Chapter Text
Now, Dazai had experienced a lot of shitty things in his millennia-long life. He had been tortured, he had been enslaved, he had been bought and sold. He had had his freedom taken from him almost earlier than he can remember. But, somehow, Mori was finding new ways to hurt him. Not that he hadn’t expected it.
“Up on the table, Dazai-kun,” Mori instructed.
Dazai scowled, but hopped on – as if he would have been able to resist the command. He looked everywhere but at the doctor’s face as he sat there, the doctor moving around the little infirmary.
“You mostly have a human body, correct, Dazai-kun?”
Dazai narrowed his eye, his mind whirring as he figured out Mori's angle. He didn’t like what he was coming up with. “Yes.”
“Sir,” Mori reminded him.
Dazai scoffed, but complied. Better that than being ordered to. “Yes, sir,” he said sarcastically.
Mori smiled at him, walking over with a tray of medical tools. Dazai really didn’t like that the number of potential situations were shrinking so quickly. “Well, I wanted to try a few things, things that would ordinarily kill a person.”
Dazai quirked an eyebrow, not letting his unease show on his face. “You’ve already done that. Sir,” he added poisonously.
Mori chuckled as he opened one of his locked medical cabinets. “Your ability to regenerate truly is incredible. A medical miracle to have in my possession.”
Dazai scowled.
Mori took out a few syringes and vials, bringing them over to the tray and setting them down. “Let’s get you hooked up,” he said pleasantly, gesturing for Dazai to lie down. Dazai did, resisting the urge to shift uncomfortably on the cold metal table.
He didn’t speak as Mori brought up straps to tie him down, opting to stare at the ceiling. Once he was thoroughly tied down, Mori started attaching various medical machines to his body.
“There,” he said happily after a minute. “I can’t have you limp, after all, if I really want to observe the effects.”
Dazai didn’t respond, keeping his heart beat at an ordinary pace, now that Mori could monitor it.
“Let’s start with Batrachotoxin.”
Chuuya shouldered his way into Mori’s infirmary, once again. As usual, the place gave him the creeps. A little less usual, Dazai was not on the floor, bleeding profusely or wrapped up in bandages. Instead, he was strapped – Chuuya's stomach lurched unpleasantly – to an operating table.
He hurried over to him, breaking the restraints with a twist of his wrist. “Dazai?” he called, taking his face in his hands and tilting it so that Dazai was looking at him. Dazai didn’t respond, his eyes bloodshot.
“Don’t mind him,” a voice said behind Chuuya, and he jumped, spinning around. It was Mori, the door to his office closing behind him. “He should be fine in a week or so,” Mori continued casually. He raised an eyebrow. “You broke my table.”
“Sorry, boss,” Chuuya grit out, his hand, hid behind his back, reaching for and grasping Dazai's limp one.
“I’ll forgive it this time,” Mori hummed. “Take it home, now.”
Chuuya growled. It?!
Mori simply smiled at him. “Do you have a problem, Chuuya-kun?”
Absolutely. I want to pummel you into the ground so that you never touch him again. “No, boss.”
Mori hummed.
Chuuya hesitated. He didn’t want to turn his back to Mori, but Mori was watching him expectantly. Slowly, keeping his senses on Mori, he turned to Dazai, picking him up as gently as he could. Dazai's head lolled against his shoulder.
“Make sure he drinks plenty,” Mori instructed behind him as he walked to the door. “He has a lot of toxins to flush out of his system.”
Chuuya grit his teeth. Stay calm. Stay calm. “Yes, boss.”
He swore he could feel Mori's greasy smile on his back as he closed – stay calm, don’t slam it, Dazai will pay for it – the door.
Dazai came to in a haze. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember where he was. And everything around him felt strange and unreal, as though it was an illusion. The only thing that he could really discern was how every cell in his body ached.
“Dazai,” came a voice, and Dazai winced, turning his pounding head towards the sound.
Someone – his god, his god was there, a voice hissed in his mind – stood near him. He felt his heart rate pick up. He couldn’t be lying down – that’s what he was, right? He couldn’t quite tell – in front of his god.
“M’s’r,” he slurred, attempting to push himself up.
“Don’t move-” his god instructed. Dazai froze up. “Shit, I mean, you probably shouldn’t move.”
Dazai's brow furrowed. “’rry…”
Between one second and the next, the god was in front of his face. He flinched back, vaguely registering that his god, his master, was speaking to him. He tried to focus, he really did, but he couldn’t seem to pay attention – bad, he was being bad, bad, bad – to anything.
He groaned as his head throbbed. The next time he blinked, the fiery god was gone.
“M’s’r…” he mumbled, attempting to get up. He got about half way before his arms collapsed beneath him, leaving him sprawled, his arm dangling over the edge. “S’ft.” He rubbed his hand against the material he was on; it felt heavenly.
Too heavenly, actually.
He frowned. He didn’t deserve to be on something so soft. How did he get here?
“- what did you do?” he heard distantly.
Did he get on this himself? What did he do? Why couldn’t he remember anything?
“Dazai, come on, try and look at me.”
He blinked. The fiery god was back. His master was back. “M’s’r.”
“Why are you dangling off the bed?”
Dazai flinched. He was on a bed. A bed that was far softer than someone of his station would have. ‘What did you do?’ ‘Why are you dangling off the bed?’
He wasn’t supposed to be here, he realized with a panicky jolt. He was on something he wasn’t supposed to be on, and he was just baldly lying on it in front of his master.
He whimpered, trying to get his hands under himself. “S’ry, s’ry, s’y,” he said desperately, trying to push himself away from his master.
“Hey, hey, what are you doing?”
Dazai cringed. “Off,” he managed. “Get’ off, s’rry.” He couldn’t hear his master’s response, his head pain flaring as he forced his aching body to get off.
Where was the edge?
He couldn’t find it, he couldn’t find the edge to get off the bed.
He whined, scrabbling against the soft, too soft, he needed to get off.
“Calm down- try to calm down- Dazai, damn it, you need to relax!”
Dazai whimpered. His master sounded mad; he was mad and Dazai was being bad and he was mad. “’m sorry, ‘m sorry. Pl’s’” He bit back a cry. He couldn’t even apologize right. What was wrong with him?
“—just—”
Dazai's limbs fell out again, and he collapsed against the soft bed. “N-no,” he whispered. He didn’t want this, he wasn’t meaning to- he didn’t even know how he got here. “’m sorry, I didn’ mean to, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry,’ pl’s’ master, I’m sorry, pl’s’.”
He could have sobbed in relief as his hand, which had been running over the surface, trying to find an edge to the thing that would spell punishment – he didn’t want to hurt, please, please, please – found empty air. With a desperate burst of energy, he gripped the edge, pulling his other hand over to yank himself out of the bed.
His head collided with the ground with a horrible shot of pain, his headache doubling as he rolled over, curling into himself. He had gotten off. He was being good. He was, he wouldn’t get hurt, he was being good.
“Dazai, what the fuck?!”
Hands. Hands grabbed him, pulling him out of his safe ball, pulling at him and the touch burned and he didn’t know what was going on what had he done wrong he didn’t mean to please please please—
“Take a deep breath,” his master instructed, and Dazai couldn’t help but obey, his lungs filling with air. He wanted to cry. He couldn’t breath, his lungs achingly full.
“Dazai?”
He trembled, mouth opening and closing desperately. His chest hurt, the air in it becoming stale. He mouthed out his pleas. He realized he was being punished.
“Oh, fuck—just, just breathe how you want, fuck’s sake!”
Dazai heaved, taking in desperate gulps of air. “Pl’s’!” he begged, hands clenching around fabric. He bowed his head to his chest, hoping to convey his submission and appease his master. “Please, 'm sorry, I won’- won’t do it ag-gain. I'm sorry.”
“It’s alright, Dazai, you haven’t fucking done anything wrong!” his master responded, sounding agitated.
Dazai didn’t understand. He was being punished, wasn’t he? His master sounded so upset. Why was he upset, and why was Dazai being punished, if he hadn’t done anything wrong? And hadn’t he done something bad just now? Something- something… soft…? He couldn’t remember.
Dazed, he felt himself stop thrashing – when had he started thrashing? – as he struggled to remember what was going on.
Being punished- n-no, not being punished, but he had been hurt, so- so he was entertainment? But gods lied, so maybe he was being punished?
He didn’t know, and that was dangerous. He had survived so long because of his wit, he couldn’t not know things, he needed to know what was going on, or he would just be a burden and a burden of a kitsune would be punished and he didn’t want that, he—
He sighed, his aching head calming slightly as a gentle hand wove through his hair.
“There we go,” his master said softly. His master was helping him. he had no idea what had warranted such a privilege, but he couldn’t help but accept the comfort. “Just try and relax, alright?”
Dazai nodded; his master was being so merciful, not making him, not ordering him, and Dazai didn’t even remember who his master was—
“Shh…”
He tried to breathe more slowly, his heart slowly coming down from its frantic rate as he focused on the hand carding through his hair.
He wasn’t being punished. It was okay.