Author's Note: I've been thinking about the acts of service and love we each incorporate into our lives, particularly the small things that end up being so much bigger than we think they are. I started this project in 2015 and my mother was sitting on the hallway when I made the distinct decision to begin writing Mimato. I now live 5,000mi away and the littlest things remind me constantly of what it means to be loved and taken care of, even from a distance.
I took some elements from the character profiles for Kizuna (which I did not watch yet) and some elements all the way back from Adventure. It's Odaiba Day and it felt like a good day to finally put this project to rest.
I don't think any of my readers are around, but this was a labor of love and growing up and I am deeply humbled and grateful for the opportunity to work on it. Thank you for your support over the years!
[08.01.23]
Il m'a dit : "Ça fait mal, mais je t'aime". J'ai dit "non, ça fait juste".
Hours have gone by and he works diligently at his reports, pushing a new pair of reading glasses he is yet unaccustomed to, a little further up his nose. He's tired and already regrets answering the phone, unable to fathom how she found him here, in his father's apartment, of all places. She wasn't even supposed to be back in Tokyo yet. He'd asked.
But she had let herself in without so much as a sorry for intruding, instead berating him for not joining them for the festivities preparations and placing a brown bag on the table.
"I have to finish these," he tells her again; a useless plea.
"So finish them," she answers happily. "I'm not even here."
It is childish, he knows, but he can't help pursing his lips. She hadn't said a word by way of explanation, not an excuse as to why she had decided to crash his study session, no offer of respite from her unavoidable presence. And Yamato is really so busy. Life has slowed down in some sense, the urgency of war and impending doom no longer occupying his every thought. But adulthood has come with its own challenges; a vengeance, he supposes, for a childhood spent growing up too fast.
She's doing well, he knows. Her online business is thriving and she's traveling all around, never stopping for too long a time, living somewhere between jetlag and dangerous amounts of caffeine. It isn't much different to his own routine, which will only get crazier now he's decided to go on to graduate school. He pushes his glasses again; Mimi drinks deeply from a cup of lukewarm tea.
In some ways, it feels impossible to think of himself and them, as saviours of the world.
Yamato instead thinks about how, even after that first incident in Tokyo, their adventures in the Digital World, after all that trouble, and heartache, and loss, Mimi can sit there as though there is no care in the world, regal in the way she folds her legs, somehow looking larger than life itself. She was always better at this than them, than him, always made being herself look so easy.
Her hands reach out to palm a bright pomegranate and the old faded china clinks quietly as she sets two plates before her. It is these moments, most of all, which he has trouble reconciling with when he's all alone.
"Could I borrow your knife?"
The question has barely left her lips and her hands are already past him, skin barely touching his as she takes it.
"If you ruin these, I'm not going to the party," he murmurs, almost resentful.
"I'll be very careful, then."
Mimi's hands move quickly, efficient in a way he did not know her capable of and she only glances at him from behind her lashes, long enough that Yamato's breath involuntarily catches in his throat. For a while there is barely any sound, the rustle of paper, the scratch of his pen and clicking of keys, the soft clink of seeds piling up on a plate and a soft tune she hums, quiet and clear.
He turns back to his paper, the back of his neck growing warmer and he purses his lips again, annoyed at his own embarrassment. He fixes his gaze on the books before him, decidedly not thinking about her perfectly manicured fingertips stained red, the deep rouge that's made a home in the curve of her lower lip. And he definitely does not think of her fingers against her warm tongue, the juice that drips sweetly down to her wrist.
He knows the song, he wrote it himself years ago.
"I miss hearing you sing," she says, and she gives him a look he can only describe as soft, lips barely curled into a smile. She says it quietly, like a promise, or something else he doesn't have a heart to name.
"It's been a while since we've practiced. Maybe we'll get together again," he looks at her from the corner of his eye, picking up where he last left off on his report. "Before you go."
The shrill sound of his phone rings around them and Yamato blinks quickly out of his reverie.
"Sora. You're looking for Mimi?" he greets, and Mimi's eyes grow wide, shaking her head frantically. His lips are turned down in a frown, they part and then, "—yes, she's here. You can let yourself in."
"And you're supposed to bear the crest of Friendship!" Mimi exclaims indignantly, barely a minute before Sora opens the door, phone in one hand.
"Mimi, we've been looking for you!"
"And you found me, you're such a good seeker, Sora."
"You were supposed to take care of dessert! She left before we could stop her," Sora explains, ignoring her. "We told her you had exams coming up."
"You did a remarkable job," Yamato sighs. "She wasn't here long."
The plate on the corner seems larger somehow, a monstrosity making him a liar not without shame.
"And I've already taken care of dessert," Mimi explains, cleaning the blade of his knife on a small cloth handkerchief. "You can check with Miyako. I only came to remind him not to be late!"
"Well, then you can help us decorate. Willis and the others are already there. Sorry about the interruption," Sora smiles at him as she pushes Mimi towards the door, half-laughing, half in protest. "We'll see you later, at dinner?"
"Yes, but wait, this—," he gestures towards the neat stack of pomegranate seeds, unnerved by the way she waves carelessly at him.
"Those are for you, silly!" Mimi laughs, as if it were obvious, and he feels the warmth rising to his cheeks once more as he catches Sora's knowing smile, seconds before she closes the door on him.
It's silly, really, he thinks, staring down the plate as if it had cause to offend him. That she came all the way here to torture him with her silence, the smell of ripe fruit, a song he thought he had forgotten. She didn't even take her handkerchief with her.
He turns back to his work, moving slowly through the motions and finishing, despite all interruptions and against all odds, ahead of time. He closes his books, the laptop that has been running for days without a break and slowly begins tidying up his desk. Yamato stretches his arms over his head, pushes himself off his chair and looks back at the glistening plate before him.
For you, she had said.
He reaches out, picking a plump seed and popping it unceremoniously into his mouth, closing his eyes.
The utility knife is a relic from another world, a reminder of who they were and to whom they belonged. Her initials are still visible on the well-worn handle. In the solitude of his father's apartment, pomegranate bursting open between his teeth, the future doesn't look quite so bleak.
Yamato will join them for dinner later, it's going to be a big party. He wonders if anyone else will notice the crimson stain on her lips. He wonders if he will ever forget.