Chapter Text
"Why are you spraying water on me? Spray it on the clothes. You said you were going to wash them."
Hairen only cackled like a maniac, advancing with the showerhead. "You smell like a dog. No more. Not any more."
It was deranged, it was contagious, and Dante felt his stomach cramp from reeling in laughter. "Because since you got here, you haven't splashed a drop of water on yourself."
"Why would I?"
"Because you're human. You need to wash yourself."
"No I don't." David said, and immediately ran.
Dante saw the opening just in time to throw a bar of soap. David slipped, landing on his face with a slippery thud.
Hairen and Dante descended on him like a pack of wolves.
Except.
David was trembling. "Why are you attacking me?"
His voice cracked on the last syllable. And Dante felt his blood run cold. Because David, who had chewed through throats and had tendons slashed and bones broken more times than he could count, was trembling.
It wasn't withdrawal. It wasn't limbo. David was scared.
Hairen had stilled too, face contorted in a grimace halfway between grief and refusal to admit it. The showerhead had been turned off. Their eyes met.
We fucked up.
Dante slowly walked to David and crouched. Hairen left, footsteps heading towards the lockers.
"We weren't attacking you, David. We were trying to help."
David pulled himself up slowly, lopsided. "Liar. You lied about washing my clothes. You lied about sweet potato–," there was that crack again, "You were laughing."
The floor was slippery. David's hand slipped, and Dante caught him by the shoulders before he could hit his head.
His skin was ice-cold. He was shivering. Dante bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. "No—we—"
"We fucked up. That's what we did."
Hairen's voice came from behind him, startling him. A towel swished over David, covering his shoulders. Hairen's face was doing that strange, constipated thing again.
"We shouldn't have narced on you like that."
If Hairen could do it, so could Dante.
"Hairen's right. I don’t know what we were thinking. "
David was looking at them, confused, head tilted like a puppy's.
Dante tucked the towel securely around him.
"Yeah, we messed up. We should've asked you to bathe. We shouldn't have lied about washing your clothes—we will, I swear—" he rushed when David's face became apprehensive. "But you need to clean up too."
David made no move to flee this time. "I don't want to."
Dante softened his voice, like he'd do for an anxious middle schooler. "Can you tell me why?"
Silence. David stared at his toenails—cracked, overgrown. Behind them, Hairen had left, probably done with his emotion quota for the week.
Sounds of a stall shower filled the silence for a while.
Dante should have expected this. "Okay. You don't have to then."
For the first time since they'd entered the showerhouse, David looked up, surprised. "I don't?"
Dante strengthened his resolve. It was fine. He'd live. The whole notion was stupid in the first place.
No, it wasn't. David had filth that seemed to fill every pore, rashes crawling over his armpits and knees and thighs, fragile skin thick with scar tissue from repeated scratching and healing and scratching again. There were loofahs and swabs and lotions and ointments waiting in a bag in the worn locker, but none of them would do anything if David refused to be cleaned.
And then it hit him like a ton of bricks.
Oh. Oh no.
Fog baby. Research facilities. Human rights violations that made the Geneva Convention a joke.
"Okay," Dante said quietly. "I'm sorry we forced you."
Blue eyes stared at him. Luminescent as a cat's.
"Okay."
It was quiet for a while. The only sounds were water splashing from a faraway stall where Hairen was showering. David scratched his hair again, and Dante saw his broken nails come away dark.
He tried one more time—not for the smell, but for the boy.
"Why don't you want to shower?"
David's answer came immediately: "I don't need it."
Dante blinked. "You don't?"
David shook his head.
Dante glanced at the scabbed knees, then back at him. "Everybody needs to clean up eventually."
"I don't."
"You do."
"Everyone does."
"No they don't."
Dante felt like he was talking to a child. And... his chest suddenly hurt.
"Yes they do.", Dante suddenly had an idea.
He leaned forward and whispered theatrically, even though Dante could've easily heard the sound miles away— and spoke as if sharing a very important state secret. "Even mice."
David's eyes widened. "Mice?"
Dante nodded solemnly.
David frowned and then grabbed onto his collar with a frightening intensity. "Even...—" his voice fell into a hush, " —... puppies?"
Dante felt his lips twitch. "Yes, even puppies."
David frowned, and Dante softened his voice even further—the exact voice he'd used a hundred times in elementary school, gentle and slightly exaggerated, reserved for children who had decided that every mundane fact in existence was suddenly the most fascinating thing they'd ever heard.
"See, mother dogs clean their puppies when they're little. They lick them and groom them until the puppies are old enough to do it themselves."
David stared at him.
"Do you know why?"
David shook his head. Vigorously. So vigorously that Dante's heart hurt.
"Why?"
"So the puppy doesn't get germs and get sick."
David's eyes widened. "Germs?"
"Mm-hm. Germs can make a puppy sick."
"What happens?"
Dante hesitated. Maybe he was pushing the analogy too far. But David was looking at him with such naked, hungry attention that he couldn't seem to stop.
"If the puppy keeps scratching because his skin hurts," Dante touched his own arm, "his fur can start falling out. His skin can get sore. Sometimes infected."
David had gone very still.
"And then?"
Dante realized his mistake. "The puppy will—" David curled abruptly inward, knees pulled tight against his chest. "No."
Dante stopped. "The puppy will get better," he corrected immediately. "If someone cleans him and gives him medicine, he can get better."
David's fingers tightened around his knees.
Silence.
Then, very quietly: " 'm not a puppy."
"No," Dante said, lowering himself until they were closer to eye level. "You're not."
Slowly, carefully, he reached for David's hand and waited.
David didn't pull away.
Dante took it gently between both of his. The nails were cracked and dark underneath. There was dried blood caught beneath one of them. His skin was raw around the knuckles.
Dante rubbed his thumb over them. "But you're hurting, aren't you?"
David's fingers closed around his. Just a little.
Dante felt something in his chest twist.
"Would you like to stop hurting?"
David looked up.
"I promise we'll ask before we wash every part of you. If you say no, we stop. You can tell us no." Dante paused. "As many times as you want."
Another pause.
"And after that, we'll have medicine. And banana milk."
There.
The tiniest spark in David's eyes.
Dante nearly smiled. "How's that?"
David considered this with the gravity of a treaty negotiation. "…Okay."
"Okay?"
A small nod. "Okay."
Dante's heart lifted. He carefully let go of David's hand and stood. "Right. Excellent. I'll get everything ready. You're going to feel so much better afterward."
Behind them, the sound of the shower finally stopped.
Dante almost whooped.
Finally.
He turned toward the supplies, already reaching for the bag.
A hand suddenly seized his.
Violently.
Dante flinched and looked down.
David was staring up at him. Electric blue eyes. Terrified.
"No hose." David's grip tightened. "You promised."
Dante slapped himself hard enough to see stars.