With something between a groan and a growl, he rolls upward. Folding grasshopper legs into his chest, he smears a rough, scarred palm across sore eyes, rubs them reddish-purple. The hand drops. He rests his chin between the bony points of his knees. The exhaustion is too fucking much; it's all too fucking much these days.

He tightens his arms around his shins. He is alone with the dying fire. Once, during that insane journey, he prayed for this day. He scoffs, kicks at the charred remains. Ash bursts, singing his tattooed ankles.

Sleep hates him, he thinks. A sharp bark escapes his lips. If only it were that simple.

There is a rustle, a flutter of wings. Irrational panic beats a frantic rhythm in his chest; his limbs splay out; knuckles articulate around the hilt of his sword; eardrums pound; he's never been afraid of dying, he reminds himself, but he feels her falling tears and his heart thumps; he can't die, not if -

Then the thunder hums, like a struck gong, and he can only blink as grey eyes refocus on the present, on the physical. The bird deigns to appear on a branch perfectly within his line of vision. It cocks its head. Scowling, he spits in its direction, but the effect is lost to the rain. The crow mocks him loudly and flies. The leaves recoil from its touch.

The water runs in rivulets down his face, and he digs his fingernails into his grasshopper legs, teeth gritted. He fights not to remember any of the times he's drowned for her; God, he was always drowning for her in some form or another -

The rain splashes, and he stops at that crossroads with that shitty umbrella, the rain flecking his jacket through the punctures. It's useless anyway, he reasons, when he flings it aside and bolts back for her. It's the bars, he decides, when he kicks his way into that goddamn brothel and glares at those whores, his sword redder than he's ever seen it. The bars look too much like prison, he thinks. Too much like cages. Too much like home -

The storm gale beats on his body, and he leaps over Shouryuu on spring heels. They fight, the water sloshing about their feet, the wind swirling in their palms, and he flexes sore, newly scarred hands as he lunges, staggers, slumps into the river. He sees the worry in her face when she touches his bleeding palms, when she strikes the flint, and he punches his tanto through the man's chest -

His wet shirt weighs heavy on his skin, and he plummets down, down, the ocean and memories dragging at him. He sinks so low he comes right-side up. The desperate edge to his voice scares him more than they do, but they send him back with visions of Kohza, of four-eyes, of her, and then Mukuro's damned plan and the first time he drowned. Yes, vengeance is the reason he's back this time; it must be -

The next crack vibrates his chest, and he whirls on Sara, watches her pull her hit. She crumples, and fury fills his throat. He screams, demands, but he knows. As she lays dying, he remembers when the difference between them was laid bare across his stomach. Yes, he knows, and the rage wells up in him, fierce, incoherent, because as this woman so like him gives up, as the very sky mourns her, he refuses to admit that if not for that girl -

The rain drenches him to the bones, and he shudders, dying all over again. Liquid soaks from his chest and gut into his shirt, his haori. With a wheeze, he falls to the sand. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, feathery, flapping like bird wings.

And he is ready.

He's lost count, he thinks, of how many times he's drowned in life, how many times he's sunk so low he's come right-side up. He's lost count of how many times he's told them no, how many times they've sent him back, and though he's wondered, he's always had enough sense not to question his immortality.

No, he's never had need to be afraid of dying.

But for the first time, as the blood seeps onto the sand beneath him, he truly feels no fear. As he bleeds out on that goddamn beach, endorphins blur into epiphany. His life, his entire half-blessed existence, was to save her this last time. So as the crows come for his corpse, he makes no requests.

But then there are the droplets on his cheek. His name, whispered first, then sobbed, then screamed, and irrational panic beats a frantic rhythm in his chest; he is so conditioned, he realizes pathetically, to respond to her distress; it is all he's ever lived for. She invokes him once more, and like the pitiable dog he is, he goes back because, because -

He opens his eyes. The rain has lightened, a soft patter on his damp skin, gentle like her tears. And only now, only when the exhaustion and the echoes of her voice together are too fucking much to bear, does he permit himself a single, strangled cry, drowned in a clap of thunder.

Couldn't sleep and felt like writing something angsty. I always imagined that Mugen, having been starved for true affection all his life, would not take separating from his only friends all that well. And once I considered his compulsion to save Fuu - well, to me that would amount to a lot of sleepless nights,

I mean, don't get me wrong. Mugen would definitely get back to his usual ways, thieving and killing and sleeping around and generally being Mugen. But in private moments -?

Let me know what you think and, as always, thanks for reading.