Our Manager

[madimpossibledreamer]

Main Points:
Yakuza, follow-up to Our Demon
Summary: Sunshine learns a little more about their mysterious manager.
Word Count: 1038
Rating: Teen
Warning: Panic attack after the events at the very start of Chapter 11.  I managed to stay relatively spoiler-light, though.

         Majima winces a little as he buttons the last button on the dress shirt over the bruise.  At least when he’d been fresh from the Hole they hadn’t made him wear the suit, but then, he wouldn’t have been in fit state to manage the Grand anyway.  This time, they hadn’t bothered with any aftercare, but then, it’s a warning.
         At least he’d learned a thing or two about makeup since working there and already had the bruises hidden.  He’d had to apply it before, since the thugs on the streets never seemed to learn no matter how much he tried to pound it into their goddamn skulls that he needed to appear respectable as the Lord of the Night.   Not like he’d needed it, when his bro had been around.  He misses a time when appearances didn’t matter.  It was more important than ever, because a bucha goons couldn’t manage the inventive viciousness of one of Shimano’s men.
         He puts in his token appearance in the Grand and then hightails it to Sunshine just to catch his breath, because he hadn’t intended or expected it to become like home but it’s safer than he’s felt in years and he can relax and lick his wounds before he has to go back out and find the man in the white suit.
         Unfortunately, he hadn’t reckoned with the nosiness of his hostesses.
         “You,” Yuki insists, poking him hard and it takes everything he has not to grit his teeth at that, “…need to warn us if you’re going to just disappear on us.”
         “Leave him alone!” Youda-chan calls from the break room, hurrying in.
         “’m lendin’ a hand ‘ere an’ there.  Can’t be here twenty-four-seven anyhow.  I ain’t yer keeper, Yuki-chan,” Majima mumbles.
         “Ai went to the Grand and you weren’t there, so where were you?”  Yuki demands, and his eye narrows, busy trying to work out whether they’ve put themselves in danger by being busybodies.  They ain’t a part of this life, shouldn’t be, an’ it ain’t like Sagawa’ll stay his hand on account of innocents or women.
         “You weren’t supposed to tell him.”  Ai looks concerned.
         “I ain’t allowed a day off?”  It’s a reach, sure, but it’s the only excuse he has left.  Not a great one—he can’t remember the last time he’s had one of those, very little concept of what he’d do with one, but he’s out of options.  And—wait, there’s a lifeline, and it’s half true.  “Family business.”
         Fear flashes in her eyes for a sec.  That’s a shock.  Sure, he don’t exactly handle her with kid gloves, but it ain’t like he’d ever threatened her.  It’s quickly masked with anger, which he’s more used to.  With training and a knife in her hands, he’d bet she’d be good at eviscerating fools.  “Warning us.  The least you can do, Majima.  I’d ask you to get vinegar to make up for it, but you’d only disappear again and I still wouldn’t get my vinegar!”  She pokes harder, unknowingly hitting a bruise.  The pain isn’t that bad.  He’s doing everything he can not to let the pain show, and it ain’t like he ain’t used to it.  Pain’s normal now, from torture or punks on the streets.  But suddenly he can’t breathe, sinking to his knees.  He’s been doing his best to keep them out of it; he’d liked it when they didn’t look at him with the same fear most yakuza get from the civilian types (well, Yuki’s been actin’ weird, but that’s normal enough for her an’ she’s still talkin’ back, so he’d ignored it), even if he likes everything else about being a yakuza.  He breaks into a coughing fit and they crowd around him, concerned.
         “Maybe you need another day off.  You don’t look well.”  Rich, coming from Busy Bee Saki, but then, maybe she doesn’t want him breakin’ her streak.
         “Do you need a drink of water?  I’ll get one!”  Ai doesn’t wait for him to answer, which is fine, because it’s not like he could.  Words won’t come.  Neither will his breath.
         It’s Chika who kneels down beside him, he thinks vaguely.  Everything’s getting fuzzy aside from the pain and the fear.  It takes him a minute to understand that she’s whispering to breathe in, breathe out, and maybe it’s not on purpose but he finds he’s matching his breathing to her words.   The room’s already startin’ to stop swimming.  He finishes the glass before he even realizes Ai handed it to him.  It’s a miracle he hadn’t dropped it.
         “…and if I find who did this, I’ll—”  Yuki’s ranting in the background, and it actually brings a smile to his face.  She’d get along fine with Yasuko.  Hell, they’d start their own all-female Yakuza Clan, an’ he’d work alongside them any day.
         “Yer sweet, Yuki-chan,” he whispers.  It’s all he can manage, right now.
         She flushes.  “Of course you would find violence cute, Majima-san!  You’re a brute!”
         His smile widens.  Honestly, that’s a compliment.  But he finds the words suddenly won’t come again, and he’s shivering.
         Suddenly there’s a weight on his shoulders.  If it was anything else, he’d attack, or run, but there’d never been pretense at kindness from Sagawa, or any of the yakuza in the—in the past.  That feels like a blanket, or—
         He manages to turn his head just enough to see, and it’s Youda-chan’s jacket.
         “You were shivering.”  Typical Youda-chan.  Stating the obvious, but his heart’s in the right place.
         “Do you think you can walk?”  Chika again.  Very practical.  It’s helping stave off ideas of hands touching him, of the confrontation Yuki’s bound to have with him later, of the fact that someone else might die because of him—
         “To a booth, maybe,” he manages.  Drowning again.
         “Do you need help?” she asks, businesslike but caring all the same.
         He nods.  Pathetically, maybe.  Some tough yakuza.  He can’t even stand on his own.  But the gentle touch of the hands that help him to his feet is so reassuring, it’s almost as if they’re saying there’s nothing wrong with it.  Nothing wrong with him.  Maybe it ain’t so bad, not bein’ able to do everything on his own.