Samurai Champloo
Genre: Angst/Romance
Type: Oneshot
Pairing: MugenxFuu
Title: Lateque (far and wide)
Summary: Smooth skin brushes against his elbow, featherlight, as she sits down beside him. MugenxFuu.
(rough; dark; I really think I over did it, but it was so much fun to write)
xx
The sky is stained purple, orange, and red as the sun comes up and the rooster crows and he sits high up on the hillside staring down at the village.
He's thinking about fires and faces and screaming children; flying swords and brutal wounds. People running away, people running toward, people running in every direction.
Chaos and tragedy; sorrow and woe.
A soft wind comes, soothing, whispering, and it carries with it her tentative footsteps; small, slow, shallow.
He doesn't turn around, doesn't look at her. Just sits, staring, breathing; arms crossed over raised legs, eyes ahead and focused.
Smooth skin brushes against his elbow, featherlight, as she sits down beside him.
"What are you doing out here?" She asks, her voice hoarse and gravely, but she already knows.
Quietly, she shivers from the morning cold and the dewdrops on the grass steadily soak through her kimono, reminding her of rain.
And she thinks of fires and faces and screaming children; flying swords and brutal wounds. Open mouths that scream in protest and agony; limbs that flail and kick, bodies that fall, eyes that stare without life or emotion.
"Thinking," He mumbles cryptically and his voice sounds far away and hollow and she feels like crying.
It's not your fault, it's not your fault, it's not your fault, it's not your fault.
Yelling voices, wide eyes, delayed reactions; cramped spaces, falling debris, a samurai running swiftly, sharply saying—
"Don't." Her side is pressed directly against his now, soft but firm, and boldly she lets her head fall on his shoulder, eyes blurring.
And he stiffens, affected, because he can't stop thinking of blazing fires and anguished faces and screaming children; time that only goes forward and never back; lives that are only lived once and lost once.
He twitches, fighting the urge to grab her roughly, to crush her to him, like his life depends on it, like he'll never get another chance. Because, really, he's fine. It's nothing. He's just thinking. He's just breathing. It's not his goddamn fault.
Glasses that crush and break; promises that fade; routines that shatter and lives that end; a samurai running swiftly, sharply saying,"We must get out; find a way!" to his companions who looked left, and looked right, and fought their way through hell and burning buildings only to reach safety and realize—he was not with them.
"Son of a bitch,"He hates him, for sacrificing, for taking away his right, for leaving, for—
"I said, don't, damn it." Rapidly, she pulls back, eyes burning and red-rimmed, and he grits his teeth while looking back at her, jaw clenching.
And he doesn't care about fighting it anymore.
He just doesn't care.
So he grabs her arms and pulls her harshly forward, tight and desperate, thinking it will keep her safe, and keep him sane, and keep them together, because now—
It's just the two of them.