#tetcho suehiro / beast verse.

[selfnss]

" let's get you cleaned up. "

[ techono, your call if main or beast :3c ]

the hound's chest feels tight, adrenaline still filling every crevice of his body - filling his skull and spilling forth crimson that fills tetcho's mouth and stains his lips. he did it. he protected them all - he kept the danger out. the handle of the kitchen knife burns his palm but tetcho can't bring himself to let go of it, white-knuckled fist trembling as the state of the corridor before him begins to sink in despite jono's attempts to bring the hound's attention back to the present.

he didn't want to be this person. he didn't want to be a blade anymore. tetcho didn't want to keep hurting people anymore. he didn't want to pick up this damned knife again and channel his curse of an ability through it-- but he did. he did and tetcho can't help the way the blood burns his skin, the way the blade feels like it belongs more in his hand than any piece of gauze or band aid he's touched since jono allowed him to stay more and more often.

but... he had to do it, right? if he hadn't picked up the knife then jono's staff - jono's family - would've been hurt. rather than tetcho's own blood staining the walls and floor beneath where he stands, it would be the innocent people jono's helped and created a haven for. if he hadn't done it then... then tetcho wouldn't be able to live with himself.

still, his head spins - his skull feels fit to split in two as the hound sways on his feet, unable to drag amber gaze from the bloodied walls ahead of him. tetcho's vision darkens at the edges, his hands feeling numb as his knees begin to buckle beneath him. "jono--jono-san... i am... i am sorry--i did not--"

the mafia's hound doesn't manage to finish his sentence before he hits the ground, vision cutting out completely as his frame goes still - blood pooling around him.

[cxnarius]

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Tetcho Suehiro

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[selfnss]

❛ i could keep you safe. they’re all afraid of me. ❜ (beastzai to tetcho)

the words hang in the air for far longer than they have any right to. tetcho feels them embed themselves in his skin and draw blood as he stands before the boss' desk, hands held neatly behind his back and chin forced up - a soldier's posture. or maybe just a man far too used to being told to stand taller, to take everything thrown at him with a straight back and steady eye contact? tetcho doesn't think the difference matters anymore. not as he stares into those pools of black and feels himself slipping.

the suehiro syndicate may have been... dissolved months ago, but there remains a few more independent groups that hold their parent company's demise over tetcho still. they blame him. he blames himself. yet that doesn't sway their hand when lingering outside the apartment he'd been given when he took dazai up on his offer. that doesn't stop the blackmail left on his doorstep or stop the gunshots fired into the air in the middle of the night.

it doesn't change the fact that tetcho is stood before dazai with fear in his chest and dazai's smile pinning him in place. the hound of the mafia buckles, bowing deep and exposing himself before the man who made him. his voice lacks emotion, something hollow as he finds himself speaking without thinking - finding the answer he knows dazai wants to hear. "please, boss."

[selfnss]

❛ so, what do i owe this pleasure? ❜

[ also tetchonos but beast au? owo ]

something gnaws at the back of tetcho's mind as he stands just far enough away from jono that the escape route behind him still feels like a viable option. the knife he'd been gifted sits in the room dazai organised for him, left behind in an attempt to avoid coming across like a threat to a man he's come to rely on in more than one way. tetcho feels lighter without it strapped to the small of his back, feels less like his strings are being pulled taut one by one every time he takes a breath or allows his mind to wander back to that same thought over and over again - what if he did manage to land the blow he'd envisioned so many times before now? what if that knife did manage to bury itself in his boss' jugular?

what if tetcho did manage to find a way through that armour standing in his way?

the feeling of being watched drags the mafia's hound from his distracted thoughts, though. tetcho knows the fox can't see him in the conventional way... he knows that like he knows he's trapped in another cage, leashed by another master even as he stands before a man he hopes would be able to sever that connection. still, jono watches him as he stands motionless and rooted to the spot by indecision.

if he speaks it aloud then there's no turning back. if he speaks it aloud, he's made up his mind. tetcho's chest tightens at the sound of that familiar voice from across the room as amber gaze refocuses on jono's figure. he's helped tetcho once before - when he was still being played by the syndicate, when he didn't understand the world that surrounded him any more than he understands why he is the one left to feel his way through this life. jono made it make sense, back then. even if his wry smile couldn't save the person tetcho used to be.

the hound wets his lips, swallowing thickly as his hands flatten 'gainst his sides and he leans forward in a deep bow, eyes tight shut as he speaks. "apologies... for showing up unannounced, jono-san. i... i need to ask something of you and your establishment." he doesn't look up, remaining prostrate before the man he already owes his life. "i... i want to leave the port mafia."

[selfnss]

❛ clean yourself up. you're getting blood all over the place. ❜ (beastzai to tetcho again)

he sits on the ground, chest heaving in gasping breaths that only serve to drag forth a gurgling sound from the back of tetcho's throat as his head knocks back 'gainst the rough brick wall behind him. amber gaze shines with something undecipherable beneath strands of dark hair stuck to skin slick with sweat and drying blood. it's not only fear that fills the hound's skull with its death knell, splintering and darkening his world at the edges more and more by the second. no, there's something else in there as his mentor removes the foot pinning tetcho's wrist against the wall above his head, knife clattering to the ground and shattering the heavy silence around the two of them.

tetcho doesn't move as dazai steps back and eventually turns his back on his newest plaything sat bloodied and festering in the mafia's glorified dungeon. he doesn't move as cold, level words are spoken - punctuated by the boss' steps away from him. each one sends a fresh twist of something tetcho can only describe as rage through the hound's chest.

"i've freed you."

is this freedom? pinned beneath the heel of a man intent on playing the role he gave himself that every single word that finds its way past his lips is a lie or a manipulation? dazai's freedom tastes metallic, acrid and heavy. tetcho has shed one prison for another. he's shed one wielder for a harsher one. the blood staining his lips thickens, the crimson colouring his teeth as tetcho grits them and pushes himself to his knees and eventually climbs to his feet.

he sways on the spot, vision cutting in and out as the chains that bind him fall into place once again. tetcho's leash tightens, his voice is plain - devoid of emotion.

"...yes, boss."