Chapter Text
Ango wanted to kill himself.
Of course, admitting it was out of the question. He had to maintain his good reputation at work, at least until he finally did it. He couldn't risk being deemed unfit to work, when work was his life. Even if that life chipped away at him until he crumbled under the weight of it. Every day was the same, just another unremarkable stretch of time spent overworking himself and thinking about death.
Really it made him remember how concerned Dazai made others when he openly made jokes about killing himself, and just caused him to feel more ashamed at the thought of concerning others.
Not that many people would care.
He sighed, turning back to the paper he was working on. It was already dark out, and he knew if he looked at the clock he would just feel worse. He tried so hard to be able to get home, but his bosses just kept taking advantage of how productive he was. The work piled up quicker than he could finish it, and eventually things got lost and he got yelled at.
Today was actually one of his better days; he had been able to finish most of his work before ten at night. He had even been able to keep himself fully awake until nine, though now he kept starting to doze off before realizing it and forcing himself awake. Even coffee didn't seem to be enough. He had been awake for three days straight, but usually he could hold out for at least four. He sighed and finally closed his eyes against his own will.
By the time daylight seeped through the office windows, Ango's co-workers had begun to file in. They payed no attention to the pale man asleep at his desk, thin wrist twitching in a nightmare. This was a frequent occurrence anyways. No one gave him a second glance as the walked to their desks, refreshed and ready to work after a good night's rest.
Work was Ango's life, after all.
Groggily, he opened his eyes at the sound of morning chatter. He hadn't slept much at all, only a few hours. More than usual. As he sat up he cursed silently, irritated that he let himself fall asleep before finishing his work. These days, if he even missed one assignment, the workload would get overwhelming.
His fears were confirmed when a stack of papers was promptly placed on his desk, making him want to scream in frustration. Even so, he began working on them without a word. Just like an obedient dog listening to its master.
That's what he felt like, anyways. Like he had let himself be trained to work until he collapsed, governed by the fear of abandonment that would come if he faltered.
And so the days passed like ice melting, dripping slowly,
Drip
Drip
Drip
Waiting until the ice is gone,
And the water
Can stop
Dripping
The day passed torturously, work dragging on for hours on end as usual. Ango had no energy left, not even to eat. Not that he deserved to anyways. He had gone home. He had gone home before he finished his work. He just couldn't take it anymore. The papers seemed to be mocking him.
When he opened the door to his apartment, he was hit with the smell of rotting food, alcohol, and spilled coffee. He could barely walk through the room without stepping on an empty bottle or discarded clothes, and the only clear surfaces were the couch and the bed stand next to it where he put his computer. The desk was covered in papers, the counter with take out containers and bottles. The ceiling was riddled with mold that made him cough and the air was muggy and hard to breathe.
He knew it was a revolting way to live, but he just didn't have the energy to clean it up.
As soon as he stepped into the apartment, he choked on the air and shut the door. He knew it hadn't been aired out in a while due to his absence, but this was the first time he couldn't go in. He slumped against the wall of the hallway and tried to think of what he should do. He needed a place to be able to call home, didn't he?
Anger rose up inside him as he sat there. It was his fault for letting his work pile up. For letting his apartment become uninhabitable. He just didn't have the motivation or energy to fix things, and he didn't think he ever would have that ability to do things again.
It just reminded him why he needed to die. To escape this prison of his own making and be finally able to rest.
He hesitantly got up, legs shaking. His only option left would be living in his car, at this point. Though it wasn't much better than his apartment, it was better than nothing. After all, he already hadn't been able to have heat in his apartment due to the amount of stuff on the floor beginning to pose a fire risk. It wasn't like he wasn't used to being cold.
Ango shivered, curling into himself miserably. He had guessed wrong. His car was cold. Colder than his apartment by far. He eventually gave up and drove back to work out of sheer desperation, crossing his car off of the list of places he could live other than his apartment.
The last place on that list was work.
The very place that crushed him most.
And so the cycle began again; work, coffee, work, pass out.
It felt like the ice was almost gone.
In the parking lot, most people were already beginning to leave. Ango nearly hit a few people in his distracted state, only making him feel worse. He eventually parked his car and got out with a wave of vertigo, causing him to fall face first onto the sidewalk.
"Ango?"
A woman's voice broke the haze of dissociation he had entered with piercing clarity. He looked up to find his co-worker Sakura Makishima kneeling next to him, a concerned look on her face. He quickly dragged himself upright and gave her a weak smile.
"Sorry, I... tripped. Just knocked the air out of me."
"You're very pale. You sure?"
Makishima held out her hand to steady Ango, but he brushed it away.
"I'm fine, Sakura. Thanks though."
He waved goodbye to her and walked towards the entrance to the office building, brushing the gravel off his cheek.
His palm came away bloody.