Chapter Text
Atsushi still didn't quite know what to make of the situation at hand. Whether he spoke or not, cried or not, did anything at all as opposed to staying stock still - no difference would've been made. And because he was tired, he decided that committing to any act at all was a violation of his autonomy. The echo of the enclosed office space reverberated those wretched words back at him and only him, spoken by the President only to never stop being resuscitated into existence by Atsushi's own horrid mind.
Dazai was dead.
At the first sign that something had been wrong, Atsushi's reaction was to simply ignore it - to not take the circumstantial as personal ( in his therapist's voice) - and went on with his day like he did not see yosano glare through a wall in clear agitation. Confrontation wasn't his strong suit, and so he didn't bother complicating everybody's day. The second sign was more on the nose, with Nakahara entering the ADA anything but unannounced, not that the introduction was needed, and promptly entering the President's office without a single word. Weird, unusual even, but passable as just something a little out of the norm.
Dazai not being at work wasn't new, but merely expected, with how lazy he had been lately. He had said to Atsushi, once when he'd set out to call the other, that his legs wouldn't move. The mentee laughed it off. He does not recognize the lack of sarcasm in his tone, but it's always the safest bet with Dazai to take things as a joke. He hung up without hearing an answering snicker on the other side of the line. But that's the usual, dry, unseriously serious humor Dazai partakes in. It was funny, until it wasn't.
Dazai was dead. He did not die extravagantly, with roses trailing behind his silhouette as he fell gracefully off a bridge, a skyscraper, a plane. His face hadn't mirrored peace, bliss nor did it even slightly resemble those closed-eye corpses Dazai oggled so enviously. No, he died in his room, on his unmade bed, with the sheets being in more disarray than the whole apartment. Half on the bed, half off it, with his mentor being much the same when he'd been found. Streaks of vomit coating his face which consisted of only stomach acid as food was, one - unattainable, and two - not in the apartment. He died without dignity, with nobody to witness his fall from grace, to hold his hand or to close his eyes. He rotted in that chronically filthy apartment. And Atsushi was idle to it all.
…
“The autopsy confirmed it as cancer…”
…
The President was continuing to say something, but the ringing perpetuatingly drowned out anything which wasn’t his own pathetic thoughts. He could not make this about himself, could he? His mentor, his friend, his closest companion. The one who saw him even when nobody else looked his way. Atsushi thought about cremation and about where to spread Dazai's ashes, should he wish to be. Atsushi also thought about all the things he'd have to forgo in his schedule. All the reminders he'd have to tear down. All the pieces of himself he'd have to hide away till he's ready to face them. Dazai is in every room in his dorm, in every crevice of the city, in every corner in Atsushi.
Dazai, additionally, is dead. Atsushi kind of understands what feeling a chunk of yourself die means now. And what loss feels like - the real loss, with all the things to miss and all the joy kidnapped by this reaper of the night, whose only code is chaos and disorder.
Why him? Why me? Why us?
…
“Are you just going to sit there, Atsushi?”
…
In his honour, Atsushi thinks, it would be a nice tribute to die in his ideal. With a beautiful woman by his side, over the flowing river, with embroidered pillows and endlessly meaningful nights and beautiful bridges and the strong current waiting to sweep him off his feet and carry him off into the glorious sunset. With no witness except his chosen love to bore the view of eternal stasis in that one microinstant when both if their heads are turned towards the other and the rocks are coming up microscopically close. Would that make Dazai happy?
What is he to do now?
…
“I understand.” - The President sighs, tired, exhausted, even - “It's not like I feel much for questions as of right now. But this is important…”
…
The President is shaking his head at him and indignation claws at Atsushi's throat, threatening to rip through the chains and slash where he desires most.
Would Dazai want to see him so soon, after all the indifference?
…
“Atsushi!” - a stern tone atop a stern face. Atsushi has to remind himself who the person infront of him is in order to not flinch.
“Huh?” - a weak mumble with barely enough intent in it to move his lips made its way to the President. A sad tilt to his eyes made it all the more clear who was playing the victim here.
Atsushi hated himself. Dazai wouldn't console nor sympathise with him. Dont, dont, dont, please dont.
“Would you want to go to the funeral?” - the President inquired quietly, having to accommodate another nutjob before his inevitable departure.
Dazai was dead.
“Does it matter?”
Fukuzawa crossed his arms in exasperation, too tired to function; “Elaborate.”
Atsushi heard rather than felt the grip of his fingers tighten around his thighs, nails grasping flesh and threateningly to rip it to shreds. At the lack of joking humiliation of how affected he’s becoming, which he had come to expect after meeting with his salvation, Atsushi puts on his cowardly face. The one designed to push others away while pulling him closer to his demise. Misdirected frustration and blame coat his throat in acid when his body acts before his brain does.
“He’s dead. What difference does it make?”