[Coa] Tadashi: Chapter 001

Tadashi's Apartment 

Seattle, WA

United States of America

August 2009

 Taadashi Sato releases a shaky breath as he shifts back onto his side. 

His eyes remain firmly shut, body having been still and unmoving for hours. The only thing that had forced him back to reality was his phone alarm having had gone off an hour back. In response, Tadashi merely reached under his pillow with a grumble and turned it off without care. 

It was routine at that point. Tadashi's routine nowadays was to ignore and sleep past anything and anyone who would try to rouse him from slumber. To him, that remains the only way he could and can manage to fight off the dull ache resounding from his chest. 

At the moment, he remains in slumber. There's mumbling that escapes his lips, garbled words sounding strangely like wait and please. His body jerks once, then twice before he wakes abruptly. There's a gasp for air, a shaky release. 

Alive. You're alive.

His body shakes. Sweat drips down the side of his face. Tadashi inhales, exhales, and then repeats the process. There's nothing but a constant buzz in his mind; it's an unsettling sensation that makes his stomach lurch. His figure flinches in response to his thoughts; with his mind slowly coming to life and his subconscious starting to whisper, all he could do was push himself up and bury his face into his hands. Words try to leave, but he finds himself unable to say anything; harsh breaths escape his mouth. 

The world is set in greyscale and silence. He can barely see any trace of color in his dimly-lit bedroom; all that goes on in the background is the light noise of the heater almost enough to disrupt his mind's buzzing. If he strains hard enough, he could almost make out the sound of the rain from outside the bedroom window.

There was no one present except for him. The thought of loneliness makes him slump back into bed. Tadashi covers his face with his hands, mumbles a shaky curse—fuck—and ignores the dull throb in his chest. He ignores the heaviness that weighs down, ignores the could that embraces and clings to his figure. 

Nothing is gentle. They both press down as soon as he finds himself staring up at the ceiling with the same, exhausted pair of weary brown eyes. 

He didn't know what time it was—

—then again, the time didn't matter. Work was the last thing on his mind, the very last thing he wanted to attend to. His co-workers wouldn't mind. The others wouldn't mind. The administration wouldn't mind. No one would mind. He was just one person, after all; one person out of many others who could get the job done, delivered on time, and executed perfectly to a T. 

Tadashi keeps staring at the ceiling. Nothing comes out. Nothing descends. He reaches, attempts to grab, to grasp, to hold--

But nothing reaches back towards him. Nothing grabs for him. With that, he allows his arm to drop and drapes it over his face, obscures his vision without a single sound.

Another shaky breath passes his lips. There's a burn in his eyes; the ache in his chest grows stronger. His lips move to form the word no. He finds himself escaping, retreating, repeating the very same process he had committed hours and days before. 

Tadashi yanks the two blankets over his sleeping figure—stop shaking, stop—bundles himself, and buries himself underneath. He wills himself to sleep—shut your eyes, fucking sleep already—

And he does. 

The dreamworld drips with hues of dull purple, and that's all he wants. It's both a familiar sight but also not quite.

He sees a familiar figure up ahead and finds himself home. 

You. You. It's you. 

"Wait," he croaks. His heart races. Tadashi reaches out and takes a step forward; "I'm here. I'm here—”

He takes one, two steps. He stumbles, nearly trips, but takes another step and then four. His hand attempts to grab, to reach, but the figure in front only glances momentarily in his direction. 

The closer he moves the farther she gets. 

Kind eyes, tired eyes; they're soft brown, like her favorite coffee. Black hair reaches her shoulders. She dons a simple suit matched with a purple tie—a purple that's brighter than the dreamworld around him.

He opens his mouth again, feels her name leave his chapped lips. 

"Eun—”

She turns away, the dream shatters, and Tadashi finds himself awaking with a choked yell. His legs kick the sheets off wildly, his hand instinctively reaches out as if someone were there, as if someone had heard, as if someone had entered his room to take him into his arms and whisper, console; I'm here. 

But it's only him. 

Tadashi realizes that he's alone as soon as his hand shoots up and touches nothing but cold air. 

The heaviness creeps in. The loneliness attaches itself to his figure. He's breathing harshly; Tadashi brings his outstretched arm back down. In the dim of the room, he can already tell that he's shaking. The burn is back, the ache returns, and all he can do is breathe harshly and whisper her name over and over as if hundreds of breaths could bring her back to him. 

But he remains alone. 

…

Tadashi wakes up to swollen eyes and damp pillows in the late afternoon. 

(The heater keeps going. The world remains grey.)