Notes: The title was taken, somewhat unabashedly, from e.e. cummings' I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart).

[11/28/15]

Being an only child made you selfish.

Sometimes she wonders about him and when she does, that sea-blue becomes so startlingly vivid that she needs to remind herself to breathe. Breath hitched, eyes glazed-over, fingers holding on to tendrils of white smoke. It takes her but a few seconds to adjust to the light, to air, to remember that her lungs cannot breathe water and that the pressure she feels, must go.

To think of him is, above all, to dream.

He has the looks for it—pale blond hair, sea-blue eyes, a soft, pink mouth that has been made for singing her name and kissing her lips, and biting down on all her insecurities.

(Oh, and he did, he did.)

Sometimes, even as the cold winter air bites at the exposed bits of her skin (a cheek, glossed lips, the tips of her manicured fingers), she finds it hard to forget the sunlight, the honeyed smell of summertime, remembering he was hers in a still suburban town. It's there in the clear blue skies (I know, I know), the clear, ringing laughter of children; hair pulled up in a high, long ponytail (or a short, efficient one), the sweat on the back of his neck, between her breasts, down the length of his pale arms, running down a soft, curved navel ... the sweltering heat and the childish promise that it would never go away made it hard to think, then.

It's easy to take things one day at a time when the seasons fly so fast and every new day means new ways of finding him, of knowing him, of realising you love him. It's easy, when it's all play, no hard work, or, playing hard to get. It's easy when he's all bite, all sharp edges, hot breath and such a sweet, sweet mouth and all you want is to bite that smirk off his lips, pry them open, peel him down to his second skin and tell him, "here, wear me instead".

Not, she thinks, that it matters now.

The sun has receded, summer has given way to autumn. In the holocaust of his eyes, Mimi has seen the seasons die once and again and, come winter, they're practically strangers again. It hasn't been one summer, one autumn, one winter, one spring; it has been innumerable autumns, harsh winters, so many dead springs, all the forgotten summers.

Oh, there have been others. Many, too many to count. But it never mattered if, at the end of an unbearably hot season, his cool breath was on her neck. It didn't matter if, after a few dazed, difficult weeks, her lips where on his collar and the names of all those girls were out the window, down the drain, in the shredder. He's still painted behind her eyelids and she is still stitched on the inside of his wrist, though it has been so long.

(I don't know anyone else.)

He's still sharp and, if she draws too close, she thinks he might still bite. She sees him on the other end of the lake, walking with a girl that, in her heart, he does not love. She can tell, because his hand hangs limply on his side and if he loved her, he would keep them in his pockets, not knowing what to do with them. But hers are out there, bearing the cold and she supposes the girl must be dying, aching to have him hold her (or maybe it's her), and she suffers to imagine that he will.

He doesn't, but this nameless stranger kisses his cheek upon leaving and it's too much for Mimi to take.

She doesn't even wait until the imposter is gone, doesn't even try to make it casual. She's there before he can wipe his cheek clean, before he can search for his phone; his eyes find her before he realises he's been looking.

"Mimi."

One word, only. Her name, only. And Mimi doesn't know what to do, is suddenly afraid, half-embarrassed, still indignant. She takes a small breath, runs a hand through her cheeks and pretends it's the cold, but smiles and laughs (yours only).

"Yamato," she breathes out. "I thought it was you."

His hair is shorter than before, giving him a manly appearance that she wasn't ready for, knocks the breath out of her. The long tresses that framed him in their hot, sweaty youth are replaced by an efficient cut that makes her heart ache for all she's missed. Her hand darts out behind his neck, misses the tiny ponytail she used to tie for him (but she swears she can feel him shiver), and sighs.

"Yeah," he says, as if answering her question. "Sorry about that."

Mimi tugs on his hair, playfully.

"Let's have lunch," she says, and he, under heavy-lidded eyes, half-smiles.

"Yours or mine?" Yamato asks, and Mimi's heart skips a beat.

"Mine," she says, quietly, then louder. "If you want to."

Yamato shrugs, bends his head to nip at the skin on the inside of her wrist, then, when she shrieks, twines his fingers between his, crushing palms that, despite the biting cold, are slick with sweat.

(Mine, mine, mine.)

For better or for worse.