Author: Silver Symphony
Summary: He longs for her- until he's sober.
Moonlight dances across her pale, still body. And the night is still with her. Crickets forget to chirp. The wind neglects to blow. And the rivers twinkle innocently, like a child pretending to sleep. She is at peace...
Her slumber is short-lived. Heavy footsteps jerk her awake. Her curtain of auburn hair spills over her face in her excitement. Stale fish and sake smothers her wildflower incense burning in the windowsill. Their abode is small; the stench carries quickly. Her stomach lurches at the stench. Mugen has returned from his rowdy jaunt at the brothel.
Fuu flips her hair back, tosses the sheets aside and hoists herself out of bed. Mugen's stumbling worsens; she hears the crashing sound of a vase shattering against the floor. She grumbles and hastens to catch him lest he breaks something else. As she inches closer, the smell aggravates her stomach further. She clasps her hand over her mouth in a feeble effort to quiet her churning insides.
She spots Mugen, disheveled and quite hyper, swatting the air with his katana and humming off-key. She sighs in disgust. Mugen would do her a great service if he drinks until he loses consciousness.
She ambles over to Mugen's backside. He has yet to notice her; he is too engrossed in his swordplay. Her petite hand grazes his broad shoulder. Her touch renders no change. She calls to him, softly. Mugen's haphazard sword swinging ceases as he tilts his head backwards to look at her.
His attempt at drunken acrobatics fails; Mugen loses balance and tumbles backwards. And he's laughing. Fuu frowns. She is not amused.
Impatiently, she extends her hand in order to lift him to his feet. Mugen reaches out to grab it; he misses the first time. Fuu kneels at his head and proceeds to pull him up by the shoulders. Mugen admittedly weighs much more than she can lift. A firm pressure seizes her right wrist. Mugen is gripping it. She freezes, unsure as to whether she should break his hold (and break her wrist in the process), or if she should let him do what he will. Minutes—though they trickle by like hours— pass while she indulges in the warm rigidity of Mugen's hand clutching her delicate wrist. Surely it will leave a mark by morning.
Gently, he tugs down on her wrist. Her large chocolate eyes are fixed on his—they're dark and unfocused. Fuu is painfully aware of her hammering heart. She wants Mugen to release her, to stop the impending heart attack that is surely to follow if he keeps holding her like this.
He tugs on her wrist harder. Fuu tilts forward in spite of herself. Her hair spills over her anxious face, and it temporary blinds her. And, as she pushes aside her tresses, Mugen's face looms in front of her own in her few seconds of obliviousness. His bony fingers are still clasping her wrist. Her breathing suspends. Mugen has never been this close to her; it both terrifies and electrifies her. Goosebumps decorate her skin.
And his stench doesn't aggravate her senses anymore.
At first, he grunts. He sways a bit where he sits, still clearly under the influence of the sake. But those eyes are drilling into hers with a steadiness that doesn't extend to the rest of his limbs.
Mugen's hand slides away from her milky wrist to slither along her partially bare arm. Sharp and sudden, she draws breath again. With the grace of a spider, fingers crawl along silken terrain until he reaches her shoulder blade. Dimly, she hears him muttering, but she cannot make sense of it.
His hand lingers there for far too long; her lungs shriek for air, and she remembers to breathe again. Mugen mutters louder, and she still cannot glean any lucid words from it.
Mugen's head leans forward; Fuu assumes he's lost his balance again. She steadies him by cupping his face; in retaliation, he clutches her wrists.
Her hands are quickly snatched away and he buries his face into the crevice of her bosom. A blush, red as apples, blots her cheeks, though it goes by without Mugen's notice. And in the stifling quiet of the room, his husky voice floats to her ears.
…And it's not nonsensical rambling. His words romance her ears with sweet declarations of beauty and longing. How her skin is so soft. How she glows in the moonlight. How he years to kiss her naked flesh until she trembles in his arms. His dry, chapped lips graze her bosom; she shudders.
Soon, her entire body flushes with heat. Mugen's gentle affirmations continue as his lips bath her in tiny kisses. Fuu cannot process this situation, nor can she comprehend why she would gladly remain this way if the choice were left for her to decide.
Her shaky hands wind their way into his shaggy mane and stroke him gently, lovingly. She swears that Mugen whines under her touch and he burrows deeper into her soft flesh. And she holds him there, against the pitter-patter of her racing heart and of the serene glow of the sinking moon.
After a spell, Fuu is aware that Mugen's lips are frozen against her bosom and that his head remains still. She wanes under his pressing weight. Mugen has fallen asleep. She shifts her weight to see if he will stir. He doesn't. She gently presses against his shoulders and he topples over on his back. Still, he does not stir. Sighing, Fuu tightens her silk robe around her and slips back into bed, trying to disregard the ache in her loins.
By morning, which arrives with pale sunshine and fluffy clouds, Mugen can't recall anything before his departure for the brothel. He greets Fuu, as he usually does, with his unpleasant scowl and sour temper. And she retorts with her flimsy insults and childish pouts.
And things are as they should be.
Yet Fuu is convinced, for the briefest of seconds, that Mugen's face flushed when he spotted the bright pink marks— the marks he caused— glowing around her wrists.