Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In a small village tucked between quiet hills and winding rivers, the years blended together like the morning mist. Stories told around firelight — of two wild samurai and a determined girl searching for the man who smelled of sunflowers — had faded into half-believed myths. Life was slow here. Peaceful. Predictable.

Fuu was older now.

Gone was her pink kimono and the bright red pin that once held her hair back in the summer heat. In their place was a simple green kimono, patched with hand-stitched mementos — bits of old fabric, a red thread, a strip of blue that once belonged to someone long gone.

She’d found peace here, years ago. The townsfolk were kind. The food was good, and her belly was always full. As the village herbalist, she made an honest living, her days of wandering long behind her.

But peace never asks if it’s welcome to leave. It simply does.

It began with a sound — grating, too loud, and so familiar it made her heart stutter.

“So ya finally filled out to be something to look at, huh?”

She froze, almost dropping the tray of dried ginseng in her hands. That voice.

She turned slowly.

Mugen stood in the doorway like a ghost that refused to fade. A few wrinkles creased his sun-darkened face, and a scruffy beard had taken over where stubble once lived. But it was him. Just as wild. Just as uninvited.

“Mugen? What… what are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“I wasn’t lookin’ for ya,” he snorted, walking in like he owned the place. “Got a cut. That old bastard at the dumpling stand said the village healer lived here.” He plopped down, already shrugging off his shirt. “Didn’t think it’d be you .”

“Mugen, you have to leave. Now,” Fuu said quickly, her eyes darting to the door. “Come back tomorrow. I’ll help then.”

“What’s the rush?” he asked, grinning. “Got yourself a jackass husband or somethin’?”

“No! I’m— I’m happily alone, thank you. Now please , leave—”

Before she could finish, a high-pitched voice cut through the house.

“MAMA, WE’RE HOME!”

Two small boys tumbled through the doorway like a wave, breathless and bright-eyed.

One had wild black hair and sun-kissed skin. The other had softer features — light brown hair like Fuu’s and a small scar across his nose. Both stared at Mugen, and then at their mother.

Mugen blinked.

Then he stood, shirt hanging from his hand, staring at Fuu with eyes that flashed through a thousand emotions — disbelief, confusion, anger, and something softer beneath.

“…What the fuck ?”

Fuu's heart twisted, her voice barely a whisper. “Mugen…

Chapter Text

Mugen can’t believe what he is seeing. The children before him look both like him and not at all like his own. He has had this dream over the years, thoughts of a wife and children he could never have, not with the life he has led, not with the darkness in his past. 

Before the girl can say anything or the kids can ask who the stranger that looks like them is, Mugen pushes past them running away from what can't be true. The door still trembled on its hinges, Mugen’s sudden exit leaving more than just cold air behind. Fuu stood frozen, the sound of her sons’ laughter silenced by the tension now hanging in the room.

“Who was that, Mama?” asked the dark-haired boy, his golden-flecked eyes darting to the door.

Fuu’s lips parted, then closed. Her heart thudded against her ribs like a prisoner begging release. Not yet. Not now.

Seeing Mugen flee from her home brings back memories from all those years ago. It was almost seven years since they had split the journey to find the samurai who smelled of sunflowers and everything that had meant left her shaky. 

One night of endless passion sandwiched between Jin and Mugen on their last night together, both of them still lightly injured but needing to say goodbye in words neither of them were good at. The next morning at the cross roads them all going their separate ways should have been the end of it but it wasn’t. 

The morning had broken pale and cloudy when Fuu stumbled into the small village, too weak to speak above a whisper. Her clothes hung off her like old prayer flags, and her eyes bore the glaze of someone who hadn’t rested in weeks.

The healer's house was marked with a windchime made of bones and shells. A sound that reminded her of home. Or maybe of the sea.

Kaede had eyes like cloudy glass but saw more than Fuu could ever hide.

“Sit down before you fall, child,” she said, ushering her in with a hand both firm and gentle.

“I’m fine, really… I’ve just been walking too long without food.”

Kaede hummed and handed her a steaming cup of broth.

“That may be part of it. But it’s not the whole of it.”

Fuu blinked. “What do you mean?”

Kaede’s smile faded as she pressed a hand over Fuu’s wrist, feeling the faint

flutter of her pulse.

“You’re not sick, girl. You’re pregnant.”

Fuu froze. The world spun faster than before. “No, that’s… I can’t be.”

It was just one night. A goodbye… Not even sure who—

Kaede raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know the father?”

Fuu whispered, “It could be… one of two. Maybe. But they’re gone.”

Kaede nodded once and said nothing more. She didn’t need to.

Fuu pulled herself from memory and met her sons’ eyes.

“He’s… someone from long ago,” she said finally, brushing a hand through the hair of the boy with the scar on his nose.

“Someone I never thought I’d see again.”

Mugen ran not stopping till he stumbled through the tree, breathing hard. Not from exertion — but panic. Cold, paralyzing panic.

“This is a dream. Has to be,” he muttered.

“Kids that look like me? That’s not possible. That can’t be real. Can’t be mine.” He punched a tree, bark cracking under his knuckles.

But he saw it. The wild one, all legs and teeth and attitude — that was him. And the other one — quieter, calculating, watching — like Jin.

And Fuu, older now, softer around the edges, but still her. Still the girl who tied their lives together with a coin flip and a stupid dream. His feet stopped moving. “They’re not mine,” he said to no one.

“But what if they are?”

Chapter Text

The hearth still burned low when Jin knocked — not loud, just enough to say: I’m here. I know.
Fuu opened the door slowly, tired circles under her eyes and a weariness that had settled deeper than bone. She didn't speak at first. Just stepped back and let Jin enter.

The children were already asleep upstairs. Jin stood in the doorway for a long moment, the flicker of firelight catching on the glasses. His sword was sheathed. His usual stillness — perfect, practiced — was cracking at the edges.

“I saw him,” Jin said quietly. “Running. He looked... afraid.”

Fuu poured tea for them both without asking if he wanted any.

“He saw them,” she replied. “And saw himself.”

Silence stretched between them like a pulled string, thin and vibrating.

“You never told him,” she said finally, eyes fixed on him. “All this time.”

Jin didn’t answer right away. He sat carefully, posture still rigid, but his voice lacked its usual composure. “I did not.”

Fuu looked at him — really looked. “Why?”

A breath. A beat. Then another.

“Because if he knew,” Jin said, “he might have stayed. For them. For you. And maybe…”
He swallowed something bitter. “Maybe not for the right reasons. Fighting has been a part of his whole life.”

Fuu’s fingers tightened around the cup. “And what were the right reasons, Jin? Loyalty? Love? Or that you didn’t want to share him? You don't just get to decide who Mugen is or how he lives his life.”

That hit its mark. Jin flinched, just barely. But Fuu saw it. She always saw the small things others missed.

“I told myself I didn’t owe him anything,” Jin admitted. “Not after he left without saying goodbye the first time. But every time he came back... every time we—” He trailed off. “It felt like home. But only in pieces. And I never knew how to ask for more.”

Fuu stared into the fire. “So instead of asking, you let me raise them alone. Never even gave him the chance to change.”

Mugen sat with his back to a tree, knees pulled up, bottle half-empty at his side. He hadn’t gone far — just far enough that the lanterns of the village looked like fireflies.

He’d paced. Cursed. Punched a tree. Cursed again. “Two kids, huh? Same damn smile... Same eyes…”

He took another swig, then spat it out.

“Jin knew. He had to know. Bastard always knows everything.” The thought made his jaw tighten. “All these years… while we were…”
He didn't finish the sentence.

Fuu set the tea down untouched. “They deserve the truth. Mugen deserves it too. Even if it’s seven years too late.”

The front door creaked open.

Fuu stood slowly.

And Mugen — eyes bloodshot, clothes dirty, anger and heartbreak twisting in his face — stepped into the light of the fire. “Don’t fucking stop on my account,” he said, voice low and hard. “Go on. You bastards tell me what else you decided I need to know.”

Mugen didn’t shut the door behind him.

He stood just inside the frame, the night air clinging to his skin like smoke. His coat was torn at the shoulder, mud dried along his worn sandals. His eyes didn’t settle — flicking from Fuu to Jin, then to the quiet of the home he’d just run from.

“So,” he said, voice sharp as he closed the door and sat down. “You knew.”

He was looking at Jin now, and the weight of it was not a question. It was an accusation. Jin didn’t flinch — but he did adjust his glasses, the firelight glinting off the cracked rim.

“I did,” Jin said evenly. “Since they were born.”

Fuu stood slowly, placing herself between the two men.

“Mugen—”

“Don’t,” Mugen snapped. “Don’t play mediator like I’m some fuckin’ kid you gotta settle down.”

His eyes were bloodshot, not just from drinking — from everything.

“You saw them,” he said to Jin. “You knew . And you just decided I didn’t need to know?”

Jin’s silence answered before his words did. “I told myself it wouldn’t change anything. That you'd leave anyway. That it would chain you to a life you’d grow to hate. Fuu told me she didnt want a samurai for a husband. So I felt that it was better to let you go.”

“You let me —” Mugen laughed, but it was a hollow, joyless sound. “What the hell gave you the right?”

“The same thing that gave me the guilt,” Jin said, voice flat. “We both made choices, Mugen. We went our separate ways. You seemed happy when we would meet with being a wanderer again.”

Fuu stepped forward, the weight of old years pressing behind her words.

“Both of you made your choices. But you don’t get to fight now. They’re not swords to be won. They’re children. My children.”

Mugen looked at her — and for the first time, the fire behind his eyes cracked, revealing something closer to pain than rage.

“And I’m their what, huh? A shadow? A ghost? The man they’ll hear about when they’re grown but never meet?”

“You could’ve been more,” Fuu whispered. “But you left me behind, samurai cant ever give up their swords not really not even for family.”

“You never gave me the chance.”

Jin, ever composed, adjusted his glasses again. Without them, he couldn’t see the wall, let alone the man who once shared his bed.

“It’s not just guilt that kept me quiet,” he interrupted suddenly, and Fuu turned to him. “It was selfishness. I didn’t want to lose what we had — when we crossed paths. The fights. The moments. I knew if I told you, I would never have that again.”

Mugen stared at him, confused. “Why?”

“Because some part of me wanted you. I still want you. And I thought if I let you stay free… you’d always come back to me alone.”

It was the most honest thing Jin had said in years. Fuu turned her gaze to the fire. She didn’t cry. Not anymore. Not for things in the past for not wanting to end up heart broken like her mother.

Mugen doesn’t answer.

He walks past them both, into the room where the children sleep.

He doesn’t wake them. Just watched.

One of them stirs, hand twitching, eyes fluttering open for a second. He mumbles something under his breath, half-dreaming.

Mugen freezes. He shuts the door gently behind him.

Chapter Text

The old house creaked with the sounds of quiet life — floorboards shifting in the night air, the whisper of wind against rice-paper walls.

They sat together at a low table, knees tucked beneath them, shoulders stiff with the weight of old hurts. Mugen had washed the dirt off his face and hands, though a faint bruise still bloomed near his jaw. Jin’s glasses had been straightened, though a thin crack ran through the corner of one lens.

None of them spoke at first.

But the silence was no longer jagged. Just... cautious.

Mugen was calmer now. He sat with his back against the wall, one arm draped over a raised knee. His eyes flicked occasionally toward the stairwell, where the boys still slept above. “I ain’t here to make a scene,” he said finally, voice low. “I just… I want to know them. That’s all. I didn’t ask for this, but now that I know — I can’t pretend I don’t.”

Fuu’s hands were folded around a cup of tea, gone cold in front of her. “I believe you,” she said. “You’ve always been reckless. But not heartless.”

Her voice was gentle, but firm. “I’m not the same girl you left behind, Mugen. And maybe... maybe you’re not the same man, either.”

Mugen didn’t answer, but the look he gave her was something close to gratitude — awkward, uncertain, but real.

She turned then, finally, to Jin. The light caught the edges of his glasses, but she saw the tension in his shoulders, the faint tremble in the way he held his cup. “You had your reasons,” she said. “But I need to hear them. All of them.”

Mugen leaned forward. “Yeah, let's hear it. Why keep this shit from me for years , Jin? You, of all people. You had a dozen chances.”

Jin looked between them — the girl who had once trusted him with her heart, and the man who had once shared his body but never quite let him close enough to hold.

“Because I’m not like you,” Jin said quietly. “I don’t act on impulse. I don’t believe in fate or redemption like Fuu. I believe in what is known to me. And you, Mugen…. It was someone not wanting to be burdened by anything.”

Mugen didn’t rise to the bait. Not this time.“And now?” he asked.

Jin hesitated. “Now I see that I was wrong. I told myself it was for you. For Fuu. For the children. But I think… I didn’t want to lose the only part of you I ever had. I didn’t want to become something you’d be burdened by. ”

Fuu’s voice was softer than before, but it cut deeper. “So you kept him for yourself. And pushed away the one part of him that could have changed you — the part that mattered. ”

Jin didn’t argue. He simply lowered his head. “I failed them,” he said. “And I failed you both.”

Fuu reached across the table, fingers brushing a bloodied scrape on Mugen’s knuckles. He didn’t flinch. She took a cloth and water and began to clean it.

Then she moved to Jin, dabbing gently at the bruises along his temple from a fight she hadn’t asked about. Maybe one of their meetings. Maybe something else.

None of them spoke of it. They sat like that for a long time — the soft sounds of cloth and breath and cooling tea filling the room. It wasn’t forgiveness yet. But it was care.

The horizon outside began to shift from navy to pale gold. Morning was on its way.

Fuu stood and quietly stepped into the small kitchen. Soon, the scent of miso rice and grilled fish began to drift up the narrow stairs to the second floor.

Two small bodies stirred beneath their futons. One boy blinked sleep from his eyes, sniffing the air. “I smell food…”

The other sat up straighter, hair sticking up wildly, rubbing a scarred nose. They padded down the stairs in quiet, bare-footed curiosity — only to freeze at the bottom step.

There, seated calmly at their table, were two strange men. One with hair tied high and a sword at his hip, adjusting a cracked pair of glasses. The other lounging casually, a toothpick between his teeth and a fading bruise on his jaw.

Fuu turned from the fire. “Good morning,” she said. “Come sit. There’s something we need to talk about.”

Chapter Text

This morning wasn’t like the others.

Usually, the twins woke to birdsong and the clatter of pans downstairs. Their mother would hum while cooking, and they’d eat quickly before running off to the schoolhouse. Lessons were tolerable, but the real fun came after — climbing trees, chasing each other through the rice fields, reenacting battles with imaginary swords like the ones from their mother’s old stories. Stories of the road, of distant towns and strange warriors. Stories they loved.

But today, the air felt heavy.

Kaito was the first one down the stairs, rubbing sleep from his eyes and sniffing the air. “Smells like rice and egg,” he muttered, then stopped short at the sight of two strangers sitting at their low table.

Their mother never had visitors this early — not even old man Takashi from the apothecary, and he was always fussing about his joints.

Souta followed close behind, quieter but equally confused, adjusting the collar of his tunic as he came to stand beside his brother.

Fuu turned from the hearth, placing another bowl on the table. Her expression was calm but unreadable — the kind she wore when she was trying to hold too many thoughts at once.

“We need to talk,” she said simply.

Kaito, never one to shy away from awkward silences or new faces, tilted his head and jabbed a thumb toward the two men.

“This got anything to do with the guy who looks kinda like me but bolted like a chicken yesterday when we got home? Or is it more about the one who looks like Saito if he never went outside and swallowed a lemon, judging by the sour-ass face he’s got right now?”

Souta stifled a laugh, his hand covering his mouth as he glanced at Jin, whose only reaction was the tiniest twitch of an eyebrow.

Mugen, for his part, snorted into his rice.

Fuu sighed, but there was a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “Kaito,” she said sternly.

“What?” the boy shrugged. “You said we were gonna talk. I’m just getting to the point.”

Mugen leaned forward, eyes on the two boys like he still couldn’t quite believe they were real. “You’re quick, kid,” he said.

Kaito grinned. “Takes one to know one, old man.”

Souta stepped forward, eyes flicking between Jin and Mugen, then to his mother. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” he said, softer. “This is... about us.”

Fuu nodded once. “Yes. About you. About them. And about the truth you both deserve.” The room settled into a quiet that wasn’t quite uncomfortable — just full. Of questions, of memories waiting to be explained.

She motioned for the boys to sit. The fire crackled behind her, and the morning light slipped through the paper windows. And for the first time, the little house didn’t just hold three. It held a family — jagged, fractured, but maybe... maybe beginning to piece itself together.