A FORECAST OF WINTER

He watches her for long moments of drawn out contemplation. Standing in the archway, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, he observes her listless self. She's lying in their bed of blue and black, her pale form still except for the twitching of her painted toes. He can't tell if she's oblivious to his presence or simply ignoring him as she so often does at bleak times like this. Her back is to him, coffee-toned strands blocking her from his view. He doesn't need to see her face though, he knows with utmost certainty the desolate expression she has. It doesn't make him ache inside with crushing guilt like it did two days ago. Right now it merely sparks annoyance.

"How could you..."

He mutters it so low, so unconsciously that he's taken aback by her responsive voice.

She stays, to his added irritation, facing the wall. "Ishida...are you talking to me?"

His sigh is deep as he walks out of the room, leaving her to slip back into her dismal thoughts. Closing her eyes in hope of sleep, she finds herself instead listening intently to Yamato's every move. He's in the kitchen. Openings, closings, a small drop of something mingled with a dull curse. Finally, the soft padding of bare feet that lead across the wooden floor of the room to the dark bed where she lays with new, expectant glee.

She's reminded of why she knows he's the husband that she needs, forgetting so easily his rejection to her proposal and her resulting spiral of gloom. She loves him for his abiding patience, his sweet intentioned watchful eye, every seemingly irrepressible, selfless tendency.

When he kneels on the bed, one hand on her hip to roll her onto her back to face him, she meets him with the failed suppression of a smile. The somber set of his features casts her selfish joy away in an instant.

He tells her, "I'm obsessing over you."

"Yamato..."

She doesn't notice the white box until it's placed between them, his fingers giving it a tap for her attention.

"Here."

She sits up, camisole straps slipping to her arms as she reaches for it. "What is it..." Bringing the box to sit between her legs, she opens it to find a single piece of frosted cake. Her silent stare of the dessert is accompanied by her pinched brow; her hunger at a painful high.

"Don't be so...reluctant."

He says the word with such disapproval, such honest disdain.

"I don't want it. Yamato, it's not..."

"Take it, Mimi."

"It's not what I want."

"What is it then?"

She pushes it away from her with the tips of her fingernails, her eyes lingering on the bright, scattered sprinkles. "It's a last resort."

He can't muster the same level of emotion as the previous exhaustive day spent with her. His tone is one of defeat when he says, "This is foolish."

"No, it's the wrong flavor."

"You're delirious from hunger."

"It's strawberry, I hate strawberry."

"No, it's just the color. Vanilla flavor, Mi-rin, dyed pink for appeal."

She's lost in her admiration for him momentarily, eyes uplifted to his as they share the brief light seconds that his gift allows them. So sweet to go so far, she thinks.

Instead, she tells him, "So thoughtful."

His hopes for her won compliance are dashed as she lies back down, her arms curled above her head as she slips back into defiance mode. "You'll have to eat it for me." Her eyes trap him in their false sense of contentment. Reeled in by the inviting curve of lips as she smiles tranquilly up at him. "I can't stand to waste food."

It's a simple temptation on her part and he knows better than to give in so easily to her forced charm, but he can't resist a touch. Her embrace is inviting when he leans over her, hands tracing her neck and shoulders, pressing kisses to her welcoming mouth. Her hands are still in his spiked hair as he stops for a kiss just beneath her collarbone. Three light kisses tickling her to the point of emitting a solitary, breathless laugh.

She feels his grin against her flesh as he starts to tell her, "I can feel your ribs...you're on your way to total emaciation."

"You could always feel them."

His sigh this time is slight. Lying down beside her and settling his eyes on the doorway he asks her, "Is this a hunger strike?"

"So droll..."

"Since when are you into non-violence to get your way?"

"I'm not trying to get my way. And I've always been that way...a pacifist."

"Your memory is failing you again."

"How can it be a hunger strike if I'm drinking?"

"Most people drink, just no food."

"This is not that kind of strike."

"What is it then?"

"It's not a strike at all."

"You just said..." He stops at her grin, he can heart it. Turning his head to the left, he returns it. "Do you expect me to feel guilty over this?"

"You already do...I can see it in every way you look at me."

His grin gives out. Her austere turn in timbre, her voice altogether quieter, softer. He doesn't know how to respond. He wants to ask her, how can you stand it?

"You must be pleased then," comes his spiritless reply.

She sets her face with the most unhappy of lines, her vexation clear. "I'm obviously not."

"Why is this so important to you?"

"Which part do you mean exactly, Yamato?"

"Husband and wife...holy matrimony..."

"What else matters? You're the one thing I want. We already live together, I don't see marriage as such a stretch. You love me...why reject me and still stay with me?"

"I didn't reject you, Mimi."

She's surprised at the vehemence behind it when she says, "You refused me."

"You're not a child, accept it and move on. Eat something."

"We could be a true...eternal couple. Right now. You're holding us back."

"Eternal couple? You're sounding more ridiculously cliché with every passing second..."

"What if we died right here? We'd be apart in the afterlife, an eternity apart."

"How do you know?"

"I can sense it...our souls don't match up. Not yet."

"So what, a forceful ceremony of sorts and we'll melt into one spiritual, immortal being?"

"Try and be serious with me."

"Explain to me your logic and I'll attempt some seriousness."

"It's simple. Vow to me your everlasting devotion and make me yours until you die. I'll in turn offer the same fervent adoration and then...we'll have cake."

"You'll make the whole thing pink, won't you? One bright, flowery eye sore of a ceremony. Wedding cake, champagne, gifts, bouquet, all in the same rose hue save for your massive chiffon dress."

"You know me down to every detail...even the silk chiffon."

He doesn't attempt to withhold his sarcasm, "I tend to listen to you when you speak, Mimi...Especially on occasions when you muse on puffy marriage fashion."

"Do you remember the shoes?"

"You want boots...over the knee lace up, shiny, white boots."

"That's foul."

He smiles. "You want simple, white pumps."

"What designer?"

"Let's stop this. Please."

"What kind of tux would you like?"

"Why not go all out and make it hot, hot fuchsia?"

"It will be pastel or nothing."

"Black."

"Of course. You didn't really think I'd want anything other than the standard bride white, bridegroom black?"

"Of course not. You're anything but tacky, Mi-rin."

"Thank you."

"Why are we focusing on traditional Western style? There's not a single Eastern influence."

"We've lived in Japan long enough to have had enough. One day of worldly romance is nothing to frown upon. Besides, it's cheaper than the traditional way."

"I'm hungry, let's go get something to eat, alright? Promise me I won't be sitting there dining alone?"

"For you, I'll oblige."

He takes the long way off the bed, a crawl of hands and knees over his beloved devotee. A careless descent that sends the box to the floor along with him.

"Yama, you've ruined your offering...it's on the floor in pink crumbles."

He pays her and the dropped confection little attention, already at the closet in search of a different shirt.

"...You weren't going to eat it anyway."

She doesn't respond, shifts to lie apathetically on her side once more. She catches the beginning of the downpour as she turns, a gray and blue scatter of wind and rain through the window. She shuts her eyes to it. This is the third time today of this exact scene and she absently thinks of better ways to have witnessed the start of each deluge. In bed since an early morning rise of breakfast in bed, she's found herself staring out that window with every relapse of thought.

Three drenched days since his declination, and every passing hour of continual rain is a reminder of her failure. She's reminded of a flushed urgency, an empathetic refrain, a rush home to escape the rain. The stinging worst; her total misjudgment.

"Mimi..." She opens her eyes, startled at the abrupt sound. "Don't fall asleep again...it's still the afternoon."

Their eyes meet and lock. Staring back at him she's unaware of his biting conscience, his facade of detachment all too convincing. She doesn't realize he's been watching her adrift in thought, varying degrees of woe remembrance reflected in her pale face. Despite his constricting chest he can't admit an ounce of his piercing remorse.

"You stay here," he says. "I'll bring something back."

She looks away, nodding against the pillow. "If it gets too bad stop somewhere, will you? I don't want you risking your life for some dumplings."

Her levity is enough to ease him into a tenuous smile. "What do you expect to happen...some lightning bolt of nuptial karma?"

She doesn't want to smile at something so hypothetically appalling, so utterly heartbreaking, but she does.

After making his way back through slate puddles, he's taken by surprise as he's greeted with a roseate faced Mimi. One hand to his jaw for a kiss to his cheek, her other taking the bag from him. He watches her unload the food on the table, his mind stuck on the question he so badly wants to ask her. He can't ask her and he can't join in on her sudden cheer. He can only feign a smile and force his demanding thoughts away with distraction.

He motions to the open bottle of champagne as he asks her, "Did you get that while I was out?"

She glances at him with a nod of her head. "We needed something to celebrate with. It's really cheap, and it's not the rosé I wanted but..."

He's reluctant to even ask her, his stomach already giving uneasy pangs. "...What exactly are we celebrating?"

"A few very important, positive things..." She stops and begins to pour them both a glass, filling them slowly and yet carelessly to the brim. "I'm letting the whole thing go. I want us to put that proposal in the past." A brief slip of courage causes her to pause, and she's unable to keep the strain from showing in her voice. "I asked you...because I just wanted you to need me...I shouldn't have asked you, and in such a ridiculous manner. I couldn't even pick a proper moment for it. I only want us to be together. I don't care how, I don't care in what way. No matter how we're connected, I just want a future with you. No matter how great or disastrous it might turn out to be."

She takes the cold glass in her now unsteady hand, champagne spilling out and down her skin. "So we'll toast to an optimistic tomorrow...free of romanticized drama."

There is no following customary clink and toast; there is his flustered silence and her modest, lone sips. Setting it down, she unwillingly goes on. "I want you to know I regret it...that I'm sorry for all this. And I'm sorry for how I've been acting lately, making you feel so guilty..."

There's more, a whole list of impassioned truths she had meant to say, but she doesn't care. She stacks the food in haste, gathering it in her arms and telling him, "We can move on now. We have to."

He doesn't respond, just stares after her in a stunned daze as she makes her way to the bedroom. The rapid pounding of his heart, the stall of his breathing, is only realized with her absence. There is no flow of thought beyond her raw admission of longing, the acute affect of her words weighing every new intake of breath.

"I just wanted you to need me."

It is altogether heart-rending, her inflection pitifully genuine. And it's on agonizing replay in his head.

He finds her with the untouched food spread out on the duvet, kneeling and her eyes glued to the unused chopsticks in her hand. Joining the crowded bed, he sits across from her and holds out the sparkling wine for her to take. She reaches for it with a contrived smile, but he doesn't let go when she grasps it.

"You don't have to be so outright jubilant," he says. Her resulting frown is accompanied by the slightest of sighs and lowered eyes. He lets go. "Mimi, I know how important this is to you."

"Why keep you under this unnecessary weight? I'm okay with this...just this. I don't need your hand in marriage to happy."

"Be honest with me..."

He can't finish. The phrasing is all wrong, his intention surely unclear...

"What is it?"

"This all seems so..."

He can't possibly ask it, it's tactless, there's not a single drop of delicacy in it. Is this all some sort of game? A joke you've gotten so carried away with? Those questions aren't necessary. He already knows the reality of it all. There is no ploy here.

He can recall with clarity the desperate clutch of his hand, the blazing look of hopeful anticipation in her eyes. He can remember the dark ashen sky despite the early hour, and the torrential wind keeping them from holding a steady gaze. Shades of brown and blond whipping their faces and eyes, Mimi trying futilely to keep it away with her hands.

The most distinct memory of all, the lamentable proposal. Even more so perhaps, her preceding please that just tore relentlessly into him.

He felt compelled to ask her the harsh but paramount question of, "Are you serious?"

She stared in mute surprise for a few seconds, a soft smile forming as she took hold of his other hand. Placing it over her anxious, racing heartbeat, she told him, "No mistaking."

"Mimi..." He knew he would destroy her with his answer. "No."

Her shopping bag dropped from her limp fingers, her new dress a brilliant streak of violet as it was carried by the wind. They watched its haphazard path, both relieved for the new diversion of an urgent rescue. Her eyes were vacantly fixed on it, didn't even notice her chance when the garment was finally stopped. She gasped when he grabbed her hand, pulling her along with him at a run to catch it before it could slip away again. He didn't notice that her hand remained slack in his own or that she no longer had any interest whatsoever in that dress. Her sole interest was in the brutal ache of his rejection and how unbearable it was in that moment to touch him.

Snatching it from a low branch, he gave her a dim smile and wrapped it around her neck like a scarf. She couldn't comprehend why in the moment, forgetting altogether her complaint of a chill earlier in their walk of the park. Returning the smile, she knew it was every bit as meaningless and lackluster as his.

Dismissing the whole matter altogether, he told her lamely, "We should get back before it starts raining."

Finishing off the last of her champagne, her eyes meet his above the glass. He's watching her raptly as he so frequently does and she's caught him in the middle of a particularly rueful thought. She wants to ask him what it is but she's nervous even considering the bitter possibilities. He's quick to put her out of her misery.

"I never apologized to you," he says. "I should have."

She wearily shakes her head. "You didn't need to."

"You said you regret it, but you shouldn't."

"We wouldn't be in such a state right now if I hadn't been so...so thoughtlessly impulsive."

"There was nothing thoughtless about that, Mimi."

"You never gave me a real reason..."

"There are worse things to know."

"I don't care what it is, I want to know. Yamato, tell me."

"I just wish you'd let me do it right."

She surprises him with a smirk. "So chauvinistic."

"With this, I want tradition. You ruined the romance of it all."

"Please don't make me feel worse about this..."

"For everything, Mimi, I'm sorry. You rushed me into a brutal rejection."

"Stop throwing me these lines, you don't have to lie to save me...just tell me why."

"If I told you every dream I had for us...what would be left?"

She gives a groan at his avoidance. "You're talking in riddles. The longer we're together the colder you get...you leave me expecting the worst.""

"You don't seem to care that I've been waiting for so long."

"For what?"

"The perfect moment, the right time."

"Winter, then."

"What?"

"The perfect time of year, the right moment, the most romantic of seasons. You're waiting for it. Yama, show me some real intention here."

His smile is decidedly bright and it floods her with fresh hope. He chuckles lightly before he says it, and she grins when he does. "They would all think we were crazy...they'd be so shocked."

His buoyant turn makes her heart give a leap, her stomach flutter. "What...?"

"Do you think they'd congratulate us...or bring us down to earth with their worries of a horrible marriage ending in divorce?"

"They'd be thrilled for us."

A/N: Hope you enjoyed this. :3 I wanted a nickname for Yamato to call her so after going through the options I found on the net, I settled on Mi-rin. I thought it just sounded so cute...