Item four: laundry
Laxus had not changed the sheets in weeks. Two weeks since she left, two weeks of him seeing her tear stained pillow cases right before he fell asleep. Two weeks of him waking up to the scent of her and him reaching for her, hopeful, but he only grabbed her empty side of the bed, dejected.
There was laundry she left in the dryer, forgotten for the more important things just within reach and perhaps the delicate silks and lace will be dust catchers; Laxus was too prideful to take them down. Or maybe he was too weak. He quite liked seeing bits and pieces of her here and there, skillful stabs to the space between his ribs, the cage of an angry monster never calm; hungry for anything she's ever touched.
(The beast behind his ribs was more restless since she was gone; "Where is she, what the fuck did you do now?")
Her scent permeated tiny crevices of his house: the big throw pillows on his sofa smelled just like her perfume, the table cloth which he swore still carry the aroma of whatever she had ever cooked, the curtains she washed in her flowery soap, the bathroom, the backyard. Her towel, God, it smelled like the time of night when he was so tired he just buried his face into her hair. He couldn't wear his clothes without catching himself smiling because he'd think she just took it off but the realization would settle in, hand in hand with crushing heartache.
He thought of burning his house. A property leased in his name but built by the two of them and ruined by the same people. Everything in it was so saturated in her that he couldn't move without feeling like he was a voyeur into a home that turned into just a living structure: cold and empty because she was gone. Maybe the fire would plug up his nose, send acrid smoke down his lungs and leave no more room for remorse.
So he consoled himself with the idea of selling it, maybe moving back into the miserable bachelor pad he only slept in even though he knew that wasn't going to happen.
(Maybe he was still waiting for her to come home.)