Work Text:
"I said, ooh, I'm blinded by the lights
No, I can't sleep until I feel your touch
I said, ooh, I'm drowning in the night
Oh, when I'm like this, you're the one I trust..."
Blinding Lights — The Weeknd
"Chuuya, explain to me why we're going for a ride in the dead of night." Dazai mutters.
A frown and his mouth thin as he surveys an auburn mane out of his dispassionate eye.
Dazai hasn't slept in two days. He'd blame caffeine because he typically sips at least four or five cups on weekends and twice as many on days of hard work. Or at least, where he gives a semblance of physical presence in pm's activities. Which means swinging in the closest chair or dragging around the room like a zombie from a b-movie. He'd have blamed caffeine, of course, but not in this case.
Insomnia has been bugging him and the triggering cause is a mission that has led to poor results. So why doesn't he sleep? Because he, the demon prodigy, the youngest executive of the Yokohama Mafia, was fooled by a gang of street kids and ability users.
No, it can’t happen.
Not to him.
Which is why he’s standing there, drumming his foot against the floor, while the ticking of the sole reverberates within the walls of the great hall. He waits for his partner and his fanciful idea of a bike ride to sedate his nerves.
Not that Chibikko has never had any bizarre ideas. This is perhaps the tenth since they met. Except for the one he crossed his mind the previous days, breaking through the kid's den to snatch alcohol and some pack of cigarettes for Chibi. They got a second-hand package, a few broken limbs and insomnia.
Chuuya grabs the green leather jacket and wears it, sliding the zip to the top. He fixes the lapels with a few taps while his eyes flicking to Dazai, diving into cool dark irises assessing him: he looks like a candle burning from both extremities. "Usually it relaxes me, maybe it'll help you too." He advises, hiding his fist into the small pocket and lifting a bunch of keys that rattles under his fingers.
There is a small pendant with a cloth goat, belonging to his period with the Sheep, two keys that opened his old apartment in the slums and a garage where he, Shirazu and Yhuan hid the stocks of liquor stolen from Port Mafia — oh, the irony — but if Dazai had tried to guess, he never would have understood what the two keys used in the composition are used for. They're a shred of a past that should be forgotten. But for Chuuya it's more like a lucky charm to remember who he is.
Dazai rolls up his eyes and casts out a sigh of condescension. After all, he hasn't other commitments. Not at two o'clock at night at the very least.
"I don’t want people to see me hugging you on a shocking-pink motorcycle." the executive's face wrinkles.
Chuuya straightens his back and shields both arms on the leather fabric. An "Hah?!" escapes his lips that are now arched into a hard half-moon.
Although the jacket belongs to his old life the redhead keeps it for his reckless motorbike tours. Because a sport bike, even if painted in bright pink, needs a suitable clothing for the occasion. Chuuya has never been shy about fashion, especially when it comes to his outfits and Dazai certainly doesn't complain.
He takes an air drag from the lungs. " A dog riding a motorcycle is a show that is not seen every day, however." he raises his eyebrow and curls his forehead to mark his teasing.
Chuuya's facial features relax, the truth is that it's not worth fighting with him. Not if he's in a state of semi-unconsciousness and could have succumbed to Morpheus at any moment. It's his way to give him respite. But only for that occasion.
"Shut up and get on." his tone suddenly quiet as he reaches the bike and rides astride the seat.
Dazai isn't convinced at all. He's not convinced because Chuuya has always crashed the bike on every occasion when it was exploited. He's not convinced because he must remain back-to-chest on a surface of a few inches with his partner, who hates from the bottom of his heart and, despite that, his heart flickers and his mouth swallows mouthfuls of mixed feelings.
Oh, Dazai.
The partner props his feet to the ground, grabbing the handlebars with gloved hands. He inserts the key and turns the engine on. "Move, asshole."
And why does Dazai sprints at his dog's words? Has the situation turned around? Has the dog become the owner? No way!
But he still sit on the bike, brushing his legs to the redhead's, his chest plastered against his back. And he probably should do something about his heart that now hammers unevenly and the sizzle that assaulted his body as soon as he grazed Chuuya. Fuck.
"Make sure you don't drop me, Chibi." he barks, trying not to point out to him that he's munching his chapped lips, nibbling on the skins until he creates blood cracks.
Chuuya answers over his shoulders. "Hold onto me and you'll not fall. Or maybe the suicidal maniac might find it fun to die falling off a running motorcycle." He chuckles at the thought of Dazai rolling like a pebble down a mountain and that’s enough for the muscles of his face to contract.
Dazai sees a smile blooming from the corner of his mouth through the front mirror before the wheels started to move and the partner leave the garage, stopping at the entrance of the road. And he still tries to figure out where to put his hands.
On the bike? On Chuuya? On Chuuya’s hips?Really?
He has to say that: he'd have routinely harpooned both hands on Chuuya without problems, especially to annoy him, but currently he's struggling between the desire to tease his dog and the adrenaline rush that awaken his brain worse than a fucking coffee. And it's not okay.
So he decides, after a quick and painless reflection, to hook his hands to the Sheep's jacket and ripple his fingertips on the leather to hold the grip. But he realizes that it can be a problem when the redhead increases the speed and Dazai finds himself swirling with his buttocks on the seat. No, it's definitely not the ideal foothold.
Chuuya can't figure out what his partner is fiddling with and why he can't sit like an ordinary guy on a racing motorcycle but he expects it. He raises a hand from the handlebars and slides it over Dazai’s, allowing him to take a safer and more intimate grip. He stretches out his arm and sits it around his hips, bringing the rest of his body and thus also his face to his hair. The second limb reaches him shortly after.
And Dazai can finally unwind the tenseness and rigidness of his bones.
He blinks and inhales slowly, releasing the worries that afflict him. He looks around; lords of the night sneak out like vampires, ready to feed on human's greed, illegal activities on every corner, corruption and death. But they're part of corruption too.
The city is a maze of buildings and lights: neon frames and skyscrapers towering like mountains of glass and concrete. Thick clouds blot out the stars, replaced by fluorescent and flashing tubes.
He can feel the icy wind scratching his cheeks, Chuuya's silky locks fluttering on his nose and his scent flooding his nostrils with ginger and lime. He brushes his face against the leather tissue, which has a sharp and harsh scent. But also that of Chuuya. Of his past. A part of him that lives every time he rides his bike.
Dazai's arms crosses on Chuuya's torso and the redhead holds his breath. His stomach muscles twitch and his teeth clench, waiting for any movement. But Dazai isn't going to release the grip, he's dazzled by the lights of the city and that speed that flows over his body, flaming his senses as in a street race.
Chuuya exhales and his partner's hands mimic the movement; Dazai senses the redhead's breathing pattern accelerating with speed.
Dazai grabs his choker with his teeth by squeezing against Chuuya's throat and feeling it roll up and down when he swallows. "Faster, Chibi~."
Chuuya grumbles something but at that speed he can't understand his babbling.
Dazai knows that he wants to have the reins when driving. Being in charge. So he rewards him with a kiss. Two, three. Along the neck, on the skin that frizzes until he lands with his nose in the middle of the hair and dig a cozy shelter from the raw breeze.
Chuuya swears he can feel him smiling against his skin, saccharine whispers printed between kisses, but can't affirm it as indissoluble fact because it's what he'd want from him. And maybe his mind plays some kind of wicked trick.
Both are overwhelmed by that moment, a fragment of adolescence about their lives as executives of a criminal organization.
He needed it; they needed it.
And Chuuya is sure Dazai'd sleep peacefully, at least that night.