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Chuuya’s so flashy. As if the mafioso isn’t loud enough, his clothes and accessories are always so obnoxious that it makes Dazai sick. Going shopping with him is a pain too. Dazai loathes being dragged from designer shops to high-end tailors to whatever other storefronts catch that slug’s eye. In fact, they’re at some sophisticated mall right now, in a store that apparently specializes in ridiculously priced jeans. Chuuya is currently inspecting a pair of dark blue distressed skinny jeans with way too serious of a look on his face.
Dazai grimaces, “I can hear you thinking, chibi,” he spoke, immediately earning a displeased glare from his partner. “Why don’t you ask me my opinion? It’s painful to stand here and carry your bags in silence while watching you exhaust yourself from thinking too hard,” he smiles gently, as if he was giving genuine advice.
Chuuya tsks, “Why the hell would I trust fashion advice from a tasteless slob like you? You don’t understand fashion at all, shitty Dazai.” He looked back at the pants and stared at them in silence, as if the article of clothing would give him some kind of answer or feedback. Hell, in Chuuya’s mind, the fabric was probably enthusiastically agreeing with his snide remark.
The redhead is right (though, admitting that makes his skin crawl). Dazai has absolutely no interest in fashion, or trends, or style, or any of that frivolous nonsense. Just being dressed is more than enough for him. Their polar opposite approaches to fashion are obvious just by looking at the two. Chuuya is currently dressed in a burgundy button up, which remains untucked from his black skinny jeans, a black leather jacket, and to top it off, of course, he’s wearing his signature hat and a simple black choker. Truly, it was the outfit of a man who put far too much care into his appearance. On the other hand, Dazai had thrown on the first clean articles of clothing he could find: a dark blue sweater and a washed out pair of jeans. Being so different at their cores, he fails time and time again to understand why this hatrack would put so much stock into the clothes he wore, and what other clothes he wore them with, and all the accessories and adornments to go along with them. Ugh, even Chuuya’s footwear is ridiculously pricey and gaudy. Everything about his clothing just cries out “I’m overcompensating for something!” and Dazai thinks back on what exactly that something is.
Back when they were 16, after the Dragon’s Head Conflict, after they were dubbed the infamous Double Black, after Mori started teaming them up on any mission that involved a harmful enough threat to the Port Mafia, Dazai and Chuuya sat at the extraction point, waiting for a sleek black Mafia vehicle to pick them up and take them back to HQ. The two boys were relatively quiet, mutually exhausted from bickering, yelling, and fighting the enemy organization that dared to oppose them. While reveling in the aftermath of a perfectly executed plan, Dazai watched as Chuuya stared into the scene reflected in a murky puddle in front of the bench they were seated on. The ginger took off his hat, and started fidgeting with his hair, pushing copper strands back into place. He glared at his reflection with burning concentration, putting the fedora back on and adjusting his shirt collar, his choker, his gloves, his-
“What are you doing?”
The shorter boy tensed up at the confrontational tone. He sneered back at the bandaged-up boy next to him with the same fervor he met his own reflection with. “The fuck does it look like I’m doing, shitty Dazai?”
“It looks like you’re preparing for an interview,” Dazai sighed back at him dismissively, “We’re just going back to HQ, who are you trying to impress?” He teased, expecting a defensive, heated response. But he doesn’t get that. Chuuya instead blinks at him blankly before slumping back on the bench and looking at the night sky, muddied with light pollution. The only illumination around them was a lone street lamp, which cast a warm glow onto the two teenagers as they sat in waiting.
Chuuya continued to gaze into the starless sky. The words “Nobody would take me seriously otherwise,” slipped from his lips, stated with the type of conviction that would let anyone know that this was his truth.
Before the dark haired boy could even process those words, a black car with heavily tinted windows pulled up to them, and Chuuya stood up with a haste not expected of a teen who had just fought off about 20 people twice his age not even an hour ago. As the ginger climbed into the car, with all of his flashy accessories fixed to perfection, the gears in the young port mafia executive’s brain began to turn with a passion typically reserved for thinking of ways to kill the tiny slug. Dazai couldn’t help but smirk at the prospect of having something else in his arsenal to taste his partner with. Clearly, the slug’s height was a point of contention for him, but did his insecurities in his physical appearance lie elsewhere as well? Dazai brainstormed, climbing into the car and making a point to not buckle himself in. On the silent car ride back, and even as he sauntered into the Port Mafia’s base, he simply observed the petite mafioso. He took note of how he avoided his own reflection with determination. He logged every time Chuuya smoothed down the lapels of his jacket, or twisted his choker, or fidgeted with his gloves.
The notorious Double Black stood in front of Mori as he praised them and complimented their team efforts, but while Dazai was physically present, he was truthfully on autopilot while he compiled the data he’d collected, not just today but over the past year. After sorting and examining the information, Dazai came to a few conclusions.
Chuuya is insecure in his appearance. -> Chuuya wears fancy, flashy clothes to compensate
I don’t like that.
The bandaged boy has no idea why he doesn’t like it. But he does not.
Dazai gets the pair of skinny jeans shoved into his arms as a rude snap-back to the present. “C’mon, bastard, I’m gonna check out,” he announces, dragging the lanky man up to the register and fishing his wallet out of his pocket. Dazai couldn’t help but take note of the way Chuuya’s features soften as he talks to the cashier. He observes the way the cash exchanges hands with a practiced swiftness. He’s still in mental-note-taking-mode as his wrist is grabbed and he is being pulled out of the store by his shorter partner. Right when they get to the threshold where the storefront leads out into the mall, Dazai decides to speak.
Hauling Chuuya’s bags, he begins, “You know, I really didn’t like what you picked out. You have 12 of the same pair at home, if my memory serves me right,” and like clockwork, Chuuya spins around on his heels to argue.
“They’re not the same! They’re just similar styles!! But of course, you wouldn’t know the first thing about fashion if it strangled you with those damn bandages!!”
“Fine, maybe I don’t know fashion. But I don’t need to know fashion to know Chuuya would look good in anything. Even if I don’t like it,” The taller man flippantly stated with a heavy, dramatic sigh. His exasperated expression expertly covered the smirk his inner self was wearing as he watched the ginger in front of him flush a bright pink.
“What— what did you-?”
“Now, now, Chuuya, don’t we have more shopping to do?”
Turning away with a sharp click of his tongue and pulling his hat down just a touch to attempt to hide his blush, Chuuya storms off to the next store in a silent fluster as Dazai trails behind. The dark haired man mentally adds another point to his latest volume of How to Kill Chuuya.
- Sudden compliments