Work Text:
Yamada Hizashi is a popstar.
He's a singer; a songwriter; a musician.
He's an organ donor.
And today, he is going to die.
To Whom It May
He sighs, crossing the words out. They join his other pathetic attempts at starting the letter off, crowding the page. He hadn't imagined this would be so difficult. More difficult than writing songs, at least.
After all, unlike his songs, there is no one to write this to; no one to care.
Hey hey! So, I've decided
Hello. I wanted to let y
I'm sorry, but
To Whom It May
What does one say to crowds that adore merely the idea of you? How does one formally break a contract via suicide note?
He can't explain himself.
He feels... Empty.
He is a passing trend, and will fade only to be replaced by the next hot thing. He has no family, no friends, no lover. He is a pretty shell atop the rot of the man he could have been, had his life gone differently.
He takes a deep breath- one of his last- and places his pen to the paper once more.
To All of My Listeners: I love you all. Please, take care of yourselves. Drink water. Treat yourselves kindly. Know that I have loved performing for you, and treasured every second we've spent together.
To My Manager: You've been good to me. You've stopped SO many embarrassing posts from being made. You've laughed with me, cried with me, sang and danced with me. All I ask is that you continue doing those things, even when I'm gone. Your smile kept me going more days than I can count.
To Whoever Needs This Written Down: I'm not caught up on legalities. My lawyer has my will, and there's a copy in my studio at home. Still, to reiterate- My money, I leave to the School for the Blind and Deaf, the Trevor Project, and Jazzy Cat Cafe and Bookstore, divided evenly. I leave my eyes to Kaminari Denki, my biggest fan who motivated me to learn braille. I leave my heart to Takami Keigo. Bounce back from that hiatus, kid! Everything else? I don't think anyone wants that. Too much alcohol when I was younger, you know?
He ponders the words on the page.
Is this all he has to say? Are these really his last words?
There are so few, and they seem to amount to nothing at all as he reads them over again.
At long last, he sets the pen down. There's nothing more to write, and there's nothing he can do now to change that. Maybe if things had been different; but maybe doesn't change his mind.
Shouta steps through the wall, grey mist coalescing around him in a thick vapour. Cold billows around his robe, and he scowls.
His human, Hizashi, never keeps things so frigid. The blonde is a more mild-weathered man.
The chill is unsettling in it's finality, as if all the warmth has been sucked up, never to be seen again. He can't imagine Hizashi is faring very well in it.
And he's right.
As he steps into the bathroom, bare feet silent against the floor, he stops in his tracks. Hizashi is submerged in a tub of ice, skin a startling pale bordering on blue. His eyes are closed, although the reaper can her soft, shaky breaths coming from him.
"Holy Fuck! I leave you for two hours, and I come back to this?!" Shouta shouts. He extends a hand, his scythe manifesting. With a swing of the blade, the tub stopper comes loose, slowly draining the water from the tub.
But there's too much ice.
His dumb human sits still as a statue, as if he himself is frozen in place.
"An angel." Hizashi whispers softly, eyes opening the barest bit. "Beautiful."
Tears track down Shouta's face as he kneels by the tub, a hand reaching out but not touching. His fingers shake.
He's watched this human for not nearly enough time. He's seen Hizashi through scraped knees, and binding, and surgeries- and he mourns the time Hizashi has robbed both of them of. He was supposed to grow old. He was supposed to keep lighting up lives and brightening days for several more decades.
Shouta feels regret welling up inside of him, as well as a terrible shame. He is Hizashi's reaper. He is supposed to be there to whisper encouragement when the human is down.
How can he go on existing when Hizashi has ceased living? His human had needed him, and he hadn't been there.
"I gotta... Write a song... About this." Hizashi whispers, voice growing quieter. "Dark haired angel."
And all Shouta can do is cry.
All he can do is watch as Hizashi's warmth finally disappears, his light going out. He collects himself, watching as Hizashi's spirit appears before him.
Spirits are such innocent things, with no memory of who or what they were. Shouta takes its hand, leading it back the way he came.
"What happened to that guy?" Hizashi's spirit asks, all wide eyes and wonder. "Where are we going? Who are you? Who am I?"
Shouta is silent, unwilling to speak lest his voice crack and reveal his emotions. He guides the spirit to Limbo, turning to leave. He can't bring himself to look back.
Eventually, his memories of Hizashi will fade. He will go back to his dull existence, guarding and reaping mindlessly.
And one day, he too, would fade.