Fuu hums to herself so her lips won't stay still.
If her lips are still they'll whisper to her. They'll whisper about things like running away and moving on and holding back.
She hums of raindrops and dirt and riceballs and burning. A burning sun sinking below an inky horizon.
The fiery image is reflected in the cool water rippling around her ankles. She hums and the water silently kisses the hem of her kimono.
She had hummed a lot when she walked alone that one time. Walked and dared herself to turn around.
Turn around and laugh to see them (him) still standing there. Turn around and tell them (him) it was all a very funny joke. Laugh to see their (his) familiar scowls.
Laugh and be there.
She nearly did, you know. Turn around and walk back. But Fuu is well-versed in these sort of things. She knew.
She knew that turning back would only defeat the purpose of the "after." She mustn't think of what came "before" anymore. It can lurk temptingly, mournfully, guiltily in her mind. Pushed far in the shadows with dusty sunflowers and dried up scents for company.
But there's no need to feel guilty, she is sure. She moves slightly and the water ripples.
It did what it did what it did, and it ended with the strands tied neatly and the debris swept away. There is nothing left over.
But that's a lie, isn't it? There's an after and it's hers and it's oh so empty-
Would it really be so bad to lie and go back and be selfish?
But Fuu is well-versed in these sort of things. She knows. That's why she made sure she ran as far as she could before she could ask that question. That way she wouldn't be tempted to reach for his sleeve and stop the world on its axis.
Fuu watches her hands flutter like distraught butterflies, thinking that they are quiet.
Yes, hands can be quiet. She knew somebody whose hands were loud and clashed against metal, sparks dancing in his blade and eyes.
She remembers a woman she had met some time before (but she scolds herself quickly after, because it is the after she is supposed to be facing, not the before, remember?). The woman who closed Fuu's eyes with steady fingertips so that the two of them were the same in that brief interlude that was her haunting song and plucking strings.
The haunting song that plucked at her heartstrings.
And then Fuu will scoff and toss her head, even though there is no one to watch or hear, remembering the lewd comments and gleaming eyes that were not for her.
She tells herself sometimes that her hands are quiet because she holds back too much. She could be just as loud and colorful as the streaked sky above her head (as the rooster that crows boastfully in the morning), but she has a heavy weight that sits on her brow, muttering to her at night and in her dreams.
It mutters to her of what she should do and what she shouldn't, like how she shouldn't be thinking of what could have been and how it was only a "could have" and nothing more.
Fuu knows very well that what she feels is more than what she says, and what she says is less than what she cares to admit. Only alone can she let her heart beat out words to fly through her ribs like birds.
The words fly on heavy wings while she watches the water ripple. She thinks that it could have lasted forever, but that too is a "could have."
She hums of sunflowers, roosters, and "could have's." She hums it so her lower lip won't quiver. Her hands feel the air. They move slowly and aimlessly so that they won't brush away tears.
And she lets herself cry because she knows she saw a red jacket and disdainful eyes earlier that day, tossing taunts in a low voice and grinning through a curtain of wild hair. She lets herself cry because she knew she could have ran and buried her face into him, into the scent of dust and earth. She could have followed his larger footsteps, placing her feet in each one as he walked on ahead of her, knowing she was there.
But these are "could have's" and so she didn't. Because she was afraid of what might happen. What should happen.
And so she stayed where she was and turned on her heel, tilting her face up so the tears would stay back and cursing every step she took. Each step was a wish that he would yell and pull her back, that girl who flipped a coin so very long ago.
But he doesn't. And in her heart now, she realizes that she didn't expect him to.
But she wanted him to, so badly. As badly as she had wanted him to be the one to come for her as she bit down on her lip and tasted blood, feeling wood and rope bite into her skin, the faintest odor of withered sunflowers in a lone beam of sunlight-
Fuu is well-versed in these things. She knows. Events happen for a reason, fate is a cruel joke, and "could have" occurs more often than "did."
She laughs hollowly, bitter salt on her tongue, thinking that maybe it's for the better that she has nothing of her own and nowhere to go. Maybe now she can hold onto something that doesn't move.
And so Fuu watches the sun finally hide away completely, taking blood red for her heart and golden for his eyes with it.
A/N: I was greatly inspired by Samurai Champloo's end theme, Shiki no Uta, and so I decided to use its beautiful sunset scene as an "epilogue" to the series. As sad as the show's ending was, I found it strangely satisfying, because I know for sure that Fuu, Mugen, and Jin will meet again.