Chapter Text
Six Years Ago
Taako shoves his hands into his desk drawer in a blind rage, scrambling to grab onto whatever items he can and throw them out as quickly as possible. Crumpled-up papers, chewed-up pencils, and a worn-out agenda go flying into the nearby suitcase lying just underneath the drawer, waiting to catch whatever objects Taako sends its way. Only a few miscellaneous items miss the target, rolling across the floor and coming to a halt in various places of the dorm room. There’s a quiet clank as a broken ballpoint pen knocks against the suitcase’s zipper before colliding with the carpet below.
Dust, hair, and crumbs rub against his fingertips the farther in he reaches. Something that feels like a stale Cheeto puff crunches under his grip before it’s tossed into the suitcase with the rest of his junk.
The anxiety running through Taako’s veins puts an immense pressure on his chest, nearly collapsing his lungs. Each breath he takes sounds like a pant and feels like it takes more effort than it should. There’s a burning knot in his throat and a sharp sting in the corners of his eyes. His knees are shaking, almost to the point where they would give out. He almost wants them to give out, if just to allow him a break from this mad-dash of a cleanout he’s trying to accomplish.
But if he wants to get out of his dorm room before his deadline, he can’t afford to stop now.
This sucks , he concludes angrily in his mind. This fucking sucks. I just wanted to cook, that’s all I asked for. I just wanted to cook the same meal I’ve cooked a thousand times before. Where the fuck did i do wrong-?
Something stabs through his index finger and Taako reels his arm out of the drawer. He lets out a strangled curse and brings his hand closer to his face. A red thumbtack, a simple red thumbtack, has somehow managed to pierce its way through his skin. A deeper red liquid trickles out from underneath the puncture wound.
“Great, just fucking-one, two… three .”
He pulls the thumbtack out just as quickly as it went in. More blood rushes out of the small wound. Pressed for time, he nonchalantly pushes the wounded finger into his sleeve. He can’t care less at this point. He quickly returns back to work.
An hour passes and the dorm room still looks too lived in to be considered packed up. Vintage wrestling posters and family photos are still taped to the walls, along with his “Recipe of the Month” calendar. The small twin bed he’s slept in for the past half year is completely covered by his rainbow bed sheets. Various cook books sit untouched on his bookshelf.
Once the desk is mostly spotless, Taako moves to his closet and practically rips all of his clothes off of their hangers. There’s a loud snap as the plastic keeping the garments from hitting the floor breaks under the force pulling against them. He ignores the sound and keeps moving, shoving everything he can into his suitcase, not bothering to waste his time folding anything.
He spares just a moment to pull his phone out of his pocket and check the time. 4:43. Only seventeen minutes until it’s all over. There’s not enough time to pack everything away.
Taako lets out an almost winded grunt before he throws his phone to the side and starts moving at an inhuman speed. He grabs whatever he can and forces it into his suitcase, stacking items on top of each other and shoving them deep into the pockets of his bag. If something refuses to fit, he simply tosses it to the side, not having enough time to give it a damn. He knows he doesn’t have enough time, he knows this, but the knowledge isn’t going to stop him from giving it his god damn best .
Then his phone goes off and he comes to a complete stop.
At first, Taako thinks it’s his alarm and his body tenses at the thought of the dorm staff bursting into his room, ready to throw him out. In a few moments, it’ll all be over and his dream of becoming a professional culinary chef will be officially dead.
But there’s only one person in his contacts whose ringtone is set to a Kenny Chesney song.
He throws himself over to his phone, his hands shaking as he grasps the small, rectangular device up to his face. Merle’s wrinkled, smiling face shines brightly on the screen. His body is dressed in a horrid pair of jodhpurs and plaid garters printed in a black, green, and red. The bottom of the screen cuts off before his infamous combo of socks and sandals can be seen.
It’s 4:55.
Taako swipes the call button to the right and brings his phone to his ear.
“…Merle?” his voice wavers.
“Taako, it’s…it’s Julia.”
He’s out the door mere moments later.