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Dazai hadn't answered any of his texts. This wasn't unusual, and it wasn't unusual for Chuuya to go to Dazai's apartment to force Dazai to give him whatever he'd needed from the texts in the first place. It wasn't unusual for Dazai to not answer the door, nor for Chuuya to break in.
The apartment was silent. A quick sweep of the kitchen and the living room revealed nothing. The bedroom, then. Chuuya tried the knob.
It was locked.
That was unusual.
Chuuya kicked the door open.
Dazai hung from the ceiling, his feet a good distance from the ground. He faced Chuuya, his eyes closed, face purple, and body limp.
Chuuya grabbed his knife and threw it. The knife severed the rope, and Chuuya rushed forward to catch Dazai as he fell.
The impact knocked them both to the ground. Chuuya pushed Dazai on his back and straddled him, fingers tearing at the rope still tight around his neck. Once he managed to yank the rope away, Dazai gasped for air.
Chuuya sucked in a stuttering breath. His heart slammed against his ribcage. There was a dark bruise where the rope had been strangling Dazai’s neck, and Chuuya wanted to cover it with his hands.
Then Dazai opened his eyes. They were dull, staring up at Chuuya without any emotion except, perhaps, disappointment.
"You bastard," Chuuya hissed. All the times Dazai had joked, and he'd never thought to tell anyone how he really felt.
"Chuuya," Dazai whispered. "Get off. This isn't...the first time."
"You should have told someone," Chuuya snarled. "You should have told me. I'm your fucking partner, what the hell do you think I'm here for?"
Dazai closed his eyes.
"I'm staying here tonight." He grabbed Dazai, pulling him into a sitting position. The worst part was that Dazai let himself be moved around this way without protest. Chuuya helped him into his bed, then added, "if you want to talk I'm here."
Then he grabbed the rope off the floor, glanced around for any obvious dangers, and headed into the hallway.
From there, he cased the rest of the apartment. He gathered pills, razors, what looked like poisons, and he locked himself into the bathroom. He flushed what he could. He crushed the razors in his hands, twisting the metal until it was no longer useful and throwing it in the trash. His own hands bled, but he didn't care.
There were still knives and guns. Chuuya sank to the floor and realized his entire body was shaking. He couldn't take those from Dazai; he needed them for his job. He would never be able to watch over Dazai all the time. He wasn't even sure if Dazai would talk to him. He certainly didn't think he could make whatever had driven Dazai to death go away, not if it had anything to do with the Mafia.
Unless something changed, this wouldn't be the last time. Chuuya couldn't prevent it. He could only hope to get there in time, and clean up the mess after.
A sob tore from his throat and he pressed his hands over his mouth, tasting blood. He drew his legs up to his chest so he could bury his head in his knees to further muffle the sound.
Dazai had always said that Chuuya cared too much. Chuuya had never taken that to heart, but now he truly felt it. He cared, and it was terrifying. He didn't want to lose Dazai, and he was acutely aware of how much easier it would be if he didn't care at all, because there was nothing he could do.
At some point, the fear became a numbing exhaustion that took over Chuuya's entire body. He forced himself out of the bathroom to check on Dazai.
Dazai was asleep. Chuuya walked down the hallway, towards the living room, feeling a bit outside of himself. He lay down on the couch. Time passed, and he drifted but never slept.
He knew the numbness was just exhaustion after feeling too many intense emotions in too short a time, but he wished it would last. He didn't want to be afraid. He didn't want to feel what he'd felt when seeing Dazai's limp body swinging from the ceiling.
He wanted to stop caring. He knew Dazai wanted him to stop caring, too.
But he wouldn't be able to. That was his biggest weakness.