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Atsushi is pretty sure he was having a panic attack.
Not completely sure, of course, because he’s never been completely sure of anything in his life, but mostly sure. Heading to a steady 90% sure if his deafening heartbeat and the chaotic rise and fall of his chest are anything to go by. Maybe they are. Maybe they aren't. Maybe he's just crying, and crying, and crying and that's all it is. God knows he can't tell right now.
The part of his brain that's functioning remembers something he and Kyouka use when things get too... rough in training. A counting game of sensations.
Sight, sound, touch, smell, taste.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
After prying his eyes open, he takes in the now blurry room. Just 5 things , he thinks, just 5! Easy, easy, easy! Heterochromatic eyes scan through it, taking the details in again. There's the overturned chair. It's leather , he notes, and there's a jagged scar in the top of it, when my nails dug through i - And then there's the picture frame, untouched on the desk. It must be of the current kids. They all sit there obediently still, and Atsushi can almost envision the day he took his. Maybe it's on the wall somewhere, a picture where you can almost see the welts from beneath his shirt’s collar.
Haha.
The next thing his eyes latch onto is a box. Tiny, slightly crushed, but mostly fine. Some tears on the edge. Cute, with blue ribbon and silver wrapping paper. A cute little present. Maybe. He wasn't sure. His eyes glide easily from there to the red seeping in the carpet.
From the carpet to the body with- fuck.
His breath catches in his throat, hitches as his vision blurs again, as something aches. Stings. Move on already, Atsushi, hurry! Hurry! Before it gets worse!
Counting sounds goes quickly. There's his own breathing, followed immediately by his own heartbeat. It makes him acutely aware of how fast both are racing, and he tries to slow them down, but he can't stop it, can't stop how it all rushes forward. Distantly, there's the bell toll, the one they'd talked about. Funny how it's ringing again now, like a church bell before a funeral. Funny.
The fourth sound is much fainter. Barely registerable, honestly. He wouldn't have noticed if it wasn't for the tiger’s senses (and maybe it'd be better if he hadn't heard it). It's a soft ticking. Tiny. Small. Nearly not there at all.
That part of him that’s still lucid wonders why the bomb hasn't gone off. It doesn’t take long for that thought to meld into the rest.
For touch: his nails scrabbling against the wooden floors as he scrambles past, splinters jamming their way beneath them. It hurts like hell. The sensation of when he soaks the knee of his pants in the slowly growing pool of blood. The silver wrapping paper crumpled in his palm.
The obvious smell he can count is blood. Its rusty scent crowds the spring air. It drowns out the rest. But he wants to imagine he can smell the flowers outside. He wants to imagine that it’s not so suffocating. His hands continue to tear open the package, ripping at cardboard and tape to see what’s inside. They shake more when he succeeds.
The taste on his tongue is bile. Atsushi takes the golden clock, twists it around, and it’s like he can’t breathe again. So much for counting.
He pukes until it hurts, and after that, all he can do is talk to himself pathetically.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." The words are spat out rapid fire. A chant. A prayer.
The orphanage director, of course, doesn't seem to pay much attention.
And, in retrospect, he's so stupid. So dumb. He's everything he's ever been called and more. They were all right about him. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupidstupid- The ticking hadn't been a bomb. The arms hadn't been reaching to attack him. How stupid. how goddamn pathetic.
He'd been scared of a hug. A hug!
It was just some praise, some love, some affection, and he'd been scared of it.
Fuck.
He takes a glance at the director's face, at what he's done, and the sight is enough to make him dry heave. It'll have to be a closed casket after what he's done. What a monster. He shudders again. What a fucking monster. Atsushi shifts just enough to avoid resting his head in his own vomit, and rests his head against the hardwood. His thoughts are a mess, scattered and reforming as fast as they can.
It’s chaotic, not unlike a storm. The panic still hasn't left his system as he lays there. He sucks up air like he's been drowning.
Dazai had warned him.
The thought comes to him, unbidden; it’s unwanted.
It rings true.
Dazai had told him to never return. That it was a bad idea. Dazai had been right. Dazai had been absolutely, completely totally right, and he'd disobeyed. He'd thought himself wiser than his mentor. Had somehow imagined himself as smarter.
How stupid.
How goddamn stupid.
And now.
Now.
...Now he didn't know what to do.
He's not sure how long he sits there, taking in ragged breaths. Time doesn’t really seem to pass. Things don’t really change. At least. Not until he hears the tap of shoes on the hardwood by his head. The tip of one pokes him and he shudders.
"Ahhhh, he's alive, Chuuya-kun! We should celebrate!" Dazai's voice seems to echo in his skull. "Don't give me that look! We should, despite everything. He’s a valuable asset," The mafia boss says, and Atsushi can hear him crouch, can almost imagine the look he's giving Nakahara. "He just needs to talk with his mentor. Now, can you wait outside a minute?"
The redheaded executive sputters at that. Any sane mafia member would. Leave the boss alone with the rampaging tiger? With the bastard who disobeyed? No one would agree to that. And for Nakahara, there’s more stakes to it than just "Oh well... he's the boss, y'know?". He’s the one in charge of making sure Dazai doesn’t die. He hates it, hates it a lot, but he’s loyal. He’ll argue as much as he can to deter the boss’s thoughts, and he’ll get as close as he can to disobeying without ever doing it. There’s a moment where he tries. The moment passes quickly. Atsushi can hear him leave. Just as Dazai said to. There's a pause.
And then…
“Sit up.”
There’s a hand in his hair as Dazai drags him up. It takes all his energy not to fall back down, but he doesn’t wince. The grip on him isn’t comfortable - probably even pulls out a few hairs - but for a minute, the pain is grounding. Calming. His hitching breath slows, at least a little. He’s calm.
Dazai’s hand lets go, and settles back into his folded arms. He’s crouched to Atsushi’s level with all his weight resting on his toes. It looks precarious - but Atsushi knows he won’t fall. Dazai isn’t the type. His coat rests on his shoulders, brushing against the ground. “ Well, well, Atsushi-kun,” Dazai says. “What happened here?”
There’s a hint of a smile in his voice, but his eyes are cold. Atsushi suppresses his shiver. “I…” His voice is hoarse. “I disobeyed your orders and-and-and I-I k…” Atsushi starts. Tries to choke it out before he freaks out again.
“And you did what, Atsushi-kun?”
It’s obvious , he thinks. It’s obvious what he’s done, but Dazai’s going to make him say it. He’s...
“I kil-killed him, Dazai-san.”
… Cruel like that.
Dazai frowns at that, but there’s still that indifference in his eyes. “I see. And you left such a big mess when doing so…” He sighs. “I thought I’d trained you to be better than this. Instead, you’ve created such a problem.”
He did, didn’t he?
“I’m sorry,” Atsushi mumbled.
“None of this would have happened if you listened, you know? This was on you, Atsushi-kun, and now I’m the one who will have to clean it all up.”
His chest tightens again.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled again.
Dazai tilts his head. “Hm? Then… this won’t happen again, right? You won’t disobey my orders again, right?”
Atsushi nods.
“I’m sorry, Dazai-san.” It’s all he can say.
At that, Dazai smiles.
“Good.”