Work Text:
"Watch out.. it's the Demon Protégé..." A whisper in the hallway.
"Yes, Ma'am." A reply from a subordinate.
"She is so talented. It makes sense that she's Mori's understudy." A compliment from a fellow executive.
She, she, she.
Dazai doesn't know why it bothers her so much. Why it weighs on her shoulders heavier than the endless tasks she has to do. Why it stings more than the razors she presses to her wrists. Why it gets under her skin like nothing else does.
'Maybe there's just something wrong with me.' Dazai decides. 'It wouldn't be anything new.' And that's as far as it goes. Just another issue, another fault in Dazai's brain. It's a concern that gets shoved in the corner of her mind, and locked in a metaphorical box just for good measure, not to be thought about... even when the term 'girl' makes her skin crawl.
And, at first, that's fine. It's manageable as much as everything else is. Sure, it hurts something deep in her soul, but it's ignorable... at first.
But the feeling continues to intensify.
Dazai never appreciated her reflection. Her skin under the bandages... wasn't exactly pretty, although she didn't really have an opinion of her appearance beyond that. But now the mirror is unbearable. Her face is too round, her hair is too long, her figure is too curved. Dazai covers the mirror with a blanket soon after this revelation.
Skirts, too, weren't much of an issue before either. Dazai generally wore them the most. They were simple enough, and what she was expected to wear. She didn't even dislike them - still doesn't. However, when all her skirts were covered in various victims' blood, she was forced to wear trousers for once.
And Dazai likes them. A lot.
Trousers are comfortable, they're easy to move in, they cover up her scarred legs. Trousers... reassure something inside her. Dazai doesn't know what, and she chooses not to focus on it - preferring to sweep it under the hypothetical rug. Dazai does begin to wear trousers more, and no-one says anything.
She even starts to dissociate from the term 'girl'. If someone refers to her as a woman, she switches off. It doesn't feel right to be called that. Although, despite Dazai's best efforts... She can't stop hearing it. 'She' and 'her' and 'Miss' and 'ma'am' drag Dazai's attention more than her own name does, and stabs a deep, uncategorisable emotion buried in her heart.
This vague, nameless, confusing discomfort lingers in her bones for a long time. Most days are bad, some days are okay, and other days are downright insufferable.
When Dazai wakes up in the morning, it's one of those days.
There's an unsettling, heavy feeling in her chest. Dazai doesn't recognise it as something physical, in the sense that it's not a medical sensation. It's not the sliminess of a cold, or the contractions of breathing issues, it's just the dead weight of depression.
Dazai looks down her t-shirt - just to check - but dear God it was a bad idea. The sight causes her to freeze, to stare, to flinch. She lets the shirt fall back against her. It shouldn't be anything unusual - it isn't - it's just Dazai's normal body, normal curves. But it's unnerving and uncomfortable and wrong and scary.
Dazai doesn't know what's going on, what she's feeling. But she does know how to 'fix' it... It's in her nature at this point.
Two hours later, and she's bleeding out of her chest on her bathroom floor. Dazai's lying on her back against the cold linoleum, staring up at the all-too fluorescent white lighting. Her brain is pleasantly fuzzy, the pain from her new cuts overriding the emotional dread from earlier. Old bandages and razors are scattered around the room, but that's a job for another day, or if Chuuya interrupts and finds her here.
Her phone burrs.
'...Speak of the devil.'
Dazai reluctantly picks up her phone. Luckily, it wasn't too far - it had fallen off the counter earlier in her rashness. The screen has a fresh crack.
"Bastard! Where the hell are you?!" Chuuya growls over the call.
Dazai lifts her voice into something more cheerful - even though the sound grates on her ears. "Chibii, where's my 'Hi, good morning'? You're so rude~"
"You were supposed to be here an hour ago! You missed the mission brief!"
"Just be a good doggie and report it back to me."
"You asshole. I'm coming over so that you actually listen to me."
So Chuuya is going to interrupt her, then. "'Door's unlocked." The line cuts out. Dazai won't bother fighting against it. Chuuya won't wait for Dazai to arrive at HQ, he probably knows something's up. Or he's just pissed that Dazai skipped the boring briefing. That's more likely.
Dazai doesn't move from the floor - content to just stay there and stare at the ceiling. Her chest has stopped bleeding, maybe she can do some more before Chuuya arrives...
Half an hour later, the unmistakable sound of Chuuya entering the apartment hits her ears.
"Oi, Mackerel, where are you?" Chuuya calls from the entryway, and when he doesn't hear an answer, he starts looking.
It's almost amusing to hear Chuuya's footsteps pacing around his apartment, from the hallway, to the kitchen, to the main room, to the bedroom. It's like a little game of hide and seek. Unfortunately the game ends when Chuuya opens the bathroom door. She's been found.
"Dazai-? Shit what did you do-" Chuuya immediately crouches down, surveying the situation. Dazai's t-shirt is bunched up and bloody. Her hair is splayed messily around her. There's a few razors on the floor, and one in her hand. "Dazai, talk to me."
"I'm alrightt, Chuuya." There's an empty humour to her words. Neither of them believe her. She shuffles shakily until she's leaning against the bath.
Chuuya holds his hand out in a silent request, and Dazai gives him the razor, which gets put on the counter safely out of reach. Then, Chuuya takes the First-Aid kit out of the cabinet and unpacks it. "Let me see."
That unfamiliar dread returns. Dazai clutches at her shirt, paralyzed.
"I'm not going to be weird about it, just let me patch you up, okay?" Chuuya's voice is still as hard as it usually is, but he puts effort into making it not sound aggressive. "You're going to get an infection like this."
Dazai drops her hand to her side and looks off into the corner of the room. She hears Chuuya sigh quietly, and feels his hot, calloused hands on her skin. Dazai's shirt gets lifted up, pulled over her arms and head, and taken off.
Dazai trusts Chuuya. She knows he won't do anything to violate her... but something about this is so overwhelmingly uncomfortable. Chuuya has treated her cuts before, and while that was always uncomfortable, it didn't feels so- so- wrong.
'Is it my chest? Is that what's wrong? I never cared about Chuuya seeing before- What's so wrong? What so wrong with me? Why does it all feel so wrong?!'
A cold, stinging pain pricks her chest, and she finches. Dazai looks down. It's only an antiseptic wipe dragging over the cuts to cleanse them.
"Just try to relax, what's got you so worked up?" Chuuya asks. He makes a point of not looking at Dazai's face - he wants to keep some emotional distance between them, so Dazai can feel less pressure to answer if she wants to. He's delicate and avoidant with his touches, strictly focusing on the cuts and nothing else, to offer as much respect as he can.
The cuts are brutal. They cover her entire chest up to the collarbone. It stings like hell. They're ragged and unevenly placed, as if Dazai was frantic in causing herself harm. Chuuya notices some are already dry as if they had been done earlier, and the supposedly fresher ones are a lot more controlled and deeper. Somehow, like the cockroach she is, Dazai won't die from injuries like these, but they still need to be handled.
Chuuya starts preparing the gauze and bandages.
"It's just... I... I hate... I just don't like..." Dazai trails off. Her voice sounds so pathetic and gross and small. It's not hard and powerful like Chuuya's. Not deep like Chuuya's.
Chuuya pauses and leans back. "Do you need me to stop touching you?" He asks cautiously.
Dazai shakes her head. "N..no. You can keep going..." She needs to be treated, after all. A death by infection would not be a fun one.
Chuuya gets back to work, applying the gauze carefully. "Then, what do you hate?" He tries to prompt Dazai gently, while keeping his normal tone of voice to create some kind of normalcy.
Biting her lip, Dazai hesitates. 'How am I supposed to explain when I don't even know what's going on...?'
"Start slow and small if it's too much." Dazai should feel so goddamn lucky that Chuuya understands her so well, that she doesn't even need to say anything much. It's a little scary, however.
Where should she even start? There's so much that she's started to hate about her body over these past few months. There's so much.
'....Slow... And small....'
"I... I hate... my hair."
Chuuya nods in understanding. He has long hair too, it's pretty. It suits Chuuya. It doesn't suit Dazai. It's ugly and irritating and never sits right.
"And... I hate my voice."
It's too soft. Dazai can shout but it never sounds as commanding as she wants it. Never sounds hard or heavy or deep.
"And, I hate my chest..."
Clearly. Otherwise this wouldn't have happened.
"And I hate when people call me she."
Chuuya stills at that. "What do you mean?" He tries to sound nothing more than curious. He doesn't want to sound invasive or negative.
"I.. I don't know... It just hurts." Dazai's eyes dart around the floor, trying not to look at Chuuya. "You think I'm weird, don't you?" Her voice sounds painfully pitiful.
A small, kind, and amused smile grows on Chuuya's face. "No, not at all. Would you prefer something else?" He moves his hands away from Dazai and sits back more comfortably on the floor, now that he was done wrapping Dazai up.
"...Something else?" Dazai's eyes light up with intrigue. She glances at him for the first time in- well, since Chuuya arrived.
Chuuya shrugs. "You don't have to be a she/her if it makes you uncomfortable." He pauses for a response from Dazai, but she just keeps staring - waiting for further explanation. "You could identify as he/him, they/them, he/they, etc. It's not unusual, I know quite a few people who're transgender."
"...he/him...? Like, a guy...?" Dazai squeaks. "I can do that?"
" 'Course."
The room slowly fills with a lighter air - like gas dispersing in through the vent. A peaceful quiet settles between them, and in Dazai, too.
Can she do that? Can... He... Do that?
'He' sounds a lot better. Much better. It glides along in the examples Dazai tries - it sounds natural. 'He' isn't grating or scratchy... It's soothing. Healing.
Can Dazai be a guy? Dazai doesn't want to be a girl.
Chuuya taps Dazai's forehead. "You alright up there?" He says it with a warm smile.
"Ah- yeah...?"
"Do you want me to refer to you as a guy, then?" Chuuya picks up Dazai's t-shirt and tosses it in the laundry basket. It wouldn't be fit to wear, soaked in all that blood. Dazai's chest is covered in bandages now at least.
Dazai stays quiet for a long time.
'Is it really okay...?' The casual way Chuuya is talking about it makes it sound okay... And it does make Dazai feel, well, incredible. Dazai likes the idea a lot.
...
...
...
"...Yeah. I'd like that."
Chuuya gives Dazai an affectionate look. "Cool." Chuuya stands up and brushes himself off, then helps Dazai up too.
Dazai looks at him with anxiety. There's something... he want to ask. But would that be too much?
"Stop thinking, dumbass. What do you want?" Again, his voice is filled with humour, and no prejudice.
"Could you- Can you help me cut my hair?"
And that's how Dazai ends up sitting backwards on one of his dining chairs. The first big cut was scary - long hair had been all Dazai had known since he had been a growing baby - but it was so, so freeing. The extra trims and cuts only continue to build on that feeling. Dazai insists that his bangs don't need trimming, even though they're poking him in the eyes.
Chuuya isn't good at cutting hair, but that's okay for now. He kind of likes the scuffy look anyway, it feels less feminine.
When Chuuya is finished, he takes a step back to admire the new Dazai.
"It suits you."