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His arms have yet to forget the weight of guns, or the sensation of mingled dust and mud and blood on his skin while the fighting has been going on. At night, visions of the warzone plague his dreams: the smoke-grey sky, the fire-marked fields, his foes and comrades writhing on the ground from grave injuries. And he often hears them too: his friends as they breathed their final words, as they either blessed or cursed him for being the one to carry on.
It is a terrible burden, and Sasuke learns to live with it every day.
But Sakura—kind, beautiful Sakura—takes him by his battle-stained hands and eases his path to recovery.
She brings him to her family’s old kitchens, and sets him to learning the craft of forming and kneading all manners of dough—the science of how flour and yeast and water together, through transformation wrought by time and heat, can make something that can nourish life.
“I didn’t want to learn it myself, you see,” she tells him, smiling impishly before she kisses his flour-dusted cheek. “I simply thought—my dear husband-to-be could be the one to carry on the tradition. You’re up for it, I know.”
The words carry double hopes, and he nearly weeps for the warmth they wrap him in. Faced with Sakura’s firmness and faith, he can only hum his assent.
So it passes that his days of recovery are spent in the Haruno household. He grows accustomed to the warm aromas of fermenting and baking bread, and learns the curious satisfaction of feeling supple dough beneath the gliding of his palms.
By night he lies in bed with her, holding her close as she loved him—with her lips pressed against skin perfumed by his day’s labor.
“You smell warm and sweet, almost like malt liquor,” she whispers into his chest. “I love this.”
“Thank you,” he answers, simply and full of meaning. She raises her eyes to look at him, and recognizes the import behind the plain words.
“I’m glad.” She sighs happily, and touches her lips to his own. His arms tighten around her, and he responds with equal fervor to the kiss. His intensity brings tears to her eyes, and against his mouth she breathlessly repeats, “I’m glad. I’m so glad.”
That night, he is lulled to dreamless slumber by Sakura’s embrace, and a sleepily muttered inquiry—on wedding cake and whether he would like to make it himself.