Molly's Fics Cause she Refuses to Read Them on Ao3

The Silence You Left (With Me)

Tw/Tags: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Reuniting, Post-Canon, Married Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya
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The bar was loud, full of jostling drunkards and the sound of clinking glasses. Chuuya sat with a few of his subordinates and some of the Black Lizard, including a bickering Gin and Tachihara, with a cigarette between his teeth and a full glass of wine by his hand. The noise wasn't doing anything good for his headache, but the smoke did—that's what he told himself, anyway, as the throb in his temples persisted. His limbs felt heavy—ironic for someone who could control gravity, but capturing rogue ability users was always a hassle and this group had been especially uncooperative. He'd spent the entire day exercising his ability, throwing punches with ten times their normal power, tossing entire buildings around. It was understandable that even he would be more than winded by the end of the escapade. So when Tachihara suggested that everyone on the mission go out for drinks as a congratulation to themselves, he'd been hesitant to accept. It sounded more appealing to drink in his giant bathtub than surrounded by a bunch of wasted criminals, but he owed it to them (and wouldn't admit how convincing Gin was when she wanted to be.) He'd been so busy for a long while, now, so buying his friends a few drinks was the least he could do. They still had blood on their coats and dust in their hair when they stumbled into the bar, tripping and hollering over each other with wide grins, but no one minded. "You didn't do shit! I had to haul all those nasty bodies out myself while you just watched me from the road." "I'm not a low-level grunt." Tachihara threw his hands up in the air and nearly smacked Higuchi straight across the face in the process. "We're in the same group, you idiot!" "Call me an idiot again when I blend up your balls and feed them to you through your ears," Gin said. Everyone grimaced. "Okay, anyway," Tachihara cleared his throat, "Chuuya." All eyes went to the resident executive, who arched a brow at the sudden attention. Tachihara's grin was lazy, sheepish. "We're glad you came out. Been a while since we've all gone drinking together." "It probably helps that it's on his dime," Higuchi arched a brow. "Yep." Chuuya chuckled, waving a hand. "No problem. We've earned the right to get shit-faced tonight anyway." "Cheers to that!" Shouting and cheering all around as glasses clinked and Chuuya chuckled as he took a gulp from his own glass, which was still mostly full. He'd love to down at least three, but he also had an important meeting with Kouyou tomorrow morning and she might slice him to pieces if he showed up with a hangover. Chuuya leaned over and ruffled Akutagawa's hair with a wolfish smile, raising his glass. "Cheers, kid." Akutagawa didn't smile—those had become nearly extinct since their final clash with the Decay of Angels, and that was saying something considering the normal amount before that—but the corners of his lips may have twitched. "Cheers, sir." It was quiet, so quiet that Chuuya didn't catch it, but he'd become good at reading Akutagawa and heard it all the same. He offered him a secret smile, something a bit regretful and mostly resigned. "Hey, keep your hands off my drink!" Tachihara exclaimed, waving Kaji away. "You'll poison me!" "But it's for science!" "Science can suck my—" Gin whacked the back of his head. "Hey!" "You're disgusting." "And you're—"This time, Akutagawa whacked the back of his head. Chuuya surveyed the bar with lazy, half-lidded eyes, and found them catching on a young man throwing darts. He was handsome, with long black hair tied up haphazardly and a wide smile. His laughter bounced around the bar more than everyone else's. But then Chuuya's senses were overwhelmed, so suddenly, with familiar laughter and an ache behind his ribs, and he looked away. The next few hours went by just as the first few. They drank, talked, threw things at each other and played a few card games (Tachihara didn't win any of them.) The bar became livelier as the night wore on, with more drunkards running for the toilets and throwing punches at each other with each passing minute. Chuuya was tempted more than once throughout the night to drown himself in wine, but he nursed his first glass through the entire night without more than a few sips at a time. He would rather die than admit he was a lightweight, but any more than that glass and he'd have been slurring and stumbling all over the bar (probably starting fights or something, if he was being honest with himself.) Tachihara, Higuchi, the Akutagawas, and a few other nearby members played drinking games for the better part of the evening, which Chuuya only watched with an amused half-smile and his wine glass in hand. He was exhausted, tired in a way that reached his bones, but his head felt clear (minus the wine) and his thoughts light. There was no heaviness weighing against his skull and the thoughts of what was were small. He put out his cigarette and stood, waving a hand. "Alright, I've gotta head out." "Aw, c'mon Chuuya! You haven't stayed long enough if you're still thinking responsibly," Tachihara hiccuped, cheeks ruddy as he leaned over on Gin, who eyed him with both mild contempt and the same fondness that they all had shining in their eyes. "Yeah, I know. Can't meet with Kouyou with a hangover, though," he chuckled, earning nods of understanding all around. "Well, if you have to go," Higuchi slurred, sloshing her drink, "at least leave a little more money for us common folk. I want a refill." "Please bestow upon us a smallest sliver of your grand executive wealth! We beg of you!" They all snickered and snorted, spilling drinks on each other and not minding it. Chuuya found himself smiling, rolling his eyes, leaving a few bills on the counter. He savored the sight; rosy cheeks and white-toothed grins as they laughed at each other and with each other in the same breath. The carefree bliss in the atmosphere was only illumined by the warm light of the bar, and everyone was happy. Chuuya had seen all of them, at one point or another, with the glassy, dead eyes of someone whose very soul had just withered. He'd seen them endure unimaginable violence, unimaginable pain, over and over and over again. Horror, loss, death; they were all just pieces of their lives, like anything else. It was a comfort to know that they could still have moments like these, without all of those bloody footprints behind them. That they all could. Even himself. Chuuya wished he could ride his motorcycle back to his complex, but resigned to calling a car instead with a sigh. The ride was short, and the driver was merciful enough to stay silent for its entirety. She didn't try to help him out of the car and waited for the telltale tap on the roof before driving off without a word, while Chuuya made his way into the lobby, illuminated by the silver of the moonlight cast through the glass entry. He waved to the young man at the front desk, who politely waved back. He didn't question Chuuya's disheveled clothes, the red staining his jacket, the smell of gunpowder and wine clinging to his skin, his hair, down to his muddy shoes. Nobody else did, either. Chuuya let out a long sigh as he made his way to his apartment. He planned to take a long bath, put on some cheesy French baking competition or something, and go over the reports on his latest mission before handing them off tomorrow. Not ideal, but better than nothing. At least he would stop smelling like death. He tossed his coat and hat near the door and slipped off his shoes, grimacing at the mud and gore stuck to the soles. It didn't take long to unbutton his waistcoat and set it down neatly on the bench by his shoes to deal with later, leaving him in his shirt and slacks—they hadn't gotten too dirty, thankfully. Chuuya made his way toward the bathroom, running a hand through his hair with a long sigh. Moonlight filtered in through the window near the couch, casting the entire apartment in a gentle silver shadow. He froze. No. Molten copper and sunlight and heartache stared back at him in those eyes, the same brown as ever. His hair was ruffled like it had always been, somehow refusing to look dirty no matter how unkempt. It looked a bit longer than Chuuya remembered. There was no trench coat, no bolo tie, and a large sweater instead. Bandages peeked out from beneath the neckline, crisp and white the way they always looked when they were new. His smile was small, familiar, painfully familiar. "Hi, Chuuya." Chuuya blinked once. Twice. He was still there, sitting on Chuuya's couch with the same smile and the same look in his eyes. "What the fuck," he breathed, barely above a whisper. He knew it was heard nonetheless. Images flashed through Chuuya's head, images of the aftermath of the battle, the bodies scattered across the city, the lack of any idiot mackerel ones, and the lack of any idiot mackerels. He looked as devilishly handsome as the last time they'd seen each other, all sharp angles and planes. There was sunlight in his gaze, similar to how it used to look. "You're even more beautiful now." That caught him off guard. Chuuya noted the amused glint in Dazai's eyes, likely at his expression—which he subsequently realized had gone slightly slack. He'd heard things like that countless times over their years together. But the way it sounded so unapologetically genuine made his heart stutter. They stared at each other for moments they couldn't count. He said nothing, and Chuuya couldn't. But eventually, when the silence became too stifling and the air too stuffy, Chuuya drew in a sharp breath. "You're here." It wasn't a question. He nodded. "Yeah," he murmured, and still he didn't avert his eyes. Chuuya had so many questions swirling around in his skull—familiar ones, which had been whispering in his ears since that day when he was the one that came back. Where did you go? What did you do? Why didn't you come back?"What the fuck," Chuuya murmured as the situation finally seemed to catch up to him. Too many things began twisting around in his gut; hurt, betrayal, anger "You—I—what the fuck?" "I heard you the first time." Mirth danced in those eyes, the kind Chuuya used to see on the daily. The kind he'd been living without for what felt like so long. "What the fuck are you doing here." The words were breathless, angry, confused, relieved, scared—Chuuya wasn't sure. "I live here," was the breezy reply, accompanied by a lazy wave to encompass the room. "But you've remodeled since I was last here. Predictably tacky, as expected." It sounded so easy, the way he said it, like nothing had changed. Like they were still who they were when they'd seen each other last. Like this was all fine. Chuuya felt a familiar white-hot rage surge up in his blood and before he could think, he was rushing forward and slapping his ex-partner across the face in a rush of bright, blinding anger. "Why the hell are you here?" Chuuya whispered. Their faces were mere inches apart, now. Dazai looked much the same, but many of his features were sharper, somehow. His nose more prominent. His brow more pronounced. "That's no way to welcome your beloved back to our home after so long," was the quiet reply. "My home," Chuuya hissed. "It stopped being your home the minute you left. Again," he added, bitterly. It didn't have the angry bite he'd expected, or perhaps meant it to have. It was defeated, resigned, and maybe a bit disbelieving because they agreed that they wouldn't leave each other again. But Dazai was here, sitting on his couch, inches away from Chuuya and—proven by the slap to his cheek a moment ago—very, painfully real. He left. He's back. Is he?Dazai studied his face for a moment. It wasn't like the way he used to study his victims in the Port Mafia, scanning them for anything he could exploit. He'd never looked at Chuuya like that, not even when they'd first met: an angry teenager and a dead one. He saw Chuuya, without that hard judgment (not in any way that really counted, at least.) They had that understanding. But it was gone, now. Right? Chuuya began shaking his head, drowning under the weight of all that was bouncing around in his skull. "You left," he growled. "You left, damn bastard, and I—" he cut himself off, acutely aware of the way Dazai's gaze bore into him. You left me. Dazai looked so sad. "I know," he said. "God, Chuuya, I know." "I thought you were dead." The words were tossed out into the air uncaring, so angry, hurt. Dazai's answering chuckle sounded painfully fragile. "That was the idea." "How the fuck would you feel if I left you for two years without one goddamn word? How would you even begin dealing with that?" How would you keep yourself from splitting open?Dazai stood up slowly, expression twisting with so many emotions that it became almost unreadable, even for Chuuya. "Chuuya, please breathe," was all he said, and somehow that only made Chuuya angrier. "What the fuck were you thinking waltzing back here after all that?" he shouted, eyes wide and crackling with too many things at once. His breaths were coming fast, chest rising and falling unevenly. His vision swam with red, with hurt, with all the things he'd been suppressing these lonely years. "Damn mackerel bastard!" "And I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you," Dazai reassured him, voice shaky the same way Chuuya's was. He reached out and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around Chuuya's waist, pulling them close. Chuuya didn't—couldn't—pull away, and it felt like his mind and his heart were at war. Stay. Go. Dazai rubbed circles on Chuuya's back, whispering, "breathe," over and over. A steady, unhurried rhythm that settled deep into Chuuya's bones. His raised fists fell against Dazai's chest, halfhearted, and something akin to resignation began to curl around him as he breathed a long, shaking sigh. His fingers loosened and his forehead rested just above Dazai's heart, which beat rapidly behind his ribs. Thump, thump, thump. Alive. Spindly fingers thread themselves into Chuuya's hair, tentatively, and he didn't stop them. "Fuck," he murmured into Dazai's chest. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." His anger began to lull in Dazai's gentle hands, melting away until his chest felt hollow and weary. "I'm sorry." I'm sorry. Not: it wasn't supposed to go like this or I tried to get back.Chuuya didn't say anything. He wanted to kill him. He wanted to kiss him. "I'm so sorry, Chuuya. I didn't—you—I—" Dazai stopped and started, sounding frustrated with himself about it. He couldn't find the right words for whatever it was he was trying to say, and that never happened. "You left." It was quiet, hesitant, unfair. Chuuya knew it was unfair—he had no idea what Dazai had been doing these past years. But he knew that Dazai left, just like he'd sworn he wouldn't, and it reopened old wounds that still continued to fester. The look in Dazai's eyes turned regretful, terribly guilty. "I know." They stayed like that for a few moments, giving each other and themselves a minute of silence. Chuuya's thoughts ran dizzying circles around in his head, jumping and shouting and clambering over each other with as much grace as mules. Dazai's breathing was shaky as Chuuya felt a gentle hand at his chin, lifting his head as he stepped back so he was looking up properly at Dazai. He hadn't realized he'd been crying until a gentle thumb swiped the stray tears away from where they clung to flushed cheeks. "Chuuya," Dazai whispered, and only silence was softer. Chuuya sniffled, shaking his head as he reached up and let himself cup Dazai's cheek. With the anger receeding, dying out, nothing more than a lingering spark in his chest, the realization finally hit him—hit him deep in his bones, where it registered at last. "Hey," he murmured, quietly. Affectionately. Silence settled over them again, a thick blanket of comfortable warmth. It was fragile, but they'd spent a long time learning to be careful for each other. They didn't know how long it lasted. "Fyodor scurried off," Dazai began softly, speaking into Chuuya's hair. "I couldn't let him get away again, but he would've used anyone to get to me." Including you went unsaid. He took a deep breath. "So I tracked him down alone. We played cat and mouse for those two years before he was finally locked up. I wanted to come back— god, Chuuya, I wanted to more than anything—but I couldn't let him destroy Yokohama and I couldn't let him destroy what I've built here. With the Agency. With you." He brought Chuuya's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the thin band on a particular finger. "I couldn't risk anything, and it was better if you all thought I was dead anyway. I didn't expect to make it back, so I thought it would be better to set the stage from the get-go." Chuuya stayed quiet as he processed the information. Of course he knew that Dazai had some kind of good reason for faking his death, but keeping it from even him? It felt just like the day he'd left for the first time. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Chuuya." Dazai pressed his face into Chuuya's hair, whispering it over and over again. I'm sorry. He understood what this would entail, how it would affect Chuuya. He'd probably felt sick to his stomach each time he thought about it (which was much too often, Dazai would say.) Chuuya wound his arms gently around Dazai's waist, resting on the small of his back as he looked up to meet his eyes. Beautiful eyes, handsome as the devil's and saturated with sunlight and heartache. "God, I'm a wreck," Chuuya murmured, cracking a weary half-smile. There were so many things twisting around in his gut, things they'd eventually heal together. For now, though, this was enough—Dazai was here. It would always be enough, more than enough. Chuuya pressed his face into Dazai's shoulder. "Fuck you," he mumbled. "Fuck you for caring. Fuck you for making those two years hell." "I'm sorry," was the immediate answer, whispered so carefully. "Never do that to me again." "Never." Chuuya looked up, caressing Dazai's face with a gentleness he would never show anyone else. A gentleness he never thought he'd show anyone again. He huffed a small sigh. "Fuck. I love you." Chuuya heard Dazai's breath catch in his throat. His eyes widened slightly, lips parted. "You..." he trailed off, to which Chuuya chuckled faintly. "I love you too." Dazai's arms tightened around him, pressing them closer together (if such a thing were possible.) "So much, Chuuya. Too much for my own good." "You sound surprised." "I wasn't sure if Chuuya would still have me after what I did to him." Chuuya blinked. "Of course I would." The reply was immediate, automatic. And it was the fact that Dazai said that at all, that he believed it, that reminded Chuuya of how far they still had left to go to heal from all they'd done to each other. Chuuya was angry—he was pissed. But he loved Dazai more than anything else in this god-forsaken world and he'd be damned if a few years apart changed that one bit. "Dazai—" Chuuya reached up and brushed his thumbs over Dazai's cheeks, searching his expression with those same crackling blue eyes of his. "Of course I would. Do. Fuck," he murmured to himself before shaking his head. "That was shitty. Really fucking shitty. But you—you're—" he cut himself off again with an irritated scowl. He had too many things he wanted to say and they were all getting caught up in his throat and behind his teeth. So instead of spitting them all out in a jumbled mess, Chuuya tangled one hand in Dazai's hair, gripped his collar with the other, and crashed their lips together. Chuuya had never been good with words. He lashed out, stumbled over himself, could never find the right thing to say. That was always Dazai's strength, and why they worked so well together. While Dazai's realm was the verbal, Chuuya's was the physical . He wove his hand into Dazai's hair, tugging on the silken strands as their lips slotted together in an easy, familiar rhythm. Dazai let out a low, guttural sound as his hands began roving, over Chuuya's hips and along his stomach. It was familiar, the way they fit together like this, and Chuuya felt starved as they stumbled backward. Dazai collapsed onto the couch and took Chuuya down with him until he was straddling Dazai, one hand in his hair and the other tracing lines over his chest. There was a hungry, pressing want that curled around Chuuya's ribs as they explored each other, the same way they had a hundred, thousand times before. It hit him again that Dazai was here, tangled up in him, alive and beautiful as ever and here. Beneath his fingers, Chuuya could feel unfamiliar bumps and ridges on Dazai's skin—new scars he had yet to hear the stories of—and the thought made something in him feel almost inexplicably eager. They were still discovering each other, even after nine years. "Fuck," Dazai murmured against Chuuya's lips, fisting red curls in one hand and gripping his hip with the other. "Fuck, Chuuya." Chuuya swallowed those words up, rocking his hips and savoring the feeling of Dazai's hands over him and his lips on his. I love you. In every kiss, every touch, it echoed. I love you, I missed you, I'm sorry, I love you. When Chuuya tried to verbalize all the things that twisted around in his gut, they exploded out of him in an angry mess. He was clumsy, irrational, unsure. But here, this was all familiar territory. He didn't flounder, didn't hesitate, didn't fill up the air with misunderstandings and nonsense. This he could navigate. "I love you," Dazai whispered against his neck. "God, Chuuya." Chuuya wanted to stay like this for the rest of his life, but the thought tickled his skull that they still had so much they had to do. Regretfully, he began pulling away, and Dazai leaned up with him to press one more kiss to his lips as he rested his hands on Chuuya's hips. For a moment, Chuuya didn't say anything and studied him. He ran gentle fingers over Dazai's face; his brow, his cheeks, his lips. He had always been so beautiful, similar to the allure of a fine marble statue. Everything was sculpted just so, sharp and delicate and particular. But not all of it, because there was a small bump on the bridge of his nose from when they'd met, when Chuuya punched him straight in the face and broke his nose. There were one or two thin scars along his jaw from a knife fight with a small gang, and one on his ear when it had almost been cut off. He had a bent left pinky from one of their overseas missions, and there was a small mole on the inside of his wrist that Chuuya had kissed a thousand times. It was those things that Chuuya had always, would always cherish, more than his perfections. "Hey," he murmured. Dazai's answering smile was gentle. "Hi, chibi." There was no teasing lilt to the familiar nickname, no mockery. Only quiet, fragile affection, and an ironic endearment. They stayed like that for a few moments before Chuuya drew in a breath, opening his mouth to speak. "Please don't apologize." Chuuya blinked. Dazai's eyes danced with faint amusement as they flitted over Chuuya's face for a moment, before settling back to meet his gaze again. He didn't add anything else. And Chuuya huffed a chuckle, shaking his head, because of course Dazai knew he was going to apologize and of course he understood. "You have no idea how much I've missed you," he breathed. Dazai arched a brow. "Don't I? Sleeping in a cold bed for so long; it was the most miserable I've ever been.""Oh please," Chuuya snorted. "Don't try to convince me that you didn't have your fair share of fucks while you were out chasing rats." "I would never! Do you truly believe I would be unfaithful to my beloved?" Chuuya stared at him. "You let your beloved think you were dead for two years," he deadpanned. "That's not the point! I would never have sex with anyone but Chuuya—besides, he's the only one who can truly satisfy me. I've tasted heaven and I cannot go back," Dazai lamented, pressing a hand to his chest to further the dramatics. Chuuya rolled his eyes, but something ached in his chest at the familiarity of their nonsensical bickering, and it made the situation feel so much more real; this was real. Dazai must've sensed his train of thought because he pressed a kiss to Chuuya's knuckles and gave him a reassuring, if not slightly bitter smile. "I'll always love you, you know. Dead or alive." Chuuya huffed a small chuckle. "Quite the claim, mackerel." "I am nothing if not sincere." He rolled his eyes. But then Dazai's expression shifted into something more genuine and he pressed his face into Chuuya's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he murmured, like he hadn't said it a hundred times already. "I'm so sorry." Chuuya ran his fingers through his hair. "I know," he said. "Me too." A few minutes of fragile silence passed over them before Dazai pulled back and flitted his gaze over Chuuya's face for a moment, like he was committing it all to memory. He didn't say anything, though, and Chuuya leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to his forehead. "Welcome home, mackerel."Dazai reached up and cupped Chuuya's face in his hands in response, pressing a slow kiss to his lips that Chuuya returned languidly. There was no rush, no starving desire like before. It was gentle, thorough, intentional in every meaning of the word. They were cracked and bloody in a heap on the ground, but they would spend the rest of their lives putting each other back together if that was what it took. "It's good to be home, slug."

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This isn't that angsty ngl

Retrieved From: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43885902