Work Text:
Hana tugs on the too long sleeves of the yukata Sakura had lent her. The light cotton was splashed with flowers in various pastel shades, and the hem fell a bit too much past her ankles, covering her sandals (also borrowed). Sakura’s parents were leading their little party up the hill behind the festival, their voices drifting back towards Hana where she was lagging at the back. She watches Tamaki and Hikaru climb ahead of her, and Sakura’s brothers ahead of them just behind their parents.
Sakura herself is beside her, the rich blue of her yukata contrasting with the paler skin of her neck. Her black hair is pulled out of the way in a braided bun, and Hana can’t help staring at the curve of her neck and throat, the way the yukata fits so perfectly on her, her tall posture and broad back.
Love, to Hana, has always been worship. To love someone is to adore them, idolize them. They’ve reached the peak of the hill, and Sakura looks back at her, a grin bright on her face. She has a smile that’s worthy of obsession, of falling to your knees in prayer.
“Hana-chan, sorry we couldn’t get you an outfit that fits better on short notice!” Sakura reaches her hand out to her, and Hana reaches up into that strong grip.
“It’s fine because it’s yours, Sakura,” She squeezes her hand a bit, and Sakura laughs, red flush spreading across her round cheeks.
“Still, we better buy you a better festival outfit soon, because you’re coming with us again next year. You’re my girl, after all.” Sakura tugs her close, her voice proud.
And as she pulls Hana along past the rest of their group (Tamaki shoots her a very unsubtle thumbs up as they pass), Hana looks at her Sakura, silhouetted against the blooming fireworks, she knows no graven idol could compare.