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“Pull over. Let me drive for a while.”
The… suggestion comes when Chuuya is halfway through a yawn, and he ends up choking instead of exhaling. The sound of his coughs are punctuated by Dazai’s laughter, and it takes all that he’s got to keep both hands at the wheel and not around the idiot mackerel’s neck.
“Stop distracting me, moron,” he barks, instead. “You wanna kill yourself, you’re not gonna get me to do your dirty work for you.”
“Oh, please, a car accident is a terrible way to kill yourself, there’s too many ways it can go wrong — and I’m serious. Pull over.”
Chuuya’s eyes are firmly set on the road, and he can’t see the look on Dazai’s face, but he hopes the snort he’s just given is enough to show exactly how he feels about it.
“Don’t ignore me, Chuuya~”
…Apparently not. “Hell yes, I’m going to ignore you. If I don’t ignore you, then I’m going to have to assume you just said you want to put your greasy little hands on the wheel of my car—”
“My hands are not greasy—”
“—and then, I’m going to have to break your face—”
“—and you of all people know they’re not little, either!”
Chuuya breathes in, breathes out wearily. Reminds himself of everything he’s learned about defensive driving, the only reason Ane-san’s even allowed him to have a car in the first place. Even a second of looking away can mean grave injury to himself and to others.
“I’m serious, stop the car.”
In the depths of Chuuya’s tired brain, an itty-bitty plan takes shape; maybe, if he can entertain Dazai long enough, that disaster of a human being might find something else to draw his attention and forget about this stupid whim.
“Do you even know how to drive?” he drawls, trying to summon what little patience he has left. “I don’t remember you coming to classes when Ane-san started teaching me.”
“Of course I didn’t. I got one of the grunts to teach me.”
“That guy you always go to Lupin’s with?”
That earns him a few moments of pause. “…I didn’t know Chuuya was paying such close attention.”
Chuuya bites the inside of his cheek. “When the likes of you starts actually looking happy about something, of course people are going to notice.”
He doesn’t want to say be careful, because that sort of thing’s never really had a place between the two of them — but he knows Dazai can read into the lines of his frown, and he makes no effort towards a poker face.
No one can say he’s never tried.
Dazai stops talking, at least, and Chuuya feels a sharp spike of gratification at the small victory. Maybe, just maybe, he is learning how to turn the tables when it comes to getting what he wants from the mackerel.
It’s a bit of a heady thought, because he’s sure Dazai’s been leading him around in circles from the moment they met, but the year they’ve spent working together helps him control the rush. Dazai’s schemes have many, many layers, and it wouldn’t be the first time Chuuya thought he was getting somewhere only to find out he was playing into his partner’s hand.
It’s fucking annoying, that’s what it is, but Chuuya is too spent to be really mad about it. He just tries to keep his eyes on the road, wishing he could light a cigarette and sweep away the exhaustion seeping into his bones; as it is, he lets Dazai’s silence ease the workings of his own mind into something like quiet.
“Chuuya, as the Executive member and leader of this operation, I order you to stop and let me drive.”
Chuuya is halfway through another yawn when Dazai says that, and chokes instead of just exhaling; and this time, there’s no advice of Ane-san that can keep him from hitting the idiot mackerel on the side.
“I can’t believe you’re pulling rank on me—”
“Wait, Chuuya — stop that — it’s hard to dodge in the car!”
“I can’t believe—”, punch, “you,” punch, “are pulling rank,” punch, “on ME—”
“You stupid bonehead, we’re going to CRASH—”
They don’t crash, but swerve dangerously in the middle of the road, forcing a tourist bus to dive for the shoulder lane to avoid being hit. It takes a few moments of remembering how to breathe before Chuuya finds the wit to right the car, putting some distance between them and the yelling driver they leave behind; by then, they’re reaching a rest area.
Chuuya guides the car to a good spot, spends way more time trying to park than he should, gives up halfway, and, once the engine has stopped running, sinks his teeth into the wheel to muffle the scream ripping off his throat.
Dazai is examining his own nails. “Chuuya is such a savage.”
That’s it, he decides. He’s going to have to murder Dazai, and tell the Boss the mackerel threw himself out of the car window. Completely unavoidable; a matter of time, really. Hell, one could even say it was a service to mankind.
“From the second I bought this car, ninety percent of what I’ve been doing is to drive your sorry ass around, and you never once remembered I’m not your fucking chauffeur. So what on God’s green earth possessed you that you suddenly decided you just have to drive?!”
Dazai doesn’t really tear his eyes off his own hands; just sends a brief, sideways glance.
The question, when it comes, has the edge of a knife. “How long has Chuuya been having nightmares?”
And it draws blood.
It’s not something Chuuya knows how to answer. Not that he doesn’t know what his partner’s talking about — he knows, can feel himself connecting the dots even through the sudden dread pooling in his stomach —, but it’s not… it’s not the kind of thing a person can discuss with fellow gangsters.
Even before the Mafia, Chuuya’s never had much use for a vulnerable side.
“Everyone has nightmares once in a while,” it’s what comes out of his mouth, slow and cautious. “What’s it to you?”
Dazai’s blasé expression crumples with impatience; he will wait indulgently for the whole world to follow him along, but somehow always expects Chuuya to be right at his side.
“All right, then, I shall rephrase,” he drawls, voice overly sweet. “How long has it been since Chuuya last slept through the whole night?”
And that, well… Chuuya knows how to answer that.
He just doesn’t want to.
“Let me guess,” Dazai continues, his whole body turned towards Chuuya now, probably to better enjoy the spectacle he’s made of himself. “Not since the Dragon’s Head conflict. When our comrades killed themselves.”
The words, said with a layer of barely concealed disdain, sour inside Chuuya’s chest. “Shut up.”
“Do you hear them calling for help? Or do you dream of their bodies afterward? Or maybe you dream of their suicide… do you dream of them giving up, begging to die because they can’t stand the pain anymore? Do you dream of yourself there, wanting to die too?”
He moves before he’s fully aware of it, aiming for Dazai’s face — but his partner blocks it with no effort, throwing his arm off course before driving his own fist up into Chuuya’s gut.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckthatbastardfuckfuckfuck it hurts.
He can hear Dazai getting out of the car as he himself unlocks his door — ‘cause it hurts and he feels queasy and he’s not going to barf on his fucking upholstery fuck — but doesn’t pay any attention to it, not until he sees the plain black loafers stopping in front of him.
“Get away from me,” Chuuya snarls, but the warning is unheeded; the bastard is kneeling down, holding both of Chuuya’s wrists in a vice-like grip while reaching for his stomach.
“Sleep deprivation slows reaction time, little hat rack,” Dazai says, and both his voice and touch are gentle. Chuuya’s bubbling anger dies in his chest; without it, he feels adrift under the mackerel’s hands. “It’s just as bad as being drunk. We were lucky back there, but we might not be a second time.”
Dazai presses and pushes the skin on Chuuya’s stomach; it takes Chuuya an embarrassingly long time to understand he is checking for internal bleeding.
“Move over,” he says when he’s satisfied, letting go of Chuuya’s wrists to nudge him lightly on the shoulder. “I’ll drive and you can take a nap.”
Chuuya wants to say no — burns inside with the need to — but now that the adrenaline is dying down, he can feel the weight on his shoulders, tiredness pumping inside his veins. It does feel as bad as being drunk.
Ane-san made him promise he would never drive while being drunk.
In the end, he moves over, trying to keep his grumbling to a minimum.
“I knew Chuuya would see reason~” Dazai singsongs, because he’s the sort of guy who will kick you when you’re down. “I can’t wait to tell the Boss how mature Chuuya is.”
“You tell anyone about it, I’ll shove my shoe up your fucking ass.”
Dazai is busy adjusting the seat and the mirror, but Chuuya can still see him smirking. “My, my, aren’t we kinky today.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, shut up. And if I see a single scratch on my car when we arrive, I’ll—”
“Yes, yes, you’ll murder me, I know. Don’t worry, I’m a very responsible driver.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
He fastens his seatbelt. Dazai’s finished setting things up the way he likes, and is now bent sideways, reaching for the backseat; he emerges with something round, which he wraps around Chuuya’s neck before he can protest.
It’s a bright pink, polka-dotted travel pillow. Chuuya buries his fingers into it; it feels impossibly soft.
“Dazai.”
“What?”
“…Do you have nightmares?”
The engine rumbles to life. In two smooth movements, Dazai clears the spot and makes for the auxiliary lane. He stays quiet so long Chuuya thinks he’s not going to answer.
He’s on the edge of drifting off — his eyelids feel heavy, and he’s adjusted the pillow to fit the curve between his shoulder and neck — when the words finally make it out Dazai’s mouth.
“I got used to them,” it’s what he says. “In time, I think you will too.”
“That’s not really comforting.”
“…I suppose it isn’t.”
The mackerel shifts the focus of his overwhelming attention on the road, and they don’t speak any more after that. Or, at least, Chuuya doesn’t; Dazai, who can’t sit still for more than two minutes at a time, starts humming the lyrics of something that sounds suspiciously like the Shimabara lullaby under his breath.
Within Chuuya, something surrenders.
He’s asleep before Dazai’s finished singing.