Samurai Champloo

Genre: Romance/Angst

Type: Complete

Pairing: MugenxFuu

Title: Volutarei (willingly)

Summary: Because this is what they do, and this is who they are, and he is sure, more than anything, that they are incapable of anything else. MugenxFuu.

xx

"You!"

This is what she says.

It's loud and piercing and almost a yell, but not quite. There is outrage, and hurt, and withheld emotion; a bitter tone and a narrowed gaze overlaid by the sharp contrast of her broken smile. There are people walking nearby—peasants, children, happy couples—and they stumble and stare and try not to gawk at the man and woman arguing in the middle of the street.

And he shrugs, all shoulders, because he has heard this before, from her, in the same street, in the same way, in the same fashion. The same looks and the same pose; the same words.

Because this is what they do, and this is who they are, and he is sure, more than anything, that they are incapable of anything else.

But he grins anyway (a wry sort of smile) and fists his pockets and acts like this isn't the first time she's caught him running away from their promise.

"Me."

xx

"You."

This is what he says.

It's monotone and weak and almost disbelieving, but not quite. There is gratitude, and hope, and strangled relief; a harsh delivery compounded by the weight of his relentless glare. There are bodies laying nearby—soldiers, strangers, all unknowns—and they stare up and stare down and stare everywhere but at the woman and man leaving the blood-stained battlefield.

And she laughs, without humor, because she has seen this before, from him, in the same place, in the same way, in the same fashion. The same weapon and the same wounds; the same words.

Because this is what they do, and this is who they are, and she is sure, more than anything, that they are incapable of anything else.

But she smiles anyway (a fragile sort of thing) and grabs his sword and acts like this isn't the first time he's watched her save him from such destruction.

"Me."

xx

"You?"

This is what they say.

It's vague and monosyllabic and completely meaningless, but not quite. There is love unspoken, and light unshed, and questions unanswered; two wavering tones of voice complimented by the intensity of sidelong staring. There are trees nearby—tall, swaying, a whispering wind—and a samurai watches from a shadowy distance.

And he smirks, and she smiles, because they have done this before, with each other, in the same place, in the same way, in the same fashion. The same motions and the same feelings; the same words.

Because this is what they do, and this is who they are, and they are sure, more than anything, that they are incapable of anything else.

But they approach each other anyway (a sluggish sort of process) and embrace desperately and move as though this isn't the first time they've come into contact with something so helplessly eternal.

"Me."