If Tobirama is the still waters of a pond, then Mito is the life within; she is the sleeping koi which wakes gentle, ebbing along in the distance and breaking the surface peak. When he shifts she follows, limbs untangling from a sheet cast aside, and like the ripples of the wind, he carries her along, pulls her closer, closer. She lives in this vernal pool - however small, however fleeting - and he too indulges in her life, showering warm kisses of the summer day along the hollow of her throat. He exists for her every breath, thrives with it, and her every gasp has him shuddering with want and need.
He needs her. It is hard to accept, but impossible to ignore.
Another heated morning, another forbidden moment. Nimble fingers worship her like expensive porcelain, as if one scratch may shatter her presence, and he shakes, jaw clenched and unclenched, and he fears. In her he finds a breath of missing life, a trace of all he has lost; their hearts are decorated by the old marks of his brother, and Tobirama clings to this as well, desperate to find Hashirama's sun in her upturned lips.
And in her he finds so much more.