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“It’s not every day that we’d have our first wedding anniversary. It should be done properly,” he insists, crossing his legs as he takes his seat. It’s rare that they could share a dining table at the same time, and not only because of his nominal husband’s habits of eating canned crab straight from the can, or simply skipping meals outright.
“It’s rare for you to remember that we are a wedded couple,” Dazai replies, the way he holds his chopsticks ever-graceful, even as he’s picking apart the food like he’s cataloguing the supply inventory of an enemy organization that they’ve just occupied. He’s obviously not fond of greens, so there’s a mountain-like pile of vegetables on one corner of his plate, while the meat disappears at an alarming pace.
For the pair of them who have married each other for the sake of joining their respective organizations to form a united front against enemies, it’s both easy and difficult to forget about their marriage. They both rarely wear their rings, and they’re both so busy they barely brush shoulders against each other. However, it really is a task to close his eyes and forget that he’s married, even if in name only, to the youngest Boss in Port Mafia’s history.
A man covered in rumors and hearsay, as well as the scent of blood and schemes. He also happens to be covered in copious amounts of bandages, making it seem like he’s perpetually injured. In fact, the injuries are inflicted more towards his enemies, courtesy of his plans and the way he orchestrates his forces. For someone so frail that he could be blown away by the wind, he truly is a formidable force, a beacon for all of Yokohama’s underground organizations.
That said, this one doesn’t count as a rumor, because there’s so much tangible evidence for it. “You’re the one who flirts incessantly with various women. Isn’t that a sign that you’re forgetting about our vows?”
Their marriage has been hastily done in-between constant bombardment from Northern forces. Repelling attacks from the Russian mafiya shouldn’t have been so difficult if everyone pooled their strengths together; it’s just that it’s difficult to trust another organization without some means of guarantee. A joint marriage has served as the fastest and least-risky option.
It’s not as if Chuuya has any sweetheart that he’s seeing. The dearest thing to his heart is the safety and survival of Sheep. If it means having to fake a marriage with a scheming bastard whose face is too smirky for his own good, then he doesn’t have any compunctions.
He doesn’t bother speculating Dazai’s reasons for agreeing to marry him, despite his apparent continued interest in holding women’s hands and asking them for a date, followed by a double suicide.
“It is a shame that you’re too healthy. I could have shown off my skills at nursing one to health.”
“Somehow, that doesn’t sound very trustworthy.”
“You don’t trust your husband?” Exaggerated distress blooms on the other’s face. “I’m saddened by this, dear wife.”
“You’d be even more saddened after I’m done stabbing you for that line.”
“It’d be quite the mark on your reputation if you end up murdering your husband even before your first anniversary.” Mildly, as if this scenario is a mere inconvenience, instead of something that would lead to his death.
They continue eating, stealthily observing each other from across the table. There’s enough space, given that working in an underground organization makes for lucrative salaries; somehow, their calves manage to brush together when Chuuya stretches his leg a bit.
He knows that they’re both used to taking charge. He stands up and takes their dirty plates to the sink, while asking, “Did you free up some time on that day?”
“What kind of activities do you want to do?” Soft sounds of Dazai padding towards him, so they can stand side-by-side the kitchen sink. He doesn’t volunteer to wash, left hand pressing several buttons on his phone, right hand hooking over his belt loops. “A banquet at the end to celebrate our union. That should help assuage worries of people who think they can drive a wedge between our cooperation.”
“Gramps can take care of the arrangements, but it has to look unified.” Chuuya focuses on washing their plates, with the same amount of dedication he gives to his missions. “Bandages cannot be used as décor.”
“No? Wouldn’t it be the best sign that you love me so?”
“That would be more like a sign that I’ve gone insane.”
“They do say that love tends to make one crazy.” Dazai’s close enough that their elbows brush together. With the difference in their height, if they take a half-step closer, it’d feel like the other man’s looming over him.
Chuuya’s never been the sort to enjoy too-intimate contact, preferring to place some distance between him and everyone else. But somehow, that feeling is a lot less prevalent in his dealings with this bastard. Perhaps because he already knows his scheming tendencies from the get-go, so he doesn’t have to overthink if the fishy bastard is approaching him because of some calculation.
“If you want me to pretend being crazy in love, it should be an equivalent exchange.” After all, even if Port Mafia is the bigger organization, it’s not as if this arrangement is something that only benefits Sheep. It’s equal in all matters, because that’s the only way he’d be able to stomach such a deal.
Faint laughter. “And how should I show that I’m crazily in love with my darling wife and right-hand man?”
“You already sound crazy enough.” He washes the chopsticks, and then directs them towards Dazai’s liver, in warning, in jest. “Didn’t you hear me earlier? I’d stab you if you call me that again.”
“Isn’t it about time for us to use sweet nicknames for each other?”
“That kind of sweetness is enough to send one to diabetic coma.” He takes the chopsticks away. He’d be able to use them as an efficient murder weapon, but it’d be a shame to dirty them after he’s gone through the trouble of washing them. “I prefer to call you ‘shitty Dazai’ as is.”
“How very sweet of you.” Instead of moving away, Dazai crosses that miniscule distance between them. His right hand continues to hook into belt loops, but this time he finds the loops on the right side of Chuuya’s waist, bringing their bodies flush together. “I heard GSS is making trouble at Suribachi Island again.”
A rhetorical statement. As Port Mafia’s Boss, as the one who supervises the Intelligence Division, there’s no information that slips by his ears.
“Without The Guild’s support, it’s easy enough to subdue them.” It’s just time-consuming, because they burrow under the ground like hyperactive moles, running away before they could be eradicated completely.
Sure enough, Dazai says, “They still have twenty-four hidden bases that haven’t been discovered.”
And yet, he could count them accurately. He raises his eyebrows, picking up a yellow cloth to dry the plates before stashing them away. This part of the chore, they share together. Dazai places down his phone and picks up a plate for Chuuya to dry, a harmonious process that’s only punctuated by faint clinking sounds and their synchronized breathing.
It’s quite peaceful.
A lot more peaceful than the mission he just finished, cleaning up remnants of a group who wants to ally themselves to The Rats. It’s a group that deals with gemstone trade, and he has circled their stash of gems so he could find a pair of blood-red diamonds.
It’s difficult for him to wear a ring, given how he likes to wear gloves. Dazai’s neck looks lovely when layered with the vision of getting strangled, whenever he spews a bunch of plans that’d be impossible to do if one isn’t as capable at fighting as Chuuya.
A paired necklace would be best as an anniversary gift.
“Twenty-four is a lot,” he says, once they’re done with drying everything and placing them back on their cabinets.
“I have freed up some time prior to the dinner banquet.” Dazai smiles like he has mapped out everything in his palms, and everyone else simply needs to dance along to the tune. “If we strike at their main base directly, the rest of the hidden bases would be easy to wipe out.”
“Sounds like a good plan, if we could ensure that we wouldn’t end up startling the rest and alerting them of our plan.”
“This kind of operation is best done by a small number of people.” Even if he’s a mafia boss, his childishness is ever-present, proven by his emphasis on the word ‘small’.
He turns so that they’re facing each other completely. “Two people should work best.”
“It would work as a nice pre-dinner exercise, in order to whet one’s appetite.” Dazai raises one arm, showing off an upturned palm. “According to the intel, the main base has a nice stash of vintage wine in their vaults.”
Chuuya smiles back, knowing that it has the glint of a wolf eager to catch a prey. Both of them exchange these sinister smiles, and both of them don’t flinch at all. He places his hand over the other’s palm, and they enjoy a melody-less waltz all over their kitchen.
“Looking forward to another year of working with you,” he says, and places his ear right against the other’s heart so he could listen to something as they perform a macabre waltz.
“Looking forward to another year of working with you,” Dazai mimics, voice rustling his hair, “partner.”
As far as anyone is concerned, it’s a very strong marriage.
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end