Chapter Text
next day
Luckily for Chuuya, it was Saturday and he didn’t have to go to work. Normally his workaholic self would still drag himself there anyway, but this week had been absolute hell, and for once he actually needed the rest. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone at work truly needed him that badly.
Chuuya woke up on his balcony with a splitting migraine. The empty wine glass had rolled onto the floor, and his hat was lying forgotten in the corner.
He groaned softly and pushed himself to his feet before walking toward the bathroom. After taking off his clothes, he stepped under the shower.
The water was cold, but he didn’t bother changing the temperature.
The chill ran down his back and across his shoulders. Normally he would complain about it.
Today he didn’t care enough.
When he stepped out of the shower, his eyes landed on the bathroom mirror.
For a few seconds he stared at his reflection, as if searching for something hidden in his own face. Something he couldn’t quite name.
But he didn’t find it.
Instead, the image in the mirror seemed to change.
Red streaks began spreading across his neck, slowly climbing toward his face.
His corrupted form.
Chuuya froze.
He couldn’t move.
Everything went black.
When he came back to his senses, the mirror was shattered.
Fragments of glass covered the sink and the floor. His hand throbbed, small cuts scattered across his skin, and dark stains spread across the tiles.
Drops of blood fell slowly among the broken shards.
For a moment he just sat there.
Then the memories from the previous day started piling up in his mind.
Work.
Osamu Dazai.
The wine.
Everything at once.
The weight of it all pressed against his chest until breathing felt harder than it should.
He picked up a shard of glass from the floor, looked at it for a moment, pressed it against his forearm and slid it. The blood was wine-red. The first cut hurts and burns, but the relief feels very calming. He did it twice, then five times, up to fifteen. The cuts were so long there was no space left. He wanted to keep going, but to cut his other arm he’d have to use the same hand—still holding bits of glass—so his hand could get infected. He stopped.
Eventually he forced himself to stand and walked toward the kitchen. Opening one of the cabinets, he grabbed a small medical kit.
He took out tweezers and bandages. First he carefully removed the tiny pieces of glass stuck in his hand. Then he cleaned the cuts and wrapped them.
It was slow and tedious, but at least it gave him something to focus on.
After finishing, he realized he hadn’t eaten.
He had already woken up late, and several hours had passed since then.
Technically he could make something.
The kitchen had plenty of food.
Chuuya stood in front of the refrigerator for a long moment, staring at the handle without touching it.
His gaze drifted to the dark window across the room, where his reflection stared back at him again.
He frowned.
Eating had never been something he enjoyed. Some days it felt unnecessary, like a chore he kept postponing. Other days he simply told himself he wasn’t hungry.
He crossed his arms and looked away from the reflection.
“Later,” he muttered.
He returned to the balcony and cleaned up the mess from the night before. The empty glass was thrown away, and the bottle was pushed aside. Once everything was in order, he carefully placed his hat back on the rack.
When he checked the clock, it was already 11:00.
Normally that would still feel early for him, but weeks of late nights and terrible sleep were finally catching up with him.
Chuuya tried lying down again.
But sleep refused to come.
The more he tried to rest, the louder his thoughts became.
Not very pleasant thoughts.
If he disappeared, would anyone even look for him?
Would anyone actually notice?
Or would the world keep moving forward like nothing had changed?
The ceiling offered no answers.
So he kept staring at it.