scar usually sits just beneath the line of Jane’s jaw. He finds a longer one in its place, harsher and deeper at one edge. What happened here? When? Jason sucks at it roughly, laving his tongue along the underside, re-tracing more than he expected to. Doesn't matter. I'm here I'm sorry I can be better. Remember?
“Fuckin’. C’mon. Jason. Tryin’ ta do somethin’ here.”
Majima coulda elbowed him hard in the stomach; made him back right the hell off – but, to his credit (and the extension of Jason’s momentary fantasy), Majima stays where he is, sarcastic drawl hissed through gritted teeth: “Not that this ain't a total knockout of a move, babe, but ‘m gonna need a sec –”
They’re on a boat. The world’s not quite spinning, but it might as well be. Teeth graze against the sloped line of Jane’s shoulder as the shirt’s neckline gives way, over ink black and red and faded with time. Again, not something she’s had before but somehow still familiar all the same. Remember me? He’s spent a lot of time looking at it lately under the hot Hawaiian sun, beads of sweat trickling down between shoulder blades, along a spine so decorated with a demon woman so scorned –
“Jason.”
The voice coming from the figure under his fingers and mouth is firm. Stern. That’s like Jane, too, but the pitch is obviously all wrong, enough for him to step back but not quite enough to go very far; his roughened hands hard with scars and calluses still sitting in the dips of a waist too pretty to belong to a man who’s knocked his fuckin’ lights out more than once in front of Moana and Noah his fuckin’ children, might as well be everyone and God.
Jason doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t feel like he really needs to.
(Also doesn’t think anything he could come up with would sound good coming out of his mouth.)
“What the fuck gives? Can’t a cap’n take a three a.m. piss by his goddamn self?”
Two, three, four dull blinks from Jason; two, three, four shakes from Majima before he tucks himself back into the confines of tight, hot leather.
“Oh. Sorry.” Still his hands stay where they are, pinkies brushing over the worn belt loops at his captain’s hips. Kitchen counter. I’ll make it better. “D’you sleep in these? Fuck.” I promise.
“Lately kinda depends on when ‘n where I pass out,” Majima responds conversationally, as if he spends a lot of time being ambushed by amorous men whilst relieving himself. (It wouldn't be the most shocking thing Jason’s learned about this fuckin’ guy, honestly.) “They’re a lil’ stiff from all the salt. Hard to get outta sometimes.”
Jason’s not gonna admit to picturing it. Goddamn. He’s gotta call it quits earlier in the evening, starting tomorrow for sure.
Or later this week. (Y’know the drill.)
“But that’s beside the fuckin’ point, ya stupid bastard,” the former yakuza continues, and now is when he places his hands overtop of Jason’s and pulls them firmly away from his body. “Ya gonna tell me why yer actin’ like a rabble-rouser at a nightclub with no goddamn boundaries? I ain’t a callgirl.”
Now bereft of something or someone to hold onto, Jason doesn’t know what the fuck to do with his hands. Taking solace in an old standby, he crosses his arms over his chest for lack of a better solution. Feels dizzy without support – hard to tell at this point what kinda cocktail mix of drunk and nerves and middle-of-the-night seasick and goddamn fuckin’ sad sack bullshit he’s high on. He gets one last shameful glimpse at the shine of saliva marking the trail of his tongue along Majima’s neck, still illuminated by the light of the moon, before the captain turns to face him with his own hands on his hips where Jason’s had been only moments ago.
“No smart remark, mister?”
Jason sighs. And winces, suddenly conscious of his whiskey-sweet sour breath. “What do you want me to say, Captain?”
One of those hands, lanky and marked with scars, comes up to waggle a long finger in Jason’s face.
“Fer starters – why're ya molestin’ me in the dead ‘a night, huh?”
Majima folds his arms over his chest to match Jason, the sleeves of the stupid too-big graphic tee he picked up at a Honolulu convenience store riding up to reveal more red blossoms on his biceps.
Jason knows he's spending too much fuckin’ time looking. Watching.
“Sorry,” he finally manages again. “Didn't mean to.”
It's not a good explanation. Not an explanation at all, even. But Majima squints at him, scrunches up his mouth in a thoughtful way, and stays like that for a second.
Jason owes him more than that. Dammit. He continues, as if it’ll make the situation better. “Guess the middle of the night’s getting to me. Taking me some time to get used to all this –” he waves a hand noncommitally – “again.”
But it's a pathetic attempt at deflection, and the shrewd-ass motherfucker sees right through it. Not like it was difficult. “Uh-huh. Jason Rich, treasure hunter extraordinaire, lights right the fuck up soon as he gets on the water. That guy’s havin’ trouble adjustin’.” He leans back into the railing, involuntarily flexing lean, corded arms. “So bad he can't help rubbin’ up on his poor, defenseless cap’n like a horny teenager –”
“I was not –”
Captain Majima Goro grins widely, and it's equal parts satisfied and sympathetic – and Jason Rich, treasure hunter extraordinaire, has to stop fuckin’ looking, for fuck’s sake.
“An’ I'm sure it has nothin’ ta do with seein’ yer lovely wife fer the first time in years the other day.”
Jason doesn't know why it pisses him off so bad to be seen straight through like this. Guess he's just that fuckin’ one-dimensional, huh?
“That's not it.” He’s vaguely aware that he sounds too defensive.
And, yeah, that's it. Of course it is. To be fair, it's taken a lotta things to mess him up this bad: betrayals by those he considered friends and confidants, three kids he loves more than the whole world and still has no idea how to talk to, a reclusive last few years on an island with a population of maybe fifty, tops, away from almost everything he's ever cared about. But right now it's the wife thing.
Their conversation at the jewelers’ had been stilted and awkward. He hadn't tried to touch her, nor she him. Poor Noah, sweet kid that he is, had looked back and forth between them with excitement that quickly trailed off into sadness and then somber acceptance as the interaction continued. Hadn't called it out except to say, near the end, I'm so happy to be with both of you.
The night that followed back on the Goromaru had been a blur. Jason wasn't feeling up to much the next day. Noah'd brought him steaming black coffee and fresh mango and hadn't said a word about his mother.
Neither of them had mentioned it since.
Majima nods, but the knowing grin is still there and it's obvious he doesn't believe a single claim of denial outta Jason’s big stupid lusty sad mouth. “Well, one way or another, sure sounds like ya need ta get laid. Who knows which unsuspecting crew member’ll be the target of yer middle-of-the-night flights a’ fancy next. Poor Nishida’s gonna report one morning with hickeys all the way up ta his fuckin’ hard hat –”
“Yeah,” Jason says, but what he almost says is I wouldn't fuckin’ do that to Nishida or anyone, which would've begged the question then why Majima now, which would've forced him to reckon with something that’s wriggling around in his gut like a worm trying to burrow back underneath the ground where it's safe, where it won't see the light of day ever again.
That grin relaxes into an easy smile, spreading like syrup across Majima’s sharp-planed face. “No shame in admittin’ ya need a pick-me-up, big boy.”
And Jason almost relaxes. Almost.
Until Majima steps closer. Shrugs. “Ain’t sayin’ I never thought about it, anyway –” and a hand goes straight for Jason’s fuckin’ zipper.
He about jumps out of his skin, because of course he does. “What the fuck.”
Jason’s been with one woman in the last thirty years. For a while, nearly every day. All the time. Couldn’t keep their hands to themselves before Naomi was born. It was harder to find time once the kids came along, but they kept at it until they didn’t. Couldn’t. (She) wouldn’t; his fault; I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. Parenting paths diverged. Too many words left unsaid; sorry wasn’t good enough anymore and she was gone and so was he.
He wonders if Jane’s been with other men in the time they’ve been apart. Their conversation earlier that week had never veered towards the subject. He’s glad. He thinks.
He certainly hasn’t been with other men. Can you even imagine?
Or women.
Men, or women. Either one!
“Oh, please. Don't gimme that scandalized shit, mister smooth moves.”
Jason’s not thinking the clearest he’s ever thought, but he’s still beginning to wish he’d had at least one more last drink. Maybe he’d sound less like a clueless blockhead. “I don’t – Just. Uh. Just like that?”
Picture this: In one corner is Jason Rich, sad regretful no-good failed treasure hunter can't keep his friends wife kids job dignity. In the other corner? It's Jason Rich, sad regretful no-good failed treasure hunter can't keep his friends wife kids job dignity. The two face off against one another, teeth gnashing, beefy fists up in a mockery of a three round bout, fighting over whether or not it makes any kinda goddamn sense as a technically married straight man to accept a freely given orgasm from an amnesiac ex-yakuza.
“I'm offerin’, but ‘m obviously not gonna force ya. Tell me yer not interested and I'll go right the fuck back ta bed. No skin off my back.”
There's a long silence, deafening like a dial tone at max volume, as Jason’s brain circles the ring opposite himself. Neither one throws a punch but one of em’s sure as hell winning anyway.
First round? Jason lost that one a while back, probably when he put his mouth where it didn't belong. Ding.
Second round was probably lost when he couldn't keep his eyes to himself, admiring the curve of the captain's feminine waist where the wind blows the cotton of his t-shirt close against his tattooed skin. Ding.
Third round – well. He's still here right now, isn't he? Hasn't made a dash for below deck yet. Hasn't thrown himself overboard in a fit of embarrassment.
Maybe Majima’s the referee, or something, metaphorically holding the other Jason’s arm up in the air and declaring him the winner, sliding the same fingers that reached for him a moment ago beneath his waistband to tug him a little closer before sinking down to his knees between Jason’s feet and unbuttoning the fastening on his jeans. The convex curve of a barely-there beer belly starts the zipper’s downward path; Majima’s fingers finish it to reveal boxers that are currently tighter than Jason wants to admit.
Ding.
There's a pleased hum that comes from somewhere below him, but everything feels fuckin’ surreal as the captain pulls out Jason’s rapidly hardening dick and he's not sure whether to feel confident or shameful at the way he breathes in tandem with the all-too-sudden warm exhalation on his shaft, damp and familiar and still terribly new. It’s followed by the head of him breaching the pliable ring of Majima’s lips. The heat of him, of his wet mouth, is so fucking much – tight and overwhelming, slithering tongue coming up to trace along the underside of his cock and traveling around his tip with firm intention. There’s a high, choked gasp, and Jason dimly registers that it had to have come from his own throat because Majima’s is thoroughly occupied. The sound is unlike him, usually so low and gruff and sullen, but fuckin’ hell it’s been so long since he’s had something like this.
And maybe, actually, Jason thinks, he’s never had anything even comparable to this, wrong and weird and maddeningly tantalizing, offered by somebody – a man – under the blanket of night and above where thirty of their crewmates sleep unknowing. A sense of panic rises in his chest, his lungs, and he leans forward to grab the deck’s railing as a way to steady himself. Looks at his hands, white-knuckled against the wood on either side of Majima’s skull. Majima’s dark hair is peppered with greys, much like Jason’s own, artfully disheveled from sleep and the slight breeze that still whistles gently in their ears. It’s the similarities that finally force open Jason’s mouth to say something out loud, and it’s neither confident nor shameful – it’s maybe the worst thing he could come up with. Mindless. Indelicate as fuck.
“Noah can’t know about this.”
Majima jerks back and looks up at Jason, disgust writ plain across his sharp features. “Does that fuckin’ need ta be said? Goddamnit, man.”
“J-just. Just saying.”
There’s a harsh sigh, warm again on his wet cock. “Ya better shut the fuck up then, huh?”
One of us has gotta have their head on straight fer Noah’s sake, yeah?
And Jason’s glad one of ‘em does, because it’s sure not him. Even now that he’s starting to come out of the whiskey haze he’s stupid, solid and unflagging in his captain’s grip, no blood left in his brain to keep him lucid. He huffs out a disbelieving laugh, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes blearily.
“Oh, shit.” Majima grimaces, noticing his deer-in-headlights look. “This ain’t some kinda new sexual awakening situation for ya, is it? Prob’ly not the best time fer that.”
“‘s not,” mutters Jason thickly, because of course it sort of is, because what else is this supposed to be. Shit, he’s fifty-three years old and, again, technically married, and it’s not like getting one’s dick sucked by a man nearly a decade his senior and just as pretty as any woman he’s ever seen is a common occurrence.
The other man pinches the bridge of his nose between two black-tipped fingernails and sighs. “Ya can be into more ‘n one gender, man. It’s the twenty-first fuckin’ century.”
It’s not that simple, but Jason feels a misplaced rush of gratitude towards Majima for pardoning him for at least one sin, in a way, settling deep in his stomach, uncomfortable and unrequited.
Or maybe it’s indigestion, or appendicitis, or maybe his brain is frantically trying to divorce all of this from itself and none of it feels good except for that hot wet pink tongue; if only it’d come back to swallow him down again.
“Well. Not. Uh,” he says gruffly, like it’s a good argument. “I’m married.”
Steady on, Jason Rich. Great job. Excellent delivery.
“Again. Yer marital estrangement situation,” says the captain matter-of-factly, “is not somethin’ I can help ya with. Besides, yer the one who fuckin’ accosted me while I had my own dick out in the first place.”
“I didn't know you were mid-piss; Jesus fuckin’ –”
“Ain't complainin’.” Majima’s voice drops to a low purr, and it's kinda a fucked-up time for that to happen, but even more fucked up is the way Jason’s cock twitches in his grip at the pretty rumblings. “Shoulda told me ya were up for it earlier.”
I didn’t know, Jason doesn’t say. Why would I have any fuckin’ clue.
There’s a nose in his balls. Big fuckin’ nose, angular and severe, heralding the arrival of that same firm tongue a moment later, pulling each of his testicles in turn into the wet cavern of a mouth impossibly hot and molasses-slow before returning to his shaft. Majima sucks dick indulgently and sloppily, generous with spit, letting wet strands stretch between his darkening pink lips and Jason and get caught in the gaps between his long fingers on Jason’s length. Blowjob expertise is another item that evidently hasn’t suffered the same fate as Majima’s memories. Jason wants to laugh; instead he lets out a shaky breath, digging his nails into the wood of the railing. Guy didn’t know his own name when he woke up on the beach, but unless he’s been finding ways to practice since that day his oral prowess never left the building. Maybe if they’d known that when the ex-yakuza patriarch had arrived at Esperanza their whole stupid humiliating (for Jason, at least) fight could’ve been resolved a different way, in private.
(As if.)
But Majima’s certainly gonna make him come now. No question about that, Jason thinks, dizzily eyeing the curve of his torso before him, lithe and lean. The captain doesn’t make any fuckin’ noise aside from the slimy-slick sounds of his mouth and hand – no sighs, no moans, no hums. Probably better that way because aside from the obvious cover of mostly-silence it provides, it forces Jason to forget that it’s Majima – surely better to imagine Jane, anyway. Surely.
Jane would kiss him up and down before taking him between those same lips, would drag her mouth, slightly open, along the gentle upward curve of him. Would hum prettily when he’d shiver; tease him for the goosebumps that would rise on his thighs which would tense further and further the more she’d suck him, quickening the pace of her hand and tongue. More refined, but Majima’s no less deliberate with his motions, both so intentional in Jason’s mind and right here in front of him. There’s something soft under his hand and it’s the captain’s dark hair – he’s unconsciously raised a hand to slide it between the silky strands lightly striped with graceful aging. Still no vocalization from the man on his knees, but Jason watches his eyes flick upward and swears he can feel a grin like a hyena around his cock.
He tightens his grip. Everything about Majima leads him to believe he probably likes a little rough handling. And he thinks he’s right – a reward comes in the form of a hand on the muscle of his thigh, fingertips digging in with what he suspects is enthusiasm; excitement. Encouragement. Makes him almost wish he could coax a sound from that pale throat, though now’s not the time. Maybe next time they could –
Whoa there, buddy. Alarm bells sound in his mind, dull and muffled by pleasure. Let’s stop while we’re ahead.
But –
I ain’t a callgirl, Majima had said.
No. Not a callgirl. Too much like his wife, instead; pretty and knowing, that glint in her eye that’s sometimes serious, sometimes laughing, always perceptive. Jason closes his eyes and sees Majima in that tight little pink bodycon again, the absurd blonde wig, the carefully and skillfully applied eyeshadow and blush and lip stain. Actually – nix the wig. Hair loose and shaggy, wavy in the salty sea breeze like Jane’s. He tightens his grip in that soft hair still further, again, moving the captain’s mouth along his wet length, gently fucking into his tight throat, holding back a low groan. Curses under his breath as Majima works his fist loosely in tandem with the guided motions. Feels so fuckin’ good, perfect special mouth after so goddamn long without shit. Fuckin’ gorgeous. His breathing gets ragged.
For some reason, he presses his luck, like it’s part of the game.
“H-how about you put on some ‘a those fishnets and heels for me sometime, mmnhuh?” As the words leave his mouth, hushed and strained between pants, the alarm bells return, dull again in the back of his head. “Never seen anybody wear ‘em quite as – hhah – as well as you, captain.”
He’s not sure why he says it aloud. Guess it’s to get a rise out of Majima, or something, as if he wants the conflict.
As if anything this guy does is any kind of weakness.
Fine canine points dig into his shaft above Majima’s fist, and Jason bites down on his lower lip to stifle a yelp. They’re surely sharper than the average person’s have any right to be. He’s flying too close to the sun, dick sittin’ pretty in the mouth of a mad dog who pulls off of him to respond as acerbically as he’s ever heard him speak, and the altitude continues its upward trajectory towards fiery destruction.
“That make it less gay for ya?”
“Nnn – it’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”
Majima rolls his eye, tightening his grip on Jason’s length in a way that’s definitely coercive and could almost certainly be construed as threatening. “Ain't manly or whatever ta fuckin’ dance around the point, sugar.”
Ignoring the weird flip in his gut that the nickname elicits. Ignoring that. “Nah. That shit looks…good on you. Real good.”
He’s not sure if the honesty ultimately makes him feel better or worse, but there’s a kind of relief in the admittance.
This time, Majima looks up at him with what he thinks is some sort of complicated mild appreciation, and snorts in quiet laughter. Looks like he wants to say more but doesn't. Instead, at least Jason’s cock’s got a warm mouth around it again. For a second. The next words out of that warm mouth, rosy and flushed with the stretch of him, unwittingly bait him into something ugly:
“Regardless. That’s a privilege ya gotta earn, shithead. Y’ain’t earned it.”
“Bet your Saejima has.”
Pleased approval turns quickly to dangerous irritation. A brown eye flashes, and it should really be enough of a warning for him to back the fuck off. “This ain’t about him.”
“Don't think the crew hasn't noticed he's not bunkin’ down with us anymore. Where else could he be?”
This is when the dynamic changes. They’re in the ring again, Jasons once again circling one another warily, and a third combatant enters the bout for a final round – it’s the one-eyed referee, having renegotiated Jason’s earlier victory, and hell is about to break loose.
Majima’s gaze narrows.
“Oh, ya wanna know?”
His reddened lips pull into a frightening, cruel grin, and for the first time Jason feels like he's looking at the real yakuza patriarch of legend, memories intact and all. Feels like he's about to be gutted long and slow, bled out and left for dead on the deck, corpse dick hanging outta his pants useless and limp.
“You fuckin’ jealous, baby? Huh?”
“Fuck off.” No no no. Jason grits his teeth.
“Y’wanna be my little fuckin’ girlfriend? Gimme a kiss when we land ho and see me off ta work?”
“No! Jesus.”
Majima spits on his only slightly-flagging dick. The glob of saliva drips thickly down the head and runs between fingers with nails filed short, covered in shiny chipped black polish, that tighten and begin to jerk him off roughly. “Ya’d look real fuckin’ cute in an apron and some kitten heels, doin’ my dishes –”
“Shut the fuck up –”
“Oughta take yer own advice, Jason,” Majima snarls, still wearing that manic grin, and Jason dizzily thinks he might actually pull his tanto out with his unoccupied hand and cut him open, draw blood from Jason’s vulnerable flesh. “Next time maybe I’ll bend ya over the kitchen counter below deck, yeah? Don’t even have ta take the apron off. Ya won’t have ta be jealous anymore.”
Jason thinks he’d still come even if he were to be met with a knife blade. He fights to breathe normally, feeling the unsettling pulse of his heartbeat in his dick, throbbing in time with the harsh strokes of his captain’s roughened hand. His thighs are tense and he can feel the uncomfortable sensation of goosebumps underneath the textured denim of his jeans. Obediently, he says nothing; meanwhile, he begs Majima with his eyes to say more – or maybe please, please say less. Let Jason go back to being the one holding some meager semblance of control, prior to spouting off assumptive shit about a dynamic he’s got no business commenting on, with Majima’s mouth otherwise occupied with swallowing down his cock.
Because this is a territory he doesn’t know how to navigate, grasping blindly for direction, like a ship without a navigator.
Lucky for him, it seems the captain is feeling generous tonight. Like a flash, his grin moves from dangerous to friendly – Jason, disgustingly, thinks he glimpses pity in that one-eyed gaze before warmth envelops him once again. The whine he exhales is so soft he’s not sure if Majima even hears it. Hopes the resumed wet sounds of slick sex drowned it out as he hurtles towards the edge, familiar unfamiliar woman on her knees before him –
There’s my girl.
His climax hits him suddenly; he’s grateful for both the handhold of the railing and the warm presence of the hand on his thigh again, steadying him against the almost-buckle of his knees and the breeze he thinks might topple him at this point. Majima’s eye is closed, not looking at Jason while he spurts hot, pathetic pulses into the back of the man’s throat, and Jason’s struck with the thought that Majima might not be all here in the same way that he himself isn’t.
Eventually, he’s done. There’s a wet ‘pop’ as Majima slithers backwards and off Jason’s spent dick. He wipes at the corner of his mouth with a thumb, smears a last smidgen of wetness into the fabric of his cotton t-shirt, and slowly stands, wincing a bit when his knees pop. Shakes out his slender limbs one at a time; gives Jason a half-lidded smirk and patiently waits while he zips back up.
Jason looks dazedly at Majima’s crotch, at the insistent press under leather of an erection he hadn’t even considered, and swallows through a dry mouth.
“Do you want –” He can’t say it. “Should I –”
Can’t be much different from jerking himself off, after all, right? But the captain’s smirk has melted away and he’s shaking his head already, closed off and turning towards the water, bracing his forearms on the railing.
“Nah. Ya don’t gotta do that.”
Something about such a nonchalant dismissal snaps the last lingering thread of unearned patience in Jason’s mind. Like an old-ass criminal past his prime is too good for gettin’ jerked off by the guy he just jerked off. Un-fuckin’-believable. A last wave of anger flares up, hot and stifling, though he knows in his gut it’s misplaced.
“You’re not a good fuckin’ person either, captain,” he growls, and it comes out with so much venom.
“Ain’t tryin’ ta be. But I also ain’t hidin’ from shit,” Majima replies evenly, and it comes out with almost no venom. As if there's much to hide from, he doesn't say aloud.
Jason fumes but he's so goddamn tired.
“Fuck you.”
“Door’s always open for a repeat performance.” Majima shrugs. “If yer real nice ta me, like I said, maybe I’ll put on that sexy lil’ dress ya clearly like so much.”
A stony, pointed silence accompanies Jason’s responding glare. The captain grins again, but it’s half-hearted, and the quiet that follows sees both heartbeats slowly return to normal, striving to match the slow pace of the waves, the gentle rock of the boat. A gull caws in the distance and it sounds like a mocking laugh, as if bragging about its lack of proximity to the thick silence that hangs between them.
After a few minutes, it’s Majima who speaks first.
“We’re not fuckin’. Me an’ Saejima, I mean.”
A sense of relief settles in Jason’s stomach, but he swears to himself it’s because he opens his mouth and manages to speak in a normal fuckin’ voice instead of something high and breathy and pathetic. “Huh. Alright.”
“Ain’t fer lack ‘a tryin’ on my part, I won’t lie.” Majima waves a hand dismissively. His tone is flat and emotionless. “Feels right when I’m with him, but he doesn’t wanna talk about fuckin’ shit ‘til I remember everything.”
Jason doesn’t know what to say to that. “...Sorry.”
“Don’t matter. Can’t blame ‘im. Shit’s complicated.”
The second and third statement are believable; the first is not. Jason chooses not to respond.
“Anythin’ else ya wanna say ta me, before I go back ta bed?”
There are a thousand things Jason wants to say, yeah. About how he’s having more fuckin’ fun than he has in the last several years; about how being on this ship with everybody and Noah gives him a reason to drink less. About how Majima reuniting him with Masaru filled a hole in his heart and how Majima himself is filling another. About how he regrets so fuckin’ much about the way his family fell apart, and how he almost wishes he could take Majima’s place for a day – just to live twenty-four hours blissfully free of any regrets, any baggage that would stop him from being a halfway-decent father to a son who needs him. About how thankful he is to the captain for being there, for caring for Noah, for feeling almost like the other half of the parenting equation with Jane not currently in the picture.
But kind and grateful words fail him, and he’s left with clumsy fumblings. He’ll always be an asshole, won’t he?
“You’re not Noah’s dad.”
Majima turns and looks at him with open pity. Jason looks down at the railing and loathes himself.
“Nah. But you are.”
He reaches over to clap Jason on the back, and pushes off the railing with the other hand.
“I’ll say it again, man – I think yer doin’ fine.”
Creaking footsteps cross the deck, fading with distance.
“Sleep well, when an’ if ya do.”
The stairs creak, too, and a moment later Jason faintly hears Majima push open the door to his quarters where, presumably, his kyodai slumbers on a makeshift bed barely big enough for one, let alone two.
He, on the other hand, stays on deck ‘til sunrise, watching the waves lap against the side of the Goromaru, thinking of Noah’s genuine smile and Majima’s fearsome snarl and the glint in Jane’s far-away eyes, wishing he’d brought the bottle out with him.