This was originally going to be a one-shot, but I think I'll do it in three parts instead. I have the whole story mapped out- it just needs some meat on its bones.
This was born from my writer's block. I've been struggling for weeks with several of my ongoing fictions, and I just needed to get away from them a little, and do something else to get my spirit back up!
Oh, and it's also a small nod sent to Soukoku week!
Ragged breathing and the sickening smacks from leather hitting flesh was all that could be heard in the cold cellar.
How long had he been there? A week? Two? Dazai really didn't know. There were no windows down there, so he didn't have any sense of night and day. No concept of time what so ever.
But, the masked men that came and went into his small cell, had been there 37 times. He usually had about three or four hours of rest between sessions, which would make it about 10 to 14 days.
Or, something like that. His head wasn't working properly right now. It only hurt. A slow, deep pain, pounding all the way from his neck and shoulders to the top of his skull.
There had been several extended periods of time where the lights had faded out completely, and he had fallen unconscious- which, just made the whole 'trying to keep track of time' project impossible.
His shoulders ached so much too. He'd been shifted around a couple of times, depending on what kind of torture these fuckers wanted to inflict on him next. Some days, he would be cuffed to the wall instead. Other days, it was the chair. The most painful one he could recall, was when they strapped him to the table. He almost broke that day.
But right now (luckily, considering the options?), he was once again handcuffed to the chains hanging from the ceiling.
His legs had already given out. If he could stand, some of the pressure from his sore shoulder joints would have been released, but the contact between his brain and the rest of his body had been severed long ago.
A swishing-noise rang through the air. Another merciless blow from the heavy whip almost made him cry out in pain when the spike on the tip caught on something (his rib fuck it hurts hurts so much stay awake gotta stay... awake) and was forcefully ripped out again.
Warm liquid streamed from the open wound on his back, almost welcoming in contrast to his freezing body. He was left shaking in the aftershock of the blow, clenching his teeth while his vision blurred and got clouded with black spots.
Absolutely helpless. What is taking Mori so long?
Somebody said something inaudible behind him. One of his captors was probably asking him another stupid question that he wasn't planning on answering.
A smirk spread on his battered face, scarred, cracked lips stinging from the sensation when he made a faint connection between the muffled sound of the voice and a children's cartoon he had seen Elise watch once.
Something about a dog and a yellow bird, and small potato-nosed kids.
Another sound. It was unfamiliar down here, while still... kind of recognizable.
He realized he was laughing. Hoarse, rough chuckles tore painfully through his body, turning into harsh coughs, making his stomach spasm.
And then there was that ridiculous voice again. He sounded irritated this time, which only made Dazai laugh harder. Even if he knew he shouldn't, and wanted to stop (shut the hell up you stupid idiot- what the hell are you doing?!). He just couldn't.
This was it. He had finally lost his mind.
At that moment, time seemed to stop (which only made him chortle even harder because time didn't go by at all down here anyway), and a shadow engulfed by a red radiance burst through the wooden door, pieces scattered all over before stopping mid-air.
The glowing apparition pushed into Dazai's torturer with intense speed and force, leaving the large man with the back of his head splattered across the stone wall. The wooden chips from the door finally shot towards the gaping opening where the door once stood, penetrating the body of the lone guard left outside, making him thump limply to the ground.
Chuuya deactivated his ability and shot a quick glance towards the hole, making sure that there wasn't anyone else behind them. He had his hands in his pockets- his own subtle way of showing superiority. I can crush you without getting dirt under my fingernails.
He scowled towards his partner, surprised and confused by the hoarse, manic laughter coming from the seemingly half-beaten-to-death man. Chuuya stepped around the trembling form dangling from the ceiling to asses the situation.
«Hey, Mackerell,» he tried hesitantly, peering up at the taller man.
Dazai's face was distorted into a strange grimace while his head lolled from side to side. The laughter had faded as his voice finally gave out, leaving him to wheeze staccato hiccups of manic (or terrified) giggles.
«Dazai?» he asked more pressingly, waving his hand in front of his face. No contact.
«Hey, come on. Snap out of it,» he tried again, snapping his fingers to try and get his attention, still not getting any response what so ever.
This was getting frustrating. In one last attempt, he stretched his arm out to touch Dazai, hoping that bodily contact would get him out of this strange mania. The gloved hand hadn't more than grazed Dazai's bloody shirt when Dazai flinched violently, crying out with a breathless gasp- desperately trying to move his body away from the small mafioso.
«Calm down,» Chuuya sneered, winching at how Dazai's shoulders were being forced into an unnatural position.
Wide-eyed, Dazai stared back at him, panting breathlessly like a cornered, injured animal before recognition seemed to sink in.
«S-Slug?» he whispered, disbelieving. He's finally here. Chuuya is here. They came back for me. It's finally over.
Chuuya rolled his eyes, exaggerating the movement while biting his lower lip unhappily.
«Yeah,» he growled and looked away. «The others went back outside after clearing the building... This place stinks,» he added as an afterthought. The group of highly skilled hitmen they were after was disguised as a fish factory. Apparently the smell of fish was a good way to overpower that of rotting bodies.
Chuuya intentionally neglected to mention anything about his fury when their boss had complained about the odor when first entering the building. Because, when he sent Dazai on this mission, he assured him that it was only supposed to take a couple of days.
Dazai had been a prisoner there for sixteen days now.
Sixteen days as an "undercover hostage" (a plan only Mori could concoct), to gather information on this group. Dazai had let himself get caught under a false attack, pretending to be from the rivaling group that had hired them to do this piece of shit job.
What an absolute fucking mess. Chuuya hoped that Dazai at least had gathered enough information for their clients to be satisfied. Knowing him, he probably had enough infomation during the first couple of hours.
«Let's get going. This place gives me the creeps,» Chuuya said impatiently, internally taking a quick assessment of Dazai's most prominent injuries. It was hard to tell. It looked like he had bathed in blood.
His hair was crusty, probably from a head wound. One or both of his shoulders had probably been dislocated. A couple of broken ribs were likely from the strain in his breath and speech, and Chuuya didn't even want to think about how many stitches he would need. And that was only on the surface.
«Do you need any help?» he asked, dumbly. Dazai shot him a dead-panned look.
«What does it look like, Chucky?» he croaked, his voice drained from all power.
«Hey, fuck you toilet roll!» Chuuya snapped back and clenched his fists tightly. «I risked my life to get you outta here!»
«Took you long enough!»
Chuuya seethed. If it was because of Dazai's ungratefulness, or if it was his own guilt, he didn't know, wouldn't care. Finally, he crossed his arms defiantly and pointed his nose to the sky.
«Fine, be like that, asshole. You can get out of those shackles yourself and take a cab home.» He turned his back on the Mafia executive and started to walk with determined steps out of the room.
Goddamn bandage-wasting device...
«Chu... Pls...»
Chuuya stopped, holding his breath and listened carefully. He wasn't sure if he had actually heard what he thought he had.
«Please,» Dazai repeated in a weak voice as fragile as porcelain, begging him. He stopped abruptly and looked in surprise back inside the room.
Dazai still hung from the roof, wrists torn from the tight grip the sharp metal had around those painfully skinny arms. His hands were paler than usual, almost tinted blue from the lack of blood circulation.
Chuuya had to do a double-take. On his right hand, Dazai was missing two fingers.
Those bastards had cut off his fucking fingers.
Dazai was saying something, but it was too quiet for him to hear. Chuuya carefully stepped closer.
«You have to speak up, I can't hear you.»
«I- I said please, don't leave me.»
The short red-head stood, frozen in shock. Was Dazai begging?
«Please, please don't leave...» Dazai said again, pleadingly.
«I- I'm not,» Chuuya answered slowly.
«Stay.» Dazai's voice was so heartbreakingly small.
'What have they done to you?'
«I'm not going anywhere without you.» Chuuya swallowed tightly. This was worse than he thought. Maybe he should get Mori before he moved him, but then...
Then he would have to leave.