Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10510101.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Baccano!
  Relationship:
      Luck_Gandor/Dallas_Genoard
  Character:
      Dallas_Genoard, Eve_Genoard, Luck_Gandor
  Additional Tags:
      dallas_is_trans, heed_the_warnings_please
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-03-31 Chapters: 2/? Words: 1594
****** Ameliorate ******
by Ricky_B_(littletoes101)
Summary
     (verb: make, to become better) “Dallas carries the knife with him
     everywhere he goes, and it feels like it’s burning through his shirt
     pocket, blistering his skin before he even takes it out.” Wounds from
     self-harm cannot be healed by the magic that causes immortality.
     Dallas Genoard knows this. The people around him know something is
     wrong, but they can’t pinpoint it. Dallas uses this to his advantage.
     That is, until someone experienced with the same problem walks back
     into his life. Set post-1935. Involves very serious and detailed
     mentions of self-harm, suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts,
     attempted suicide, child abuse, child molestation/sexual abuse, rape/
     sexual abuse, and more. Please be careful.
Notes
     i wanted to write a sad dallas fic so here you go. luckdallas will
     happen in later chapters. buckle up for the long haul kids.
***** Prologue: Inflict *****
Whenever Dallas feels it – the burning and itching beneath his skin – he goes
to sit by the edge of the river.
It doesn’t make much sense. One would think that Dallas would do everything he
could to avoid the river, and in most cases, he does. When he’s with anyone
else, Dallas is terrified of the water. He doesn’t even take baths anymore,
only showers, because being submerged in a bathtub brings back the memories of
the barrel and, subsequently, the burning.
But once the burning has already started, there’s no stopping it, and Dallas
knows that better than anyone else. So he goes to sit by the edge of the river
and he brings the knife with him. Dallas carries the knife with him everywhere
he goes, and it feels like it’s burning through his shirt pocket, blistering
his skin before he even takes it out.
Dallas has been burned before, once when he was trying to cook something for
Eve when he was younger. The first time, it had been an accident.
The second, third, and fourth times? Not so much.
But the burning got tiresome after a while, and too hard to hide and keep up
with, because he could only do it when everyone else was gone or busy. But once
he figured out about the knives, things got that much easier for him. Now all
he needed to do was sneak one of the kitchen knives when no one was looking, go
upstairs to his room, lock the door, and he was good to go.
Then his mother gave him her knife – not knowing about her son’s habit, of
course – and things changed.
Now it feels wrong to cut in the house. It feels like he’s disappointing his
mother – but God knows he’s already done that – like he’s dancing on her grave.
And if there’s one thing Dallas doesn’t want to do, it’s disrespect his mother.
Although, he’s already done that.
So Dallas is sitting on the docks, probably about a mile away from his home.
He’s walked all the way there, not wanting to bother anyone by getting the
care, and it’s not like he could ask someone to drive him anyway. He holds the
knife, heavy in his hand, his feet dangling off the side of the dock and barely
touching the water. For one second, he thinks about getting up and throwing the
knife as far as he can out into the middle of the river, turning around, and
never thinking about it again.
But it’s not that easy.
Instead, Dallas flicks the blade out and pulls up the sleeve on his left arm.
Some dark scars already litter his skin, showing where he’s sliced too deeply
before, years ago. There are paler ones that are newer, from the past few years
and months.
It’s quite strange, he thinks, that every other wound he gets heals immediately
except those that are self-inflicted. Fatal self-inflicted wounds heal
immediately, too – no matter what he does, this body won’t let him die. But
non-fatal self-inflicted wounds? Those don’t heal.
He’s not sure why, but he’s thankful for it. He’s not sure the burning would
ever go away if he couldn’t hurt himself at all.
Dallas presses the silver blade against his skin, and shivers, feeling himself
make an indent but no cut yet. This is always the hardest part, because even
after all of these years, he still hesitates just before he does it. As if he
doesn’t want to actually do it.
But then the hesitation is gone, and he drags the blade across his skin with
precision and purpose.
Dallas doesn’t hiss, flinch, or wince. He’s long gotten over that part of it.
Instead he just watches as bright red blood bubbles from the wound, spilling
down his arm quickly and dripping onto the wood of the dock. He watches his
blood stain the wood, and the hand holding the knife curls into a fist as he
flicks the blade back into its hiding place inside of his shirt.
Part of him doesn’t want to do anything about the wound. He just wants to let
it bleed, watch it continue to stain the wood of the dock until there’s a pool
of blood. But he knows that would be too suspicious, so he takes the clean
handkerchief from his pocket and wraps it around his arm. He’ll finish cleaning
up once he gets home.
Tugging his sleeve down over the wound, Dallas gets up, the burning gone for
now.
It will return, though. It always does.
***** Jealousy *****
Dallas knows that the people around him are starting to suspect things.
The people that Eve has invited to their penthouse in New York are too smart,
he thinks. Nice, the girl – the one who he got the bombs from all those years
ago – looks at him with this look in her eye that tells him she probably knows
too much. But he always keeps the knife tucked in his shirt, even when he
sleeps, and his sleeves are always long enough to cover anything.
A part of him is jealous of her, because she wears her scars with pride. But,
then again, from what he knows, Nice didn’t get those scars on purpose. It had
been an accident.
Of course, Dallas has his own burn scars, but she’s never going to see those.
No one is ever going to see those, if he has anything to say about it.
Most days he just sits up in his room. Sometimes he smokes, even though he
knows Eve doesn’t like it when he does it inside. He justifies it by saying
that it’s his Goddamn room, he can smoke in it if he wants to. Hell,
technically this whole penthouse belongs to him and if he wants to smoke it up,
he can.
But things have changed, and he’s not going to be thatmean to his sister. After
all, she’s started giving him that look like she knows something is wrong but
she doesn’t quite know what, exactly, and Dallas doesn’t want her to find out.
So he has to be more careful.
Still, when he comes in at three in the morning from another one of his visits
to the river, Eve is waiting for him. Dallas has the handkerchief tied around
his arm, and he can feel the blood still pumping from his arm, but he doesn’t
make a face as he looks at Eve. He doesn’t want her to know anything is wrong.
“Dallas,” she says softly, worry in her eyes as she approaches. She’s obviously
exhausted; has she been waiting up for him this whole time? “Where have you
been?”
She probably thinks that he’s been out getting himself into trouble again,
which honestly isn’t too far from the truth. Dallas just gives a lopsided grin,
keeping the pain from his face as she steps forward and puts one hand on his
arm. Not the one with the cuts on it, which is good for him.
“Just… out, y’know? I needed a smoke,” Dallas says, hoping that Eve will take
it as an acceptable explanation. The look on her face tells him that she
doesn’t. “C’mon. It’s been forever since I’ve been on the streets.”
“I know, but…” Eve trails off, looking away from Dallas for a moment. “But
you’ve been acting different lately. I’m afraid that you’re… that you’ve
started drinking again. Or worse.”
“I’m not,” Dallas says, with more conviction in his voice than he’s been able
to muster for quite some time. “Swear to – I promise,” he says, cutting himself
off before he can say swear to God because he knows Eve won’t like that.
Eve obviously isn’t convinced, but she lets him go upstairs anyway and doesn’t
follow him.
He shuts and locks his bedroom door like he always does, then peels back his
shirt sleeve to take off the handkerchief. It’s soaked with blood – he’s
probably cut too deep again and now there are going to be three new scars on
top of the old ones. The cuts from yesterday have already started healing, and
there’s that gummy mix of blood and scab that’s started to form before it
actually scabs over. Dallas can’t resist picking at it, and then there’s blood
on his fingertips as he heads to the bathroom, the old wounds now slowly oozing
blood.
Part of him knows that if he keeps the wounds open they’ll scar more easily,
and he almost doesn’t care. It doesn’t really even matter if they scar up, he’s
got dozens of them already, what’s a few more? It’s not like he can say he
cares about what his skin looks like at this point.
Even so, Dallas runs hot water over the wounds and then bandages them up, then
changes his shirt and tosses the old one in a corner somewhere where Eve or one
of the servants won’t find it. The last thing he needs is for someone to find
his bloody garments, so he puts it where he puts the rest of the things he’s
bled on.
And then, the exhaustion hits him, and Dallas half-staggers to the bed,
collapsing sideways on top of it, sides rising and falling shallowly. This
always happens; he won’t sleep for days on end, and then all of a sudden he’ll
get hit with the worst feeling of exhaustion he’s ever had, and then he’ll
sleep for a day or so.
So he falls asleep, none the wiser to Eve dialing the phone downstairs.
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