Work Text:
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He’s used to Dazai abusing his powers as Boss to demand some nonsensical things, but this one is just really confusing. Why are they being required to wear white instead of black? Wouldn’t this make cleaning bloodstains more difficult?
“Ano ne, Chuuya. Are you perhaps saying that you’re not strong enough to be able to avoid getting stains on your suit?” The single visible eye is filled with so much derision, an exaggerated moue on his face. “And to think that I’m paying you to be my bodyguard… but you’re not even strong enough to stay clear of blood?”
“First things first, the salary you’re paying me is far from enough, given all the shit you make me handle.” Being a bodyguard is hard enough work, especially since Dazai’s propensity for games include pulling aggro even in real life situations. Protecting one’s client is a job, stopping one’s client from doing idiotic choices is a life sentence.
Leaning back on his chair, Dazai hums, raising an eyebrow at him. “How brazen of you to actually negotiate salary with me, Chuuya.”
“Who else would I discuss it with?” He raises a hand as a prelude to a mighty punch, but his hip remains parked against the desk, negligible distance between the two of them. “The last time I spent more than fifteen minutes with HR, you threatened to pull the poor guy for an interrogation!”
The derisive look intensifies. “Why would you need to spend more than two minutes away from me when I’m paying you to be my bodyguard?”
“Yeah, bringing up the salary thing is a mistake, I don’t want to talk to you ever again.” After all, it’s not like he actually has all that many things to spend money on anyway. Just his bike, his clothes, his hats, his wines.
Dazai nods like this is acceptable. And talks to him anyway. “Then, I expect you to wear a nice white suit starting tomorrow.”
“Seriously?” He makes a face as he points at the pile of documents still awaiting the boss’s attention. “If you have time to think about such nonsense, then why not focus on actual work?” It’s a rhetorical question, because when has Dazai ever played by the proper rules?
“Mm, but you see, this is why I’m the Boss and you’re just my tiny right hand man. I know how to prioritize the right things.” Snootily, like some giant cat seated high up on a throne, when he’s really just some shitty mackerel who happens to be a demonic prodigy when it comes to being a criminal overlord.
He scoffs right back. “And as your right hand, I reserve the right to punch you in the face each time you do a bunch of nonsense.”
Dazai lets out a sigh, before pulling something from the drawer under his desk. It’s a... book, thicker than most kanji reference books. Perhaps even a dictionary that has the phrase ‘idiot geniuses’ in it, because there really is no other phrase that could encapsulate Dazai so succinctly. Right there on a glossy cover is ‘Pros of Wearing White Suits to Work, Volume I’.
Chuuya doesn’t even want to touch the thing. Flatly, “Does this mean there are other volumes.”
With unnecessary flourish, given how stupid the entire thing is, Dazai pulls out five more books. “Since you keep on questioning my order, Chuuya, feel free to review these books before you report for your shift tomorrow.”
“I’d rather burn these.” He’s always made it a point to be as honest as possible, after all. His gloved fingers touch the spines briefly, then cracks open one of the books. Regrets it immediately, because the flood of nonsense attacks his brain with critical damage. And then, another critical hit as he realizes something.
“You… You’ve been shirking off work so you can write these down?!” Grabs the other’s scarf to rattle some sense into him. “How do you have so much energy for nonsense!”
A tilt of the head. “Must be because I’m tall and have more room to store energy?”
An increasingly frequent occurrence inside the office of the Port Mafia’s Boss: Chuuya yelling bloody murder towards his stupid boss.
✦✦✦
Come the following morning, Chuuya nearly faceplants to the floor when his feet catches on boxes stacked up beside his bed. He’s so used to the layout of his own room that he usually navigates through his morning routine with his eyes still squeezed shut. And it’s that familiarity that catches him off-guard when there’s something unexpected that appears.
His nose is inches away from the floor when he recovers his bearings and uses gravity manipulation to keep himself afloat. Then, he squints at the boxes that haven’t been there when he’s conked out the night before, throwing his phone filled with Dazai’s irritating texts towards the opposite wall. A flood of questions as to whether he owns a white suit, plus a bunch of threats to deduct his salary should he fail to follow this order.
To be honest, white suits aren’t really his thing. Mostly because it clashes hard against his image of what a mafioso should look like. More importantly, most of the work that he does involve being in dark environments, and while he enjoys a flashy entrance, there are times when camouflage are necessary.
His current outfit is a result of Dazai’s nagging too, something about showing up in paired colors presents a united front or something stupid like that. Why the fuck do they need matching colors in their outfits to show that they’re fighting on one side? Isn’t it enough that Chuuya doesn’t strangle him on the spot for being a shitty mackerel? Isn’t it enough that he’s glued to his side nearly twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week? Really so stupid.
He doesn’t touch the boxes yet. He fetches his phone first. Sure enough, the first text he receives is Dazai’s “Let me guess, you haven’t read the books, huh?” He rolls his eyes. The fact that he hasn’t chucked those books out his window is already the stretch of his show of respect for organizational hierarchy.
He goes through his morning routine, needing to be more awake before he faces the boxes’ contents. Once he has coffee in his system and ten more texts from Dazai—all scheduled, because there’s no way the other’s already up at this hour, lazy shit that he is—he ventures back to his bedroom and starts unloading the boxes.
No brand name, but undoubtedly of top-tier quality. He makes a mental note to kick the man in the gut if he finds out that this is coming out of his paycheck.
A three-piece suit: a white single-breasted coat, a long-sleeved shirt a shade lighter than his eyes, a black vest with buttons shaped like tiny petals. The white pants hug his legs like a dream, confirming his inkling that this is a custom-made set. Even though he’s pretty sure that he’s never been measured by any tailor.
It’s not worth asking Dazai and getting a verbal confirmation that would probably go something like, “Oh, I measured you using my eyes. Because I’m a genius.” Or some other nonsense like that.
In a display of thoughtfulness and also of his control freak nature towards the oddest of things, the boxes also come with a full spread of accessories. There’s a glaring lack of a nice hat, but everything else is there.
A black choker that has a blue stone on the inside of its clasp, small enough that it’s invisible to outsiders, but undeniably present against his throat. A criss-cross tie dark enough that it looks black from afar, only revealing its midnight blue hue upon close inspection. A pair of cashmere socks with matching coloration. Same goes for the half-gloves. There’s even some blue-rose cufflinks included.
He opens and wears everything. They’re of good quality and they fit him so well that it’d be remiss of him to not indulge this outfitting.
…Well, not exactly everything. There’s one small block box there that’s untouched. For one brief moment, he envisions that it has a ring inside. And then he’s appalled at himself for such a thought.
Thankfully, Dazai isn’t idiotic enough to make him propose to himself. The last box has an elegant watch, understated if not for the fact that there’s a bunch of blue diamonds in it.
He sighs as he checks the final product at the mirror. He’s been ready to strangle Dazai with the expectation that this is coming out of his bank account, but… he does look pretty nice. It wouldn’t be too bad to actually buy this ensemble.
When he strides into the Port Mafia headquarters several minutes later, nearly everyone’s necks twist to look at him in askance. They’re actually all wearing white too, but it’s just a simple color flip of their usual uniform. Chuuya’s outfit is clearly the odd one out.
One of the younger members stage-whispers, “A-Are we about to attend a wedding?”
With a straight face, he responds, “According to our great leader’s self-published book, ‘Pros of Wearing White Suits to Work, Volume I’, wearing white is to bolster our image as the pinnacle of Yokohama’s underworld.”
Whatever the fuck that means.
As expected, he leaves behind a bewildered string of people who don’t even dare to try and follow him up as he starts to drag Dazai awake to his office.
Today is apparently a day for magical things, because by the time he steps into the suite tucked behind the Boss’s office, Dazai is already fully dressed. He’s also fully sprawled on his bed like some dead fish, but he’s at least a stylishly-dressed fish this morning.
An undeniable pair with his outfit, with some slight alterations. His necktie is loosened, like he’s attempted to properly tie it and then decided that he’d just let Chuuya take care of it. He foregoes his usual scarf and replaces it with a blue one that seems to be an extension of Chuuya’s shirt. His white coat is baggy on him, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing his usual bandages. No blue rose cufflinks on him, but that’s primarily because blue roses have tumbled out to his bed instead. The sheets that have always been gloomy, neutral colors before have now been changed to a pure white.
“I really don’t understand what you’re playing at,” is what Chuuya says the moment he locks the door. It’s more out of a precaution for the sake of everyone else—if any of them walks in on this and sees Dazai acting like some overdramatic idiot, then morale of Port Mafia might just sink underground.
“You really haven’t read all of the books then.” A snicker. “But it’s alright, I’ve predicted that your doggy brain wouldn’t be able to understand the words anyway.”
“I have no interest in reading a bunch of nonsense that a certain someone has penned when they should have been doing work reports.”
“Fufufu. Do you know what today is?”
The bed is wide enough that he could do backflips on it and not have to touch a fish. But Dazai beckons for him with his left hand, so he rolls his eyes but still cooperatively sits in a seiza by the other’s head. Lets the other use his thighs as a makeshift pillow, even if he readies his hand to pull the other’s tie if he says something more aggravating than usual.
A dry reply, “It’s a Sunday and yet I still have work.” He picks up one of the blue roses and twirls it in his right hand.
“White Day is a sacred day where a guy receives a gift three times the worth of a Valentine’s Day gift.” Words uttered as lightly as the way Dazai’s hand reaches out to brush over his forehead.
“Valentine’s?”
“Mm. On the fourteenth of February, a day reserved for blushing maidens to confess their feelings to their beloved.”
He bends forward and laughs right into the other’s face. “I received absolutely nothing from last month.”
“Just as well, seeing that I am hardly a blushing maiden, no?”
“So why the fuck are you demanding a gift that’s worth three times as much then?!”
Dazai only has one eye uncovered, but it twinkles enough for two. “But you see, I did give you your salary on the fourteenth, yes?”
…Really shameless and idiotic. His lips twitch in amusement. He’s probably going to regret this a lot later, but right now, he can’t help but want to tease this bastard right back. “Where’s my White Day gift then?”
A raised eyebrow. “I received absolutely nothing from you, Chuuya.”
“Me not killing you on that day when you gave me a halved salary is already enough of a gift, don’t you think?”
Without shame whatsoever, “Ah, talk of money is rather uncouth.”
“I’ll drop it if you give me my gift.” Chuuya then smiles at him, stuffing the blue rose against his neck, before standing up so he can leave the other to stew on his words. “I believe that three times worth of that should be enough to buy a very nice ring that pairs well with a wedding-like outfit, no?”
It’s an absolutely rare occurrence to see Dazai be shocked, but that’s what he looks like right now, widened eye and gaping mouth, as he mimics a goldfish.
He snickers at the bug-eyed surprise, waving a hand as he saunters out of the room and into the office. As he’s expected, the sight of a surprised idiot is worth a ten-billion masterpiece, more than sufficient as a White Day gift.
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end