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It’s Aya’s loud cry that snaps him out of his red-tinged rage.
She’s always been a quiet, stoic child, preferring to use her Ability as her main means of communication, so when her high, ringing wail splits the air - Chuuya instinctively knows that it’s Aya, his Aya in pain, hurt, scared - and he deactivates his ability and rushes over to her, panic written all over his face, and for the moment, he doesn’t care at how his vulnerability is on full display for this kid from the Port Mafia to see and take advantage of.
He was the one who’d found her on the streets as a tiny and helpless six year old, looking at him with those honest, trusting eyes of hers, as though trusting that he would help her.
And he had.
He’d convinced the Sheep to take her in, had found her clean clothes and taught her how to throw a punch.
And in return, she’d freely given him her love, seeing him as more than just the hard-hitter of the Sheep. Aya clung to his side, calling him big brother and seeking out his affection, slipping into his bed at night and demanding a bedtime story.
“Aya,” Chuuya says, running his hands over her hair, her face, trying to find the source of her distress. A gunshot wound, maybe? It’s not him she’s scared of, where others had looked at him in fear, she’d always looked at him with eyes round in wonder, as though he’d hung the stars in the sky for her. “Where does it hurt? What’s wrong? Were you scared? It’s over now, no one’s going to hurt you.”
Shaking her head in response to his rapid-fire questions, Aya points a trembling finger just over his shoulder - Chuuya turns and sees - Oh. Her beloved sheep stuffed animal, affectionately nicknamed Mr Sheep, lying face-down on the ground, riddled with bullet-holes and soaked with blood, barely recognisable to its owner.
Aya’s bottom lip trembles. Chuuya recognises the signs of an incoming onslaught of tears. It’s probably best to stop her before the waterworks begin in earnest.
Chuuya bends, wipes away the beginnings of tears with the pad of his thumb, cupping her cheeks and forcing the little girl to look up at him. “Aya, I’ll get you a new one. I promise.”
The old one had been stolen, but Aya doesn’t need to know that.
“Which one do you want?”
The question takes Aya by surprise; seated upon a stool next to Chuuya, Aya amuses herself by swinging her short legs about, knocking her heels in their brightly polished Mary Janes against the rungs of the chair. The flashing screens and Chuuya’s animated expressions had held her attention for a while. Now, Aya stares down at her empty arms, remembering how Mr Sheep had met an untimely end.
She tilts her head, a silent question written all over her face.
The bandaged man gestures at the claw machines, and repeats his question. “Which one do you want? Get Chibi over there to win you one.”
Chuuya levels a nasty glare his way, but smiles at how Aya, predictably, lights up. Aya takes hold of Chuuya’s hand and practically drags him over to the machines, pointing out a yellow bunny holding a sheep in between its front paws. Her excitement is palpable as she jumps up and down on the balls of her heels, pointing over and over again at the toy that she’s set her sights on.
“Just wait, Aya! I’ll win you that toy for sure!”
Chuuya’s declaration does nothing to aid him. After spending an obscene amount of spare change on his unsuccessful attempts, and being forced to watch how Aya’s face changes from excited expectation to a slow resignation, all the while resisting the urge to slam a fist through the glass, it’s Dazai who steps in and takes matters into his own hands. In disbelief, Chuuya watches how Dazai accomplishes the task in a minute, completely disregarding how he’d struggled to maneuver the machine for half an hour.
The suspicious look in Chuuya’s eyes softens ever so slightly as he watches how Dazai carefully hands the stuffed animal over to Aya, who gasps and smiles and blooms , clutching tightly onto her prize.
“Thank you!” Aya says, high and clear like the chime of a bell.
Chuuya stares.
Never before had he assumed that she could talk; he’d always assumed that she’d been unable to.
Cheerfully, she takes hold of his hand, apparently unconcerned that she’d seen him pump a gun full of bullets into a dead body just moments prior to their coming to the arcade. Although Dazai stares down at their joined hands, perplexed and maybe even disgusted, he lets her hand remain in his.
“Aya -” Chuuya starts, shaking his head in a quick motion. “It’s - He’s from the Port Mafia, don’t -”
“It’s alright,” Aya says, serene. “He won’t hurt me.”
Exasperated, Chuuya asks, “How do you know that?”
“Because we’re family now. I saw it.”