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Dante’s fed the fuck up. He’s also hammered, which doesn’t help his decision making process. He’s sick of his chest- it makes him feel sick, it makes his skin crawl when he looks at it, it makes him feel like he’s going to vomit. He’s thought about getting rid of it before, but- fuck, it looks like tonights the fucking night. Enough alcohol, enough coke, enough whatever the hell else he can get his hands on, and his thought process is shot enough for this to seem like a good idea. It’s not gonna kill him, he knows that- he’s barely 18 and he’s already had worse than what he’s going to do to himself tonight, but it’ll leave nasty scars- that’s sort of what’s been stopping him until now. How does he know those scars aren’t going to make him feel the same way as his chest does? Right now though, he’s pretty sure nothing can make him feel as bad as his chest makes him feel.
He stumbles up to the roof of his shop, sword in hand. Can’t have blood ruining the floorboards after all, he just got this place. Gotta keep it clean at least for a little while. With his coat left down on his couch, all that’s standing in his way is his shirt and the bandages he uses to keep his chest down. The shirt gets tossed, the bandages get cut off haphazardly, and this is looking less and less like a good idea. The night air is cold, uncomfortable, and the view when he looks down makes him sick.
So sick, in fact, that he collapses to his knees, leans over, and throws up. Maybe that was just the booze. He’s not sure.
Dizzy, angry, viscerally uncomfortable, he looks down and considers himself again. It’s uncomfortable. It makes him feel wrong in his own skin. He tries to collect himself, grabbing his sword again, taking a few deep breaths. No, he’s going through with this. Fuck it, he’s going to do this. Get it over with. Fix it. It’s gonna hurt like hell, but he’s had worse. He’s had worse. He’s had worse.
Rebellion cuts cleanly, sharply, quickly. He steels against the pain, biting down so hard he can feel his teeth cracking, a pain all it’s own that leaves blood welling up in his mouth. The other side goes less smoothly, his hands shaking from the pain, but it’s over soon, and he’s left sucking breath in through his cracking teeth, blood bubbling at his lips. It takes a while, but the pain subsides, and the bleeding stops, and his skin knits itself back together the way he’s familiar with.
He’s not sure how long he stays on the roof, is pretty sure he passes out up there for a while. When he stumbles back downstairs to his bathroom, he’s covered in blood, half dried, spitting bits of teeth out as he goes. He stays in the shower for a long time, long enough for the warm water to turn cold, for the cold water to turn icy, before he collects himself and leaves the bathroom. The water bill’s gonna fucking suck, he thinks, as he dries himself off.
In the mirror, half fogged, he catches a glimpse of himself- the scars are bad, sure, but he’s got all sorts of ugly scars- he runs a hand over his chest, notices for the first time that he feels somewhat unbalanced on his feet, but- oh, he’ll get used to that. He feels… giddy. They’re gone. They’re fucking gone. He catches himself giggling, and then crying, and then- he’s not sure. A weight’s been lifted, literal and metaphorical, and he can’t remember why he thought this was a bad idea.
He grins at himself in the mirror before leaving the bathroom. This is better. Holy fuck, is this ever better.