Dazai finds an engagement ring in a shoebox in Chuuya’s closet—what could possibly go wrong? | part 1
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Dazai found the ring by chance (read: hidden in a shoebox at the bottom of a closet Chuuya used exclusively for storage), and his brain short-circuited.
It was a ring. In a heart-shaped box.
It was ridiculously cheesy—he would’ve puked up last night’s dinner if it weren’t already stuck in his throat while his mind boiled.
A fucking engagement ring.
His first instinct was to shove it back in the box, steal it, and toss it into the river.
Maybe he’d jump in after it—to drown his thoughts and, if he was lucky, finally meet Death, his most elusive mistress.
But he didn’t do any of that. Instead, he clutched the box until the cardboard gave under his grip, and when the oven beeped and startled him, he flung the box to the back of the closet.
He had to get out of there.
"The oven," Dazai reminded himself, like a mantra. One task at a time. One step at a time, or whatever. First the oven, then the crisis that was about to bring him to his knees.
He turned off the oven and stared through the glass at the tray. The lasagna was ready. Perfectly cooked. And Dazai wanted to ruin it—just like his foolish Chibi had ruined his heart.
He didn’t take out the tray. Didn’t stand there to check if dinner was good, or if it even mattered, or if—
It’s the only thing he knows how to do, right? When something’s too much, when things slip out of his control—he lashes out, draws blood, or just vanishes.
But he couldn’t vanish forever. His Chibi was stubborn, and worse—this time, he wouldn’t chase him. If Dazai ran, Chuuya would stop.
Chuuya would let go. For good.
His fingers wandered to the collar of his shirt, brushing over the bolo tie. His breath hitched. He stumbled, catching himself against the brick wall, and when he looked up—vision blurred—he realized he’d made it to his dorm.
He’d left Chuuya without saying anything. That was fine, right? Not the end of the world but—
Slug: Mackerel
Slug: Why isn’t the lasagna in the fridge?
Slug: And where the hell are you?
Slug: Look, fine, whatever, but don’t sleep in your bandages and eat something, bastard.
Slug: I’m here if your stupid ass needs me.
His phone screen dimmed, and Dazai dropped it on the futon before curling up, hugging his knees.
His Chibi was worried. He could feel it deep inside, where Chuuya had rooted himself almost eight years ago. And Dazai—no matter how hard he tried—had never managed to pull him out. If he had only done it when he had the chance—a kick, debris, and sunset-colored hair—maybe he wouldn’t be curled up in his dorm, mourning his existence and questioning the last few years of his life.
His futon felt wrong—too hard, too cold. Everything felt off, from his clothes to the bandages wrapped too tightly.
When had this happened? His dorm used to be fine. Running water. Heating. People who cared. When did that stop being enough?
When did Chibi’s apartment, with all its unnecessary luxuries and comforts, become theirs?
He’d let Chuuya take root, poison his bloodstream, infect everything.
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