Desperate Silence

AN: Holy shit! I just realized I haven't updated this collection of drabbles in over a month! SHAME! Dishonour on me!
Well, I am again, regardless. This one is really not fluffy at all. Just a queer little drabble. But at least I'm posting something, right?
At any rate, THANKS SO MUCH to everyone who's taken the time to review this stuff. I honestly appreciate it! So- on with the drabbles!

Mugen couldn't see them down the road anymore. He still looked for them, squinting into the dying sunset for their wavering silhouttes. It irritated him, because they'd been gone for months now.

He hadn't watched them leave, all those hours and days ago, at that sunny crossroad. He hadn't turned to see them walking away from him, and he told himself at the time it was because he didn't care. It was an episode, a chapter, and though it was a strange one, it was definitely closed. Still, he wished he'd watched them walk away.

Maybe if he had, he'd have a clue to where they were now. For gods' sake, where the hell could a flat-chested, obnoxious shrew and a pansy-ass, four-eyed pretty boy disappear to? Japan was only so big. With all his wandering around, he should've at least come across one of them!

Not that he would admit to looking for one of them. Hell, no. But he couldn't stop checking every red-light district he came across for a familiar pink kimono-- because, you know, she was always getting kidnapped-- or searching out every bad-ass samuria he heard rumor of, only to kill the pathetic prick out of sheer disappointment when he found them. Because Mugen had only ever known one man that he'd never beaten, but never got beaten by,s either.

Friends. That's what they'd said to him. And Mugen had never had friends before, never known what he was missing. After they'd left, an unfamiliar emptiness crept its way slowly, inevitably, through his consciousness, until he had to drink himself into a stupor whenever he got the chance in order to numb it. For a little while.

Mostly he stumbled down the road, searching, squinting into the purple-pink of the setting sun, searching for a familiar silhoutte.