Work Text:
Missing someone comes with a particular sort of emptiness, a void that grew with each beat of the heart: a sensation that Dazai was familiar with.
It comes and goes, the intensity varying every time. It hits when he least expects it, or exactly when he knows would happen, and Dazai lets himself be washed away by it as the smile on his face grows larger. By now, it never made his breath hitch anymore, but it did assault his lungs when he breathed, the sudden urge to talk to someone who was no longer there.
If any of his colleagues noticed it, they never said anything, even when Dazai would hesitate halfway through a sentence, realizing he wasn't talking to the person in his head. When the sunlight caught in Tanizaki's hair and made it more red than orange. When Kunikida's unwavering beliefs left him aching, strong enough that Dazai would retaliate by mocking it in a way that bordered on cruel.
When he passed a reflection and, for a moment, just for a brief second, Dazai thought he could see Odasaku following right behind.
By clinging to the little things, to the details that brought up both dear and painful memories, Dazai was able to form something vaguely Odasaku shaped, a ghost that only he could see. The fragments were put together even when the connection to the person was flimsy at best, so the silhouette was uncertain, but Dazai could see it if he glanced at it from the corners of his eyes, where the shape would linger.
It's what he sees, past Nakajima Atsushi's head when they first meet, and Dazai thinks to himself, to the ghost he created, you told me to save the orphans . And so he does, giving Atsushi a place in the ADA as the words ring in his head.
Dazai never had expectations beyond that, or beyond his plans of future wars already in motion. Atsushi is a bright eyed kid with a terrible past, and Dazai helped him out of a painful death by starvation, that's all there is to it.
Or it should be. Dazai should be ready for Atsushi to go against his expectations, however; after all, the weretiger was always surprising him in one way or another.
It doesn't down on him until a certain slow afternoon, when there's an itch under his skin and colors are blending together in a way that makes them both monochromatic and entirely too bright. Dazai breathes in the stale summer air, leaning back on his chair and holding his arms above his head in a stretch. The yawn that leaves his mouth is loud and disruptive, but no one looks his way. He swallows against the urge to scratch his arms between the bandages.
“Ah, there's no way I can work like this,” Dazai complains, fanning himself with a hand, the other fidgeting idly with the the bandages at his throat. “It's too hot, and too boring, this is the worst…”
Atsushi was the one to finally catch the bait, though his fingers never stopped moving on the keyboard as he wrote a report that Dazai didn't bother paying attention to. There was a tilt to his head, the only indication that Atsushi was listening.
“It's not that bad,” he said, voice distant.
“It's the absolute worst,” Dazai contested, pressing briefly against his own windpipe. “How can you take this weather without even breaking a sweat, Atsushi-kun?”
The way he drawled out the words was genuine, but not for the reasons anyone in the room would expect it: focusing for long enough to formulate coherent sentences took up all of his energy, but at least the lazy tone helped in hiding the fact that he was grasping for words.
His head felt stuffed full of cotton.
“I suppose I have a better tolerance to the heat,” Atsushi said. He glanced at Dazai from the corner of his eyes. “Or maybe you're the one wearing too many layers?”
Dazai whined louder. “Even changing clothes is a hassle.”
And looking at his bandaged arms only made him more restless. His fingers twitched as he took his hand away from his throat.
Atsushi gave a slow nod, oblivious to Dazai's thoughts. Dazai almost smiled at the sight, but his lips refused to move, even when he thought the focus with each Atsushi worked on a simple report was endearing.
The muted sounds of the keyboard keys being hit filled the air, and Dazai was able to listen to it for only five seconds before it turned as loud as the strike of a heavy hammer.
“I even tried to find a mission, you know,” Dazai said, eager to drown out the cacophony in the office and in his own mind. “Fresh air would be so nice on a hot day like this, and while I'm outside I could find a river—” he could see Atsushi's shoulder tense and his fingers pause —“to dive in. I bet it would nice and cold. But Kunikida-kun said there's no case to work on, only reports to write.”
His sigh this time was just as heavy. Dazai dropped his head to the table in front of him and groaned, at least grateful that this protected him from the harsh glare of the sunlight.
Atsushi turned on his chair, smiling a bit.
“If we don't have any cases, then I guess there's nothing you can do about that,” Atsushi said, not unkindly.
Dazai's body locks up, and his eyes open too wide, staring unseeing at the tabletop. It's nothing, really, the sentence wasn't remarkable in any way; perhaps it was the words in itself, the easy acceptance so characteristic to him, or the inflection, calm even in the face of Dazai's antics.
They sounded like someone else's words. He tasted whiskey on his tongue.
“Dazai-san?” The clacking of the keyboard paused. “Did you fall asleep like that?”
Wrong . He hummed, let a moment pass. This is all wrong. When Dazai turned his head, he gave a lazy smile in response to the person.
He finds bicolored eyes, filled with amusement, watching him.
Not blue.
“As if I could sleep when it's this hot,” he replied.
Atsushi chuckles and goes back to his work. Dazai's head swims.
The damage was already done, Dazai realized. Once he had noticed it, there was no stopping it: the shape of the ghost by Atsushi's shoulder. Dazai almost laughs whenever he thinks about it.
Because how could it have taken this long for Dazai to realize the similarities between them, when Atsushi breathed life even when faced with misery, when his desire to save others would often overrule all logic, sometimes even putting himself in danger as well.
With how he would see past Dazai's trained indifference to state Dazai's true intentions so bluntly.
No, this was so obvious it had no way of being a coincidence. Dazai wondered if it was his karma catching up to him, and if it was supposed to make him feel better or worse. He wasn't sure himself, but his stomach, which twisted itself into knots, had already stated its opinion on the matter. Dazai really wanted to laugh.
What he did, however, was store the observation away deep in the back of his mind, where it wouldn't be brought up until he was back home, safe in the empty space occupied only by himself and his thoughts. Even if reflecting on it brought nothing but unease, a restless feeling that left Dazai feeling caged in his own body.
But his mind had always been too loud, and Dazai never quite learned how lower the volume, and its noise bounced obnoxiously as he tried to focus on other things.
Atsushi would ask him about the latest case, nodding as Dazai spoke, listening quietly but with clear interest, and it reminded him of days long gone. Dazai found himself falling into old patterns at the sense of familiarity that Atsushi provided: he left threads to be picked on, which would unravel the layers that Dazai had lost himself in.
The difference was that with Odasaku (and Ango as well), those threads were never touched, and so Dazai would pull back, content in the knowledge that it wasn't for a lack of trying. But Atsushi was different in that regard; there was a stubbornness to him, a desire to know, to see, to be allowed in. He was never pushy about it, no, but Dazai often found himself feeling bare before Atsushi's eyes, struggling with the urge to retract and escape from his gaze.
Defying Dazai's expectations, however, was something Atsushi would do on the daily, even unaware as he was. The more Dazai observed (and he did a lot of it, disguised under lighthearted jokes), more those comparisons piled up.
First, it was the way this world seemed to be so precious to Atsushi. The way he would slow down then finally come to a halt as the sunset caught his eyes. Wind blowing on his hair, Atsushi would smile and whisper words of appreciation. The warm glow of sunlight was nothing like the orange that poured from lightbulbs, but the words and the wonder, sometimes confused with naïvety, were the exact same shade.
The compassion that Atsushi overflowed at every moment was a bit more on the nose, as Atsushi would declare it loud and clear, shouting at the top of his lungs like he had been waiting his whole life to be heard. While Odasaku's brand of kindness was quiet, the sincerity of it overlapped; a desire to do good for good's sake, without an ounce of second intentions underlying it.
Atsushi would willingly carry the world on his shoulders, but he shined the brightest with Dazai by his side, offering to share the weight.
There was something remarkable about Atsushi—even beyond what Dazai had seen in him way back in their first meeting by the riverbank—, something Dazai couldn't put his finger on. It had nothing to do with how Atsushi was obsessed with the same dish, gobbling up bowls upon bowls of chazuke ; it had nothing to do with how he would take even the most absurd of Dazai's tales without as much as a blink (though with great exasperation).
But maybe it had everything to do with how flustered Atsushi became in the face of little children, unsure of how to hold them, or even how to talk to them. The more they stared at him, the more he stumbled over his words, until he would finally lock eyes with someone in a desperate call for help.
Maybe it had everything to do with how Atsushi brimmed with emotion, leaking it everywhere, be it with tears, shouts, or exclamations that were barely held back. Atsushi emoted as someone who couldn't contain the bubble of his own emotions: with his whole body, be it in the way he trembled, or the way he gesticulated, the way his hands were always doing something, fumbling and twitching and waving.
And when he was happy, his lips would split in a wide grin, beaming in a way Dazai thought it was possible to do in a genuine manner. The corners of Atsushi's eyes crinkled, his cheeks flushed, and pure laughter took ahold of him; sometimes a chuckle, sometimes a full belly laugh.
Atsushi wore his heart on his sleeves, baring his thoughts for the world to see, and Dazai thought he was more beautiful for it.
Dazai looked into heterochromatic eyes and tasted sunshine.
And it was in one of these moments, when Dazai admired the way pink lips stretched over pearl white teeth, that he snapped into reality— perhaps crashed into it was a more accurate description.
Because, he realized, Atsushi wasn't like Odasaku at all. The admittance in itself didn't hurt, not any less or any more than all the other times Dazai has broken himself out of his stupor to realize he was projecting a ghost onto the shoulders of someone who did nothing but be themselves. He knew Odasaku wouldn't be coming back, even if his mind struggled to make peace with the fact.
However, the fact that Atsushi still lingered in his thoughts, that the small details he had gathered through weeks and more weeks of observation had nothing to do with his late friend and even so they continued to play out in his mind long after the realization, that was the only thing that Dazai couldn't puzzle out. Instead of the familiar pang of grief, he was bothered by the drum of his pounding heart, with an emotion that Dazai didn't know the name of yet, and he would rub at his chest and wonder to himself, whispered to the bathroom tiles, “Am I going mad?”
He continued to think so for the following week, repeating it as a mantra every time Atsushi was in the same room, making his heart run amok. If he stared too long at Atsushi for it, the young man didn't say anything, though the confusion was clear in his gaze.
Just as he thought he had left his stupor, Dazai stumbled into another, always searching for Atsushi's figure out of the corner of his eyes, doing so by instinct before he was even aware he was doing it. Dazai tried to concentrate, but his mind was both blank and filled with racing thoughts; he was distracted, unfocused. Enough to make mistakes.
It wasn't a big deal, really. It wasn't even a case related accident, so no one got hurt besides himself. Dazai had simply not paid attention to his surroundings, and soon enough, he was on the floor with a busted knee, scratched palms and a cut cheek. He didn't even take notice of what brought him to that point.
It was Atsushi who offered his hand yo help him up and dragged Dazai to the nearest chair, fussing over him without touching, voice growing into a squeak as he asked a billion questions. Dazai, slightly dazed, looked up and said, “Huh?”
Atsushi held his breath, then released it in a groan. His was clutching his hands together, and Dazai could see it was to hold back the instinct to get physical reassurance that Dazai was okay.
“Can I… I'll take care of it now, okay?” Atsushi said, paying no mind to Dazai's protests. He was already accepting the first aid kit offered by Tanizaki with a thanks.
“You don't need to go that far, Atsushi-kun, really. I'm fine, see?” Dazai tried to tell him, waving his hand to emphasize his point. A droplet of blood fell from his palm.
Ah.
“Please, stay quiet,” Atsushi muttered, sitting in front of Dazai and rummaging through the box on his lap.
“I just don't think that's necessary,” Dazai said, pointing to the cotton ball Atsushi was coating with some antiseptic. Dazai winced to himself.
“I didn't ask,” Atsushi replied, “did I?”
“No,” he pouted.
They both fell silent; Dazai because he was clenching his jaw in anticipation for the sting of the medicine, Atsushi in concentration as he got started on cleaning Dazai's injuries.
Despite Atsushi's harsh tone from before, his hands were nothing but gentle, fingers holding Dazai's hand with a feather light touch. And when he swabbed the cotton ball at the injured skin, he made sure it wasn't abrupt or too forceful. If Dazai flinched, or as much as winced, Atsushi paused, then continued his work once Dazai relaxed. It was a slow process thanks to that, but Dazai didn't have any complaints.
Done with the hands, Atsushi shifted to his face. When his fingers brushed on Dazai's jaw, then settled under his chin, they shared a look for a few seconds, one breath of a moment where they simply watched each other. It was broken soon—too soon—when Atsushi tilted Dazai's head to the side and whispered, “Stay still.”
The hand on his chin was unwavering, almost reassuring in its firm grip. Dazai shuffles about, working his head more into Atsushi's hand, like a cat seeking out a pat.
“I told you to stay still,” Atsushi says, breezy with laughter and amusement. The thing in Dazai's chest gave an emphatic squeeze.
“I still can't believe you fell like that, you need to be more careful, Dazai-san,” Atsushi is saying, though Dazai isn't listening much. “Good thing you didn't get seriously injured…”
Dazai smiles, Atsushi's finger taps against his skin.
“You know, Atsushi-kun,” Dazai started, getting a hum in response to let him know he was being heard, “you remind me of a friend.”
Atsushi paused, frozen for a moment before he looked up into Dazai's eyes, curiosity written on his face.
“Do I look like them, then?” Atsushi asked.
Dazai studied Atsushi, smile growing as his noticed the little furrow between his brows; that, coupled with the fact that Atsushi had completely forgotten to keep the movement of his hand going, brought a light, tingling feeling to the bottom of his stomach.
If I could ask you about it, this feeling…
“No, not really. You two aren't alike at all,” Dazai says.
Atsushi blinked at him, then let out a groan. “But you just said I remind— Dazai-san, are you lying to mess with me again?” Atsushi crossed his arms, and the spot where Atsushi had been touching Dazai leaves a phantom of his warmth behind.
“No, no, I'm not! I swear!” Dazai protested, laughing when Atsushi only gave him a skeptical look.
Most likely aiming for displeased, Atsushi pouts, but it only works in making him more endearing. Dazai had to resist the urge to poke the jutted out bottom lip, or to rub at his chest like he'd often do when in company of only himself.
“I just believe... I think he would've liked you, that’s all,” Dazai whispered.
...You'd tell me it's love, wouldn't you, Odasaku?