Chapter Text
0501—Personal Space
Atsushi, Dazai thought, was stickler for personal space. Most likely it was something he’d picked up from his days in the orphanage, but the boy never initiated physical contact first. It was always Dazai, or sometimes Kunikida, and even Kyouka, who touched the boy first.
And he would startle, just slightly, as if unused to gentle touches. It was something Dazai understood intimately, though his lack of reaction stemmed more from not caring than to having become used to it, as he was sure Atsushi would soon. Dazai had understood from long before his days in the Port Mafia began that his body was simply subject to others as they willed, and only him becoming stronger, being stronger, would give him the sense of agency that he so desired.
He was amazingly perceptive about others, but when it concerned himself Atsushi tended to be a little dull. When Kyouka began to hold his hand, he only smiled tenderly, never noticing the action for what it meant. When Kunikida patted his head and then stormed off scowling, it was only to get Atsushi used to touch that he did it. And when Dazai leaned on him, using his convenient height as an arm rest in any and all occasions, the boy only startled and then scowled, bemoaning Dazai’s taller height but never moving away.
It wasn’t hard to guess what had gone on at the orphanage, and though Dazai acted like he had no tact he knew to keep certain secrets to himself. After all, he’d been the one to change Atsushi into the yukata and lay him down to bed that first night.
When he’d pulled the dirty smock off the boy he’d recoiled from the sight. Marring pale skin was a myriad of terrible, ugly, scars, puckering skin and raised welts that had never gone away. Some were old – so old that Dazai knew they’d been there for years. There were even some crossing over each other, like the abuser had run out of space to mark the skin and had decided to create patterns.
With a finger he’d traced some of the marks – from experience he knew which were burns and which were whip lashes, but there were some curious ones. On his back was a curious mark. It was small, circular, and a soft pale pink. With some maneuvering he let Atsushi rest against his chest so he could inspect the mark better. His legs were growing numb from having sat on them for so long, but he paid them no heed.
He rubbed the mark softly, stilling when Atsushi shifted at the touch before settling again. The skin felt normal, and aside from a barely noticeable swell of the skin, the only indication that something was wrong was the discoloration. He stared at the mark for a bit, trying to figure out what had caused it.
Reflecting on his own past, he cycled through the myriad of tools one could possibly use to create such a small, almost perfectly round, mark. When that failed, he thought back to the orphanage he’d come from.
When it came to him he sucked in a breath so harsh it startled Atsushi, whose breathing grew lighter before returning to the normal deep inhales of someone asleep.
It’d been a fire iron. They’d heated the tip and pressed it into his skin. He must’ve been very young for the scar to have stretched that much from growing, and to have faded that much.
He finished wrapping the yukata around Atsushi and laid him down on the futon. There was something heavy and dark resting in his gut, and when he sat back on his haunches to survey his work he realized with some surprise that it was guilt.
Surely Atsushi didn’t want anyone to know the extent of his abuse. Dazai himself went through great lengths to hide his childhood and his early teen years, fabricating and eventually becoming the bright persona he had today. With a sigh, he pressed his hands into his knees and forced himself up on pins and needles, briefly shaking his feet out until sensation properly returned.
Atsushi preserved everyone else’s personal space because he knew what it was like to have none, and Dazai was determined to prove to him that not all unexpected touches were meant to harm.