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Dazai was five when the door slammed shut the first time. He remembered staring at it for hours, etching the carvings and little scratches into his memory. At the time, he didn’t understand why. Why had his father left so suddenly? Why was his mother seething in anger? Why was his mother letting his father leave? Why was his father leaving? Why was the door being slammed shut? He didn’t know, he was too young to understand. All he knew was that there was a lot of shouting, a lot of hitting, a lot of bad noises. And then the door was slammed shut. And he never saw his father again.
Dazai hoped he would never have to see another door being slammed shut ever again. The noise was loud and scratchy, and it tugged at his ears, forcing him to shrink back into that little five year old who was too young to know what a bad relationship looked like. He couldn’t stand the sight of a closed door. It seemed final, finite. Something that couldn’t be changed, something that acted like the end of something. In his mind, if the door was slammed, it meant it was over. Of course, this was ridiculous. It was just a door. A piece of wood. It didn’t mean the end.
But anytime he saw a door being slammed shut, the five year old within him trembled. Something would end, something would be over, something would change. Dazai didn’t like change. Change meant different, change meant new. And new meant there was uncertainty. New meant he wasn’t in control. In order for something new to exist, something must end. The door must be shut. And Dazai didn’t like closed doors.
From then on, Dazai left doors open. His bedroom door might as well have not existed. It was always open, the hinges rusting from disuse. But Dazai didn’t care. As long as the door was open, he wouldn’t have to worry about something ending. As long as the door was open, he could convince himself that he was okay.
It drove his co-workers mad. Kunikida would roll his eyes and yell, telling him it wasn’t difficult to close a door. But Dazai simply smiled, hiding the truth behind a knowing gaze. “On the contrary, I think closing doors is the hardest thing of them all,” Dazai answered, twisting his true meaning into something that could be brushed off. No one seemed to pick up on it, but Dazai didn’t mind. As long as the door stayed open, Dazai didn’t care if no one knew why he was so insistent on it in the first place.
But despite his best efforts, all doors had to close at some point.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Dazai?” Chuuya shouted, glaring at him. There was a pained look in his eyes. His beautiful, bright red eyes that held so much emotion, held only anger. A fiery passion Dazai was used to seeing, but it was not wrapped around a loving embrace. It was wrapped in spikes, a poorly packaged slap in the face to force Dazai to listen.
Dazai couldn’t answer. He knew he was wrong. There were plenty of things wrong with him. He knew that better than anyone. He stared and stared at Chuuya, searching for the familiar look of understanding and fond annoyance that would morph into care. But that was gone, hidden behind a fierce gaze that burned holes through his skin.
“I-,” he stuttered, no longer exuding that confidence he usually held. Under Chuuya’s gaze, Dazai was weak. Under Chuuya’s gaze, he couldn’t lie his way through, ignoring how he felt.
Goddamnit Chuuya, why do you make me feel this way?
“You what?” Chuuya spoke, speaking slowly so as to not lose his temper. His tone was sharp, his gaze still burning.
I’m sorry.
“Chuuya needs to calm down,” Dazai spoke, cursing himself internally for not being able to just apologise and ask for forgiveness like any normal person.
“Calm down? Calm down?!” Chuuya spoke, his eyes wide with shock. “No, I won’t calm down! You disappear for days , and don’t tell me where you’re going and I’m left here to just worry like an idiot and now you’re back and you think I can just calm down? ” Chuuya ranted, breathing heavily. His chest was rising and falling quickly as his gaze hardened.
Dazai felt his heart drop. He knew he was wrong. But he couldn’t be honest, couldn’t just admit that he was sorry or that he just needed a few days away from everything. He wanted to. If he could have, he would be on his knees, begging for Chuuya to forgive him with perfectly worded reasoning.
But he couldn’t.
Chuuya turned his back on Dazai and walked to the door. He didn’t turn around once. Dazai watched, his breathing rising. Shakily, he stepped forward, reaching a hand out to grab onto Chuuya before he could leave. Chuuya couldn’t close the door. He couldn’t leave. It would mean the end. Everything would be over. And Dazai didn’t want this to end.
He didn’t want Chuuya to leave.
“I’m staying with Kouyou for a few days, do whatever you want,” Chuuya mumbled underneath his breath, slamming the door shut behind him.
And suddenly, Dazai was five years old again, memorising every carving and little scratch on the door.
Everything was over now.
The door had been shut.