Dealing with Dazai is like dealing with a snake, except worse, because snakes — if they have nothing else going for them — can’t talk. Thus Dazai, with his slippery smooth words and constant calculation, is a sentient snake; smart, slick, and poised to strike.
Yet: there’s an image to maintain. Double Black didn’t get its reputation by being your run-of-the-mill partnership. It’s a two-party alliance, both members exceedingly strong in their distinct but complementary manners, and together, they round each other out and play off one another perfectly— not so much Nakahara and Dazai as they are NakaharaDazai. As far as the mafia and general public eye are concerned, Chuuya fucking loves snakes. He’s practically a snake charmer, he likes them that much. It’s a lie, but it’s a lie known only by the insiders in this arrangement. Everyone else will just have to wait to see the truth— truth, in this case, being the corpse of one and the triumph of the other.
Chuuya has no illusions about living to see old age, but neither does he have any intentions to meet his grave before watching his dearly beloved partner meet it first. There’s a delicate balance between keeping up pretenses and plotting Dazai’s downfall, a tightrope circus act that they’ve both learned to dance to, and dance to it they do.
Tonight, though, the scales have been tipped; a seat on the board of executives, newly vacated. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, the chance Chuuya has been looking for, and undoubtedly the one Dazai’s been looking for, too. The question isn’t whether one of them will get it, because whether isn’t even a point of debate when your collective upbringing puts you under the custody — and subsequent favor — of two out of the four remaining executives. No, whether is the wrong question to ask; the right question is which.
One throne is not enough for two kings and Dazai is by no means a predictable boy — boys are all they are, really, because the mafia makes children into killers — but Chuuya doesn’t need to speculate; he knows the motives that drive him tonight. There’s no use in trying to resist this year’s so-called birthday surprise; Dazai is not the type to let his plans backfire on him, and he does a good job of it, too, because Chuuya has yet to see a single scheme of his fail.
Funny that you would call me restless when talking to you exhausts me so much, he thinks as he allows himself to be guided down the corridor. “I have a feeling you’re about to remind me,” he says, just to play along. Let Dazai have his little games; let him feel the satisfaction of his upper hand for a little while longer. Chuuya is not Mori’s protégé for nothing.
He tolerates Dazai’s arm around his, and then he tolerates Dazai’s hand on his, and then the door swings open to reveal the candlelit locus of their final night together. It’s an oddly romantic place for one of them to die, Chuuya supposes as he follows Dazai in. Candlelight and curtains, a glittering view of Yokohama; the charade is still on, but the act is about to end. Only one of them will walk out of this place alive— at this point, they’re both acutely aware of that fact.
How many death traps have you installed in this room? Chuuya wonders, ignoring the chair that Dazai gestures to and folding himself into the one closer by, a gesture of carelessly friendly insolence. “You’ve really outdone yourself this year,” he says, and accepts the proffered wine. Dipping his head in acknowledgment at the birthday wish that follows, he raises his glass in a toast, gaze steady and deliberate on Dazai’s eyes. How many deaths have you planned for me tonight? “Here’s to many more to come.”
Poison would be too easy, and so Chuuya does not drink. Truly, Dazai ought to give Mori’s teachings more credit. Chuuya should, too, probably — Mori’s schooled him thoroughly, and among the lessons he’s learned is the value of subtlety — but Dazai is a snake, and Chuuya has never been patient with animals.
Setting the wine aside, he clasps his hands on his lap and leans forward to address his best-friend-worst-enemy with innocuous candor. “You know you always get me the best gifts, Dazai,” he says, eyes wide with sincerity, “but I’m afraid I’ll be looking forward to a better present just this once. That position, opened on my birthday— what a coincidence, right?”
Lying has never fit well on Chuuya’s skin.
The mafia runs a carnival of conmen, criminals, and murderers, and it’s a downright shame that in a place where deceit lies as innate as breathing and killing, no one has yet trampled all over his partner’s clumsily sewn threads. When Chuuya lies, the language shapes tongue and mouth for him, mastering him instead of being mastered. It’s all memorized and stolen words, albeit too well, and while Dazai does consider himself a thief of sorts too, there’s a considerable difference between excellent mimicking and excellent borrowing- to steal and then construct into something original.
And lack of originality is only one of Dazai’s numerous complaints on his partner. If Dazai instead chose to gift Chuuya with a novel on every single flaw and annoyance the man stored within him, Dazai could’ve spare the excessive murder preparations. The sheer size and weight of the volume would’ve been an effective enough killing weapon.
Intrinsic pride is swallowed down as it always is this time of year, and Dazai takes to unveiling the silver platters full of foreign, succulent dishes, recipes choice-snatched from European menus Chuuya’d taken a liking to. Some are poisoned as well, some are harmless, but the real enjoyment lies not in reading subtlety where there isn’t any, but just the thought of killing.
The sacred concept of private birthdays for the Double Black duo had been a debatable issue. Kouyou and the other executives knew there was a limit to mixing fire with gasoline before it exploded, but the final blow had been brought up not as Mori’s personal suggestion but rather as the Port Mafia boss’s command. Because the only thing worse to the two of them than spending time together was treason.
And it worked, too, as the doctor’s plans always did, with the grim smiles and tight-lipped tolerance – plus, if one of them did slip, it would only pass as a harmless spat between friends. The entire setup inflated the charade of the duo’s supposed bond, and, in turn, inflated the Mafia’s own reputation and notoriety. Another one of the innumerable ironies of their final night: even now, the time they shared is forced.
When Chuuya raises his glass, as expected, Dazai simply sighs. “As forgetful as ever,” he repeats, casting Chuuya a weary glance, false affection tucked away between the moment he sets down the glass and the moment he slips, silent, into his chair. The wine swirls aimlessly in his glass; Dazai never returns Chuuya’s gesture. “Before we dip our toes into the sea that is gossip, I’ll have to gift you with some of my wisdom, hm?”
He gently plucks Chuuya’s wine glass from his and takes a light sip, before placing it back with a smile glittering like knives. The gesture’s a half-hearted attempt to fool: the wine’s poisoned, but only does it become effective after the first sip; and either way, he knows Chuuya considers anything Dazai’s lips have touched more toxic than botulinum. “One,” he says, “The host toasts first. The guests watch.” Waiting, passive, their tempers slowly shaped into daggers at the host’s discretion.
“Two, a guest still has to return the host’s efforts with full attention and eagerness.” Chuuya’s untouched silver fork, spoon, and knife slip into Dazai’s hand, and he tosses them with enough graceful, yet deliberate force to embed the former two into the chair’s polished wood. The knife lands itself just by the crook of Chuuya’s neck.
“And three, lucky coincidences don’t exist, only unfortunate traps,” he finishes. Fairytales aside, lady fortune never comes bearing gifts willingly. Neither luck nor fate favors anyone, and if they ever did at all, it would definitely not be the decrepit like themselves. Plans that fall into place too easy should only be accepted with a gun still hidden up one’s sleeve.
“Since you’ve proven what a terribly absentminded executive you’d make, I’ll spare you an embarrassing death. I don’t make a habit of bullying rodents.” Directly, at least. Dazai picks up his own knife and begins dissecting the lamb. “If you can find the weapons hidden around the room, I’ll let you have your way with the first one. Generous, aren’t I?”
As soon as the meat’s sliced up, he places a slab gingerly on both of their plates, drizzled in with a bit of garnish and gravy. The knife is left impaled, handle up, into where the creature’s breastbone would’ve lain- where the heart would’ve lain- and Dazai takes a delicate bite. The wheels of his plan have been set into motion from the beginning. His first move ended long ago- he just has to sit back, watch, and enjoy.
Let the sheep have their fun, playing wolf.
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