Chuuya had never asked for a throne, and he damn well hadn’t planned on sitting on one. Yet there he was—boss of the Port Mafia, a title that felt heavier than any gravity he could twist. The old boss had insisted Dazai take the position, the prodigy he trusted more than anyone. But Dazai, in that infuriatingly lazy way of his, had simply shrugged off the offer and handed it to Chuuya as if he were passing him a coat. Chuuya had tried to refuse, growled, cursed, argued—but in the end, he’d taken it. Someone had to keep this organization from collapsing, and Dazai clearly had no intention of wearing the crown.

From the outside, it probably looked like a clean transition. A respected executive rising to the top. A brilliant strategist stepping back into a supporting role. But anyone who knew them understood how absurdly backwards it all was. Chuuya was the one who preferred action to politics. Dazai was the one born for scheming from the shadows. And yet, here they stood—Chuuya signing orders with a pen he didn’t want, and Dazai leaning over his shoulder with a smirk he always wanted to wipe off his face.

Still, Chuuya wasn’t blind. He knew why Dazai had refused the position. It wasn’t laziness, not really. Dazai trusted him. More than that—Dazai wanted him safe, wanted him steady, wanted him in control of something for once in his messy, destructive life. And Chuuya… well, Chuuya accepted because if Dazai believed he could do it, then maybe he could.

Running the Port Mafia hadn’t softened him. It sharpened him. He moved through the headquarters with a confidence that came not from desire for power, but from knowing others depended on him. Even the shadows seemed to straighten under his stride. And Dazai? He followed in that effortless way of his, always one step behind, always watching, always slipping between executive duties and husbandly teasing as if they were the same job.

Their partnership had always been a storm—loud, fierce, impossible to ignore. But now, with Chuuya giving orders and Dazai carrying them out, something about their dynamic clicked into place. It wasn’t traditional, and it wasn’t expected, but it worked. Dazai’s schemes fortified Chuuya’s will. Chuuya’s leadership anchored Dazai’s chaos. They were two halves of a weapon the underworld had no idea how to defend against.

Chuuya still didn’t like the title. Probably never would. But every time Dazai brushed a kiss against his temple before a meeting, or threw himself in front of danger without hesitation, or whispered “You’ve got this” like it was an unshakable truth, the weight of the role settled a little easier on his shoulders.

He hadn’t chosen to be boss. But he chose Dazai. And as long as they stood together—husband, executive, partner, irritant—Chuuya figured he could carry the crown a little longer.