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Dazai blinked his eyes but they never adjusted to the unyielding darkness. The drip of the water could be heard as it puddled to the cold stone floor he found himself pushed against.
The chains on his wrist kept him secured so that all he could do was wiggle. They’d be child’s play to remove—restraints rarely could hold him after all—but it wasn’t worth the trouble to unbind himself.
He had to look compliant for his captors after all. He wondered how many days he’d been down here, without the aid of the sky it was hard to say. He had a decent internal clock but after the hours continued to pass it got blurry. At least a week. Soon he’d break his record with Mori, who’d never deemed it worthy to keep him underground for longer than two.
Chuuya was off in France again which made him sigh. Dazai hated doing these kinds of missions without Soukoku. Had agreed despite Atsushi’s complaints. They couldn’t handle another organization pushing in like the rats again. They needed to root out the source and Fukuzawa had agreed.
Still, he wished he wasn’t doing this op from the Mafia side, especially with Chuuya absent. Mori would push and push and push until there was nothing left to give and as days dragged on in captivity the number of people he’d have to kill grew.
More than anything he hated being discovered.
He turned over in the little room the shackles allowed and breathed. The sound of footsteps echoed and he checked his chest, the binding still tight. Usually, torturers didn’t remove the bandages, content to work with them. The basic things that came in the first few days like removing fingernails or waterboarding didn’t require it anyway.
Dazai knew that his dry responses and indifference had begun to make them think of more creative means. So this time he’d scream a little, satiate their appetites so that they might not look deeper.
He was right as his jailer came to the door, swinging it open.
“Up you bag of bones,” he commanded, manhandling him by jerking up roughly on his arms.
“Ouchie, that’ll bruise you brute,” he complained and tasted blood as the man’s thick hand cracked against his cheek. He felt the bite of a ring he wore, they all wore, proof of their organization. How tacky. He let the dribble of blood flow from his mouth for theatrics, the man frowning.
“Keep talking, we’ve got a fun day planned for you,” he said. He looked at his food in the corner. The bread and water they’d given him each day still untouched. These men doubted him—Dazai could go the full two weeks without food. He’d be weakened sure, but he could do it.
The water was another thing—it was drugged, something that tasted like mint on his tongue. It was familiar, in the way most drugs were from Mori’s teachings, but he only allowed himself sips. Sips that quenched his throat just enough to keep his voice even instead of devolving into a cracking, broken thing. Before it was too dry to keep its cadence in the range he preferred instead of that light voice he’d abandoned long ago.
“Dumb fuck. You’ll be wishing you’d eaten something,” the guard grimaced. This one was easy because he felt bad. What a ridiculous notion for a kidnapper. The ribs that had begun to poke out and the blood which had grown crusted all over him were hard to look at. He’d made it hard to look at. He might have been a guard but he was human, like Chuuya, and hid it through roughness. Dazai’d never felt so inclined when he was on the other side of the bench.
He came to that familiar chair and grinned at the slim woman who sat there admiring her tools. He knew she was trying to figure out how to break him, and that dark hair reminded him of Yosano.
“Happy Tuesday,” Dazai grinned and she scowled.
“I’m not falling for that,” she responded, but he just laughed.
“Oh you don’t have to sensei, that’s enough. So, it’s really been nine days in your lovely home. Pardon me but I do wish you’d be a bit more hospitable,” he said. She turned on him, with the knife in her hands, and traced it against his cheek. He could feel the well of blood as the cold steel bit in.
“I think I’ve been hospitable enough. You have all your fingers and toes, after all,” she said. Dazai laughed.
“You wouldn’t take them unless they could get you somewhere,” he sang. “There are better ways to get information.” She scoffed.
“From the demon prodigy? Hardly—I’m beginning to think you don’t have anything to crack at all.” She responded.
“I’m hurt, sensei. Of course, I’m only human,” he grinned and she grimaced. He knew she hated that her ability didn’t work on him. It’d made her have to get more creative. She tinkered with something on the table and Dazai didn’t give her the satisfaction of looking.
“I’ve been thinking about that, actually. Of what might actually bother you.” She picked up a pair of headphones and Dazai felt nervousness bud in his stomach. “We’ve tried a lot, but I feel like someone like you might crack from a different approach.” Her grin was smug as if she could sense how close she’d grown to the truth.
The headphones settled over his head and he saw her walk to his back, pulling the blindfold over his eyes. He couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t see. His heartbeat sped up—these were always the worst kinds of torture. Dazai hated sensory deprivation. It left him alone with No Longer Human inside his bones, but more importantly, it made information gathering harder.
He felt someone drag him by the chains and his feet stumbled beneath him. Then he was weightless, the sensation of falling surrounding him, as he fell. It felt like an impossible distance and he grit his teeth.
Then, all that remained was the ice sounding him, he must have been plunged into the water. The metal on his wrists bit in, freezing, and the headphones stayed on despite all the movement. He wondered how they’d tied them, so they didn’t budge an inch.
With his hands and feet tied, he felt a strong tug. With a small, distant panic, Dazai realized that something was weighing him down, pulling his face below the surface. He kicked miserably against it, but it was too heavy and he only knew darkness. Was he being pulled up or down? Was he in freezing water or was it boiling hot? His sensations betrayed him as the overload became too much.
There were only so many places in Yokohama that could house a facility like this, they hadn’t walked far after all. He narrowed the possibilities even while his mouth filled with water and his ankle was dragged down by the impossible weight. He didn’t stop thinking even when the shocks started.
He’d planned on screaming today—no matter what they tried—but they’d made it easy. As the screams tore from his lungs it almost felt real.
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Chuuya felt antsy. Dazai’d been undercover for nine-fucking-days. Trust that damned agency and Mori to let him stay in that long. He knew, really he did, that it was vital they eliminate the coming threat before something insurmountable like Dostoevsky could repeat itself. They’d managed to survive, but only barely.
He ran his hands through his hair, exhausted from the jet lag. Trust he can’t fly to France for one fucking week without shit going sideways.
“I’m getting him out tonight,” he said to the room and the weretigers eyes flooded with relief.
“Dazai might not have had time to properly gather all the intel,” Mori started, but Fukuzawa put out a hand.
“Nakahara-san is right. It’s not worth continuing at this point, whether more intel can be gleaned or not,” His voice was calm and Chuuya, not for the first time, could see why Dazai decided to follow him. The next hours were a blur of preparation and he worked with the detective boy to plan the escape. He still hadn’t forgiven him for that book of murderers he’d been thrust into.
“Can you handle it?” Ranpo’d asked him. His shadow was in the background playing with the damnable raccoon. Even Chuuya had to admit he liked Karl, not that he’d tell anyone that.
“Please, this isn’t my first torture rescue,” Chuuya spat and Ranpo’s eyes had grown sharp.
“It’s your first one since he left though. Since you became the travesty of star-crossed whatever this is.” Ranpo said sucking on his lollipop.
“I don’t wanna hear shit about star-crossed lovers from thing one and thing two,” Chuuya grumbled.
“Hey, I resent that,” Poe called and he rolled his eyes. It had been his damn book in the first place, hadn’t it?
“Now, now boys,” Yosano walked in, those gloves tight and her eyes weary. Chuuya liked her, she reminded him of Kouyou. “Frivolities aside, I’m worried about Dazai’s state so I’ll be there.” Ranpo didn’t say anything in response which made Chuuya’s hair stand on end. Did they have reason to believe he’d be in a bad place?
He turned the question over in his mind. Dazai didn’t feel pain, not like normal people at least, and he’d been tortured by the best—had been the best. Everyone cracked under Dazai.
“Come on, this isn’t Dazai’s first time being bait,” Chuuya said to the room, but they all stayed quiet. Fuck them for making him feel like the slowest person there. He was damned smart, even outmaneuvering Dazai at times.
“You don’t let all that light in without it rubbing off,” Yosano said as if she knew. Hell, if what he knew about her was accurate, maybe she was in the best position to understand Dazai.
Maybe out of childishness or misguided hope, Chuuya’d disregarded their fears. It wasn’t until he heard those screams, so full of terror and clawing their way out of his throat as he suffocated around something that his mind became nothing more than a buzz intent on destruction.
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Dazai loved to put on a show.
So he screamed. And screamed. And screamed. And it wasn’t until his bandages were so wet and their bindings started to slip that real worry tainted him. It wasn’t until he not only couldn’t hear and couldn’t see, but felt the currents of electricity shocking him through the ice that he began to worry. When his clothes were ripped away and he was put into new rags, he knew they’d seen.
The drugged water was forced down his throat and the bindings were changed, leaving him full of quiet rage. But it wasn’t the worst of it, no, more than anything, being inside with No Longer Human was the thing eroding away at him.
He swore they’d die painful deaths.
In the quiet, there were always hands and the buzz of the void. He knew who touched him by the feel of their ability, unique in their own ways, quieted by contact with his skin. Dazai knew she was still there by the buzz of her electricity being discharged. She couldn’t shock him directly, but she could shock the water. How trite.
In response, Dazai’d grown quiet—tired of screaming. For some reason the woman didn’t seem to want information anymore, no, she only wanted to break him.
A fool's errand.
He knew, by the count of his heartbeats, that days passed in the time between the tank and the tight space that felt nothing like the cell he’d been in before.
Then, when they started to inject him with drugs, he started screaming again. If only so they’d think they were working. He documented them, their taste, because even with his senses robbed there were only so many suppliers outside the mafia who’d provide these to rival groups. Even now, he was narrowing down the suspects, the supply lines.
He truly was an evil thing.
It was a day like that, with him screaming, hoping they’d grow tired of it as raw as his throat was. He let a little bit of the panic he felt slip into the screams so that they’d seem real. The best acts were laden with reality after all. Then, not on schedule, the shock disappeared. The weight attached to his ankle disappeared. He surged upward until he could drag in a breath and then the water receded, leaving him shaking and cold. Even in his delirious state he only knew one person showy enough to part the tide like an incoming savior. Without the buoyancy of the water his knees buckled, but that familiar scent encompassed him as warm hands held up upright. Within seconds, the headphones and blindfold were ripped from his face.
He hadn’t seen light in days and it flooded his senses. His ears were ringing as he sucked in breaths. Rough, calloused hands pushed against his cheeks and he felt distantly that they were familiar. If he could see, he was sure that face would be familiar too.
He knew, knew that trusting someone was a bad idea, but Dazai just let his eyes flutter closed and his body retreat to the darkness that a minute prior would have sealed his death.
He knew he could trust those hands.
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“Dazai, Dazai!” Chuuya was yelling in the tank. He looked like shit—absolute shit. They’d had an anchor tied to his leg, weighing him down and where the shake was the skin had all but been rubbed off.
Chuuya knew what a sensory deprivation tank was, but it still made his stomach spin. Thank god he’d fought Mori on this—Dazai wasn’t useful to anyone without his senses.
He jerked off those headphones and the blindfold, secured extraordinarily well, and saw the dazed look as Dazai blinked at him, looking past him. Chuuya shook him, he smelt a little burnt and it chafed against his nose. He pushed his thumb into his cheek, trying to get those amber eyes to focus on something.
Then, instead of smiling or cracking a joke like he normally would, Dazai’s weight just grew heavy. Even without the aid of his ability, it was an easy thing to support his body weight. Dazai had lost weight in captivity— weight he couldn't afford to lose. It was a simple matter to keep him afloat once the water returned as No Longer Human nullified him. Chuuya hated that it was always active, even though it felt like a cool tide whenever he brushed against Dazai, because of inconveniences like this. These clothes were designer, dammit.
Chuuya couldn’t believe Dazai just...passed out? Had he passed out? Surely not? Maybe he was just tired because Dazai never passed out. Never. He pulled him close, dragging him to the edge where Yosano waited. She looked over his body and when she moved to unwrap the already loose bindings, Chuuya shot out a hand.
“No.” He said and her eyes narrowed.
“I hope you aren’t stupid enough,” She started but he just shot his hand to her neck. She looked down at him still, proud as ever, even as he was choking her.
“Don’t touch the fucking bandages.” She just scoffed looking at the few mafia and detective agency people milling around. They were partially hidden, everyone stuttering around to rescue the cages of captives they’d found and tie up loose ends. Trust Dazai to pass out before telling them what they needed to know.
“Everyone out!” She yelled and as she pushed Chuuya’s hand off her throat. He let her, the anger fading from him. She wasn’t who he was mad at anyways. Glasses-chan looked like he wanted to say something, but he turned and started ushering everyone into the hallways, including the weretiger who’d been fretting, stealing glances at them huddled by the tank’s edge.
“Can I treat my patient now?” She asked as soon as the room cleared. He kept his gaze steady and she rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to worry, I know.”
Chuuya tried to school his shock into indifference.
“Ranpo and the President know too, although Dazai never really had a heart-to-heart. But we have to get these bindings off—they’re crushing his broken ribs.” She said, and Chuuya thought about that for a minute.
“Is it that bad, the bandages?” He asked. She just scoffed.
“I’ve tried to wrestle him into a binder several times, but yes, the way he does it is...” she bit her lip and didn’t continue. Chuuya just grimaced. Suicide wasn’t the least of his worries when it came to the beanpole.
“Is there anything I can?” He asked, getting into the grove as she began to put stitches in. He felt like a nurse aid, as ridiculous as the idea was. As if these hands could heal.
“No,” She sighed. “There are surgeries but-“
“Dazai won’t do that, not with drugs, not after Mori,” he said and she nodded.
“Not that I blame him. Dammit, they really did a number on him,” she said, tying off the worst of the gashes.
“Nnnn,” Dazai moaned as he started to come around his fingers fluttering. Chuuya swept his hair back from his forehead, letting out a low shush. It was embarrassing, to be this way with Dazai in front of Yosano. But fuck it. He was tired of hiding. Besides, Dazai hated anything remotely resembling gentleness, he took it the wrong way, especially from Chuuya. He took it as some assurance that he’d been weak. And that weakness was intolerable. Dazai despised it in himself and trained it out of his subordinates.
Akutagawa and Chuuya could attest to his methods. Although, Chuuya supposed, they were still around unlike others who’d had kinder mentors. He wasn’t sure which was worse—being abused by Dazai or being alive because of Dazai’s abuse. Some day he’d ask Akutagawa about it.
“Chuuya,” the whining voice came out and it sounded different, not overly exaggerated like it usually was.
“I’m right here, mackerel,” Chuuya said, his fingers feeling the cold, clammy skin.
“It’s Division Five, near the ports and a small militia group. They’re stealing from the warehouses, some inside men. Should be more captives there—no outside forces, but the rings are from a sponsor. Tell Mori to check the junior executives for diamond importation,” he slurred and Yosano reached for the morphine before Dazai stopped her.
“No more drugs,” his voice was hard, as hard as it could be with how out of it he was.
“Okay, Dazai. But you’re on bed rest for a week. It's’ beyond me how you figured all that out stuck in a sensory tank,” she laughed, half in disbelief and half in awe. Chuuya wondered if he'd ever stop underestimating Dazai or thinking there was something he couldn't do. The idiot always proved him wrong in the end.
“S’not so hard,” he mumbled, his head lolling. “I know this drug,” he sighed. Chuuya looked at Yosano his eyes hard. Dazai hated drugs, but he’d been addicted at a time. Chuuya was always scared they’d send him into a spiral and to the closest tallest building. It would be a rough week.
She motioned that she was done and he pulled Dazai up and began rewrapping his bindings. This would have to be a conversation at some point, but not tonight. He left them a little looser than how he knew Dazai preferred and he noticed the small flinch. Too bad, he wasn't going to aggravate the reset bones. Chuuya picked him up, cradling him close. He’d bring him home and feed him lots of crab and cuddles and blankets. Dazai’d never admit it, but he liked fluffy things. Maybe that's why he'd stolen that god-awful hat from Dostoevsky. Chuuya'd seen it laying around his room and it raised more than a couple of red flags.
Dazai didn't melt into him like he would've done if they were alone. Instead, he kept his distance, as if the touch burned. Chuuya just rolled his eyes. No one was going to think he was weak from being cuddled after being tortured for the better part of two weeks. That drive to not be seen as weak took over though--the self-preservation. Which is why his first words were intel and not cries. It was why Chuuya had to look extra hard for those twitches of a finger that were barely noticeable or for the intensity to disappear from his eyes for a second to know when something was amiss.
But it was alright, he enjoyed it. Taking care of Dazai. being with a Dazai who allowed himself, even if it was in very limited ways, to be taken care of.
It was why when he laid Dazai in their bed, who just looked up at him but didn’t say anything he understood.
Stay.
So he crawled under the covers and pulled him close. He breathed in the scent of Dazai, all bandages and cold steel like a hospital, and wondered if he could breathe it in so deeply that it would meld inside him. Even if he couldn't, he supposed it'd be alright. He had the real thing after all.