Selfmachine

Chapter 1

Schizoid personality disorder: characterized by a lack of interest in social relationships, a tendency towards a solitary or sheltered lifestyle, secretiveness, emotional coldness, detachment, and individuals may be unable to form intimate attachments to others.

Selfmachine

There's a name on his lips, accompanied with a number on top of white, soft mittens. Due, Sette.Familiar, even if not in the right language. And even then it took him a couple weeks to piece it together. Tsu, Na. It's the Japanese for the numbers on the mittens. His name, or so he thinks. It sounds right, and he can now at least give something to others to call him.

He doesn't know who he is and that's the sad truth, but not uncommon. Not in these parts.

At least he's lucky, he thinks. He's been found by a doctor, or what passes as one around here. He doesn't talk the common language, Italian, really well. His accent says that much. But he is kind in a place where kindness is seen as a weakness, with hard edges that are fraying a little too fast for Tsuna to invest much emotion in him. Not that he feels them. Emotions, that's it, but that's a conversation for another day.

"It all depends if it's shattered or it's a clean break," the doctor who has never told his name says, grabbing the leg of them man whimpering under him, pants cut open to see the wound more clearly. "This is a clean one, see?"

"How—How long will it take, doc?" the brother of the patient asks, shuffling from where he's standing in the kitchen, the living room too small for them all to fit in.

The doctor looks up with an annoyed expression. "'m teaching something important here, see? Now shut up and bring me more water." He looks at him. "What do you need for cases like this, kid?"

Tsuna doesn't even think about it. "S-Something stiff. For splints."

"And something to make a cast. Which we don't have but for that are the pretty flames. Can you do it?"

He nods as he watches the doctor order him with a gesture to grab the man who is curling tighter with each second it passes, his breathing coming labored and short. Tsuna grabs both arms, his putrid smell no more pleasant than it was half an hour ago. But he's used to it. People don't smell nice in the streets of Naples.

The doctor starts talking again, soothing voice made to distract the man as he inspects the break, offering reassurance that seems to work. Tsuna studies him: his gestures, his tone and expression, memorizing everything as he does the lectures he gives him. It makes the man in response twitch less, fingers slowly unclenching as he realizes the doctor is not doing anything yet. His jaw loosens from where he's biting the leather of the belt.

Then the doctor realigns it and the man screams silently, a sob wrecking his frame and making the pain worse.

"Done, see?" The doctor grabs the bandages and the wood the brother provided, tying it tightly. He looks up at him. "The cast now, kid."

Tsuna nods again and concentrates. The indigo flames are not his primary or secondary but they're safer to use if not harder. He slowly makes a cast appear around the leg. It's simple, no texture or deep color, just enough flames for it to exist. The man whimpers but he knows when to stay silent, too. Tsuna brushes his forehead with a hand, subtly using some of his orange flames to settle him. He can't take the pain away but he can at least offer some comfort. He doesn't have to do it but doing it makes him feel more human, alive.