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There are a lot of things he loves about Sakura Haruno.
The way soft, cherry blossom-pink strands of hair fall across her face when she sleeps. The jade of her eyes reflected in the moonlight, the freckles that dust her shoulders when she’s been out in the sun too long.
He loves her voice, her too-loud laugh, the way she huffs and scowls and pokes at Ino and Naruto in ways she wouldn’t dream of speaking to him. The way that same voice softens around him, soothing and gentle and hushed when it’s all just too much.
He loves her stubbornness, infuriating as it is. The thin scars lacing across her hands from the years of healing. The diamond that always emits a faint warmth on her forehead. The smell of her perfume.
He doesn’t tell her this, of course. He keeps it to himself, neatly tucked away in his brain, like a secret he can’t possibly bear to share with anyone. His affection lies in hidden smiles and fingers brushing against her forehead, in the way his arm tightens round her in public. It lies in paying for her food without a second thought, in wrapping his scarf around her when she’s cold, in eyes met across the room when Lee says something stupid. Sometimes, it lies in clashing teeth and her nails digging into his back and the ever-present taut of her muscles melting underneath him.
Sometimes, it lies in whispered confessions under the stars, in his heart fluttering in his chest and that’s best of all. Though he’ll never admit it.
Most of all, he loves her name. Sakura. It makes him think of the beginnings of spring, of rays of sunlight straining to hold onto the dwindling hours of the day. Determined, bright, warm; like her.
He says it with far too much affection, but he can’t help it. He never could. It was always her. Sakura Haruno. He’d be stupid to pretend otherwise.
His hair falls over his face as he watches her, one knee pulled to her chest in her chair as she fills out paper after paper. She’s always like this - she never knows when to stop. He watches the flick of her wrist as she signs away another document, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear as she concentrates, only for it to fall against her cheek again.
Tch. He never can stop noticing things about her.
“You’re staring.” She murmurs, not bothering to look up. Because of course she notices him, too.
He’s quiet a moment, the sound of the birds outside filling the silence. “Yeah.”
Why deny it? He’s always staring, as if it can make up for lost time. He’s tired of missing things about her.
When he’d first seen her after those miserable years away, looking down on her from Orochimaru’s hideout, the first thing he’d noticed was the way her muscles shaped her arms. The second thing he’d noticed was the pathetic imitation of himself standing next to her, and the third thing he’d noticed was how much that irritated him. He pushed her out of his brain after that, because nothing good could come out of still noticing things about Sakura Haruno.
Well - he’d tried to. The flush on his face and the scowl as he punched Orochimaru twice as hard in training the next day was palpable proof she taunted him in his dreams (and it certainly hadn’t been a bad one.)
And, obviously, it hadn’t worked.
She turns, shooting him a wary glance. “I’m working.”
“I know.” He mutters, though begrudgingly turns his gaze away from her.
She sighs; she’s always doing that. Heavy and tired. “I won’t be long, okay?”
That’s a lie, and he knows it. He merits her with a grunt in return.
He’s content to just sit in her company though, quiet and peaceful. She never feels the need to fill their silence, which is something he’s grateful for. Just the occasional flipping of paper, the scribble of her pen and the breeze wafting in from outside. It’s… nice.
It’s more than he ever dared hope for, anyway.
Sakura Haruno. Of all people. But who else was it ever going to be?
He lets his mind wander a bit, hours passing by with the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall and the comfort of her presence. He wonders briefly when he became such a sentimental idiot, though just as soon decides he doesn’t care.
Her hair’s longer these days, brushing against her shoulder blades. It waves gently down her back as she leans against the chair, raking a hand through her fringe. She lets out another sigh, eyes fixed on the ceiling for a moment.
He notices. Of course.
“Sakura.” He murmurs, stupid affection on his tongue he doesn’t know what to do with, “stop.”
“But there’s so much to do.” She groans, stretching her arms out in front of her. “I told Ino-“
“Ino can wait.” He interrupts, his voice firm. “You need a break.”
She huffs. She’s hardly in the mood to protest, but she always feels guilty when she stops working. Like she’s never quite enough, always having to prove herself.
“…for a bit.” She relents, pushing herself away from the desk slightly. He doesn’t miss the circles under her eyes.
“No.” He responds, leaving no room for argument, as usual. “Sakura. Enough.”
She shoots him a half-hearted glare, the way she always does before she gives in.
That’s another thing he loves about Sakura. She’s predictable.
“Fine.” She mutters eventually, as though it’s some great grief to her to stop working herself half to death for once in her life, “I’ll finish it in the morning.”
She lingers at her desk, though, stubborn as ever. One day he swears he’s going to dump that desk in a back alley where she can never find it again.
He crosses to her, noting with a hint of irritating affection how she doesn’t flinch when he touches her, hand threading through the hair at the nape of her neck. She sighs, some of the tension leaving her body.
“You’re tired.” He murmurs, though his voice is softer, now.
She doesn’t argue with him this time, too-long hair threaded through his fingers. His hand ghosts down her neck, over her shoulders.
“I just hate feeling like I’m letting people down.” She admits softly, “like I’m falling behind.”
His palm presses against the knot between her shoulder blades, “You’re not.”
She makes a vague sound of acknowledgement, like she doesn’t really believe him, though doesn’t push. Her breath comes out in a soft exhale as her eyes flutter closed, leaning back into his touch.
Another thing he’ll never tell her. How much it makes his heart ache when she does that.
His eyes wander mindlessly over the papers on her desk as he works out the knots in her shoulders that never really seem to go away. On her name, signed neatly at the bottom of each medical report, in practiced, joined handwriting. Sakura Haruno. He has to suppress a smirk at the pink ink she’s used. Hardly professional, but she practically runs the place, so who cares? There’s a few flowers doodled over scrap paper where she’s clearly lapsed in focus, roses and cherry blossoms. She’s written his name, too, in different fonts, like some kind of twelve year old with a crush. She might as well have drawn hearts around it. He hates how endearing it is, how he can’t stop himself from brushing his lips against the top of her head.
“Annoying. Stop working so hard.”
But she’s not a twelve year old with a crush anymore. She doesn’t blush and stutter and giggle or huff at his words. Just hums softly in response, content, like she’s used to his affection, like she knows that him calling her annoying is so disgustingly laced with love it makes his skin crawl. That makes his heart ache again, because he doesn’t deserve it. Not really. And he isn’t sure he’ll ever understand why she forgave him.
Her fingers curl loosely in her lap, the tension draining slowly from her as his thumb moves in steady, practiced circles. He wants to tell her she doesn’t have to carry everything, doesn’t have to exhaust herself for everyone else all the time. He wants to tell her a lot of things.
But he doesn’t. Just stays, quiet, comforting. There. That’s enough.
The cool evening breeze wafts in through the open window, and he notices the slight shiver that runs through her.
“Cold?” He says gruffly, though it’s not really a question.
“A bit.” Comes her reply.
That means yes. Stubborn idiot.
He slips off his own jacket without really thinking, draping it over her shoulders. She pulls it round her, and he swears she breathes in his scent from it. Stupid, sentimental woman.
“Thank you.” She shifts slightly to look up at him, and he pretends his breath doesn’t catch in his throat.
He huffs in response, though his lips ghost across her forehead.
She presses her forehead into his kiss, and he feels the faint, lingering warmth of her Byakugo seal. It’s comforting, a reminder she’s as strong as he is. He doesn’t need to look after her.
But he still wants to.
His eyes linger on her as she pulls his jacket on properly as she stands up, the sleeves clearly too big, the hem falling almost to her knee. It’s stupid. It’s too big. She looks ridiculous.
He can’t stop staring.
She pulls her hair out of the collar, pink waves settling gently down her back. The Uchiha crest is just visible behind the fall of her hair, half-hidden between the folds of the fabric and the cherry-blossom coloured locks that settle over it. White, red. Pink. Her colours. It shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t make his heart stutter the way it does. It’s not like she’s never worn his clothes before, pulled on after late-night shifts at the hospital.
Maybe it’s the way the moonlight softens on her skin. Maybe it’s the green of her eyes as she tilts her head to look up at him, trusting and soft like he’s something safe, even after everything. But seeing her like that, his name on her - his name that’s brought him nothing but misery and heartache and pain, but despite it all, his name - he can’t help the words that flit across his brain. Sakura. Uchiha. Sakura Uchiha.
…It sounds good.
Too good.
Itachi. Sasuke. Mikoto. Sakura. It fits.
He should force himself to look away, because he’s been staring too long, there’s a faint heat to his cheeks, and she’s a medic-nin who’s probably already picked up on his heart rate, but he can’t. His pulse rushes in his ears, because he’s stupid and sentimental and because Sakura Haruno’s the only person he’s seen in over a decade wear that crest without bringing him pain and he loves her so much he can’t stand it. Because he doesn’t deserve her, never did, never will, but for some reason, he has her anyway.
“Sasuke, are-“ She starts, concern lacing her voice, because of course she’s still looking out for him.
“Sakura.” He cuts her off, though his voice comes out hoarse.
She’s quiet a moment, green eyes flickering over his features. “…Yeah?”
It’s his turn to sigh then, heavy and exhausted as he pulls her to his chest, his hand holding the back of her head like he’s scared she’ll disappear. He can’t stand the way she looks at him, so full of love and care and worry. It’s like being diagnosed by a particularly affectionate doctor. She’s about to pull back, to ask if he’s okay, he can tell by the way she shifts. But he won’t let her, pressing his face into the crook of her neck as he mumbles a quiet, “I love you.”
She freezes - because no matter how used she is to his touch, she’ll never quite be used to that. And neither will he. But he’s willing to try.
“I know. I love you too.” She swallows eventually, like she always does. A silent I know, so you don’t have to say it, not if you don’t want to. But he’s tired of showing her through subtleties and brushing her off whenever she says it, because Sakura Haruno might’ve been happy to sit and wait for him and break her own heart in the process, but Sakura Uchiha deserves better than that.
“No,” he mutters quietly, letting out a sigh as he pulls back, “I don’t tell you enough. I love you.”
Then he taps his fingers against her forehead, just for good measure.
“Sasuke,” she breathes, and he thinks the only thing he loves more than her name is the way his name sounds when she says it.
“Shush.” He huffs softly, because the way she’s looking at him is going to kill him. The Uchiha love deeply, he knows that, but he’s never felt anything like this. Even with her. It’s like his entire body aches with her. He’s going to die, he’s sure of it, and he doesn’t care.
She bites back her smile, staying quiet. On the seemingly endless list of things he loves about Sakura, that’s another. She knows when not to push.
God.
“…it suits you.” Is all he manages to say, because he’s stupid.
She just grins, smile spreading over her face in the way that seems to be reserved only for him. “I don’t think it fits.”
His eyes drop to where carefully-filed almond shaped nails toy with the sleeve of the fabric. No, it doesn’t fit, so why does it suit her so well?
“You need your own then.” He says after a beat, voice rough with something unspoken.
“I have plenty of my own clothes.” She laughs, because of course she doesn’t fully understand. She’d never make that assumption, she doesn’t think highly enough of herself. He almost scoffs, but it catches in his throat. He’s not sure she’ll ever understand how much it aches when he looks at her, how he’ll never be able to make it up to her.
“That’s not what I meant.” He avoids her gaze, those burning emerald eyes of hers. He’d rather look a rinnegan in the eye.
She’s quiet, calculating, her eyes drinking him in. He feels like a patient at the hospital. She might be insecure, but she isn’t stupid.
“…You want me to wear…the crest?” She whispers eventually, a hopeful softness to her words he isn’t sure he can handle.
“Tch. If you want.” He mutters, barbed wire round his throat.
The way she speaks is like she’s trying not to scare away a hurt animal. “Do you want me to?”
He drags his gaze back to meet hers, because he at least owes her that decency. He exhales slowly, opening his mouth to speak, though nothing comes out at first. “…Yes.”
She swallows roughly, he can hear it, the force of her trying not to cry. She’d always been terrible at hiding it.
“Sakura-“
“I’ll look after it.” She cuts in, voice shaking but firm, with all the determination and resolve she’s always had. Something else he’s always loved about her. “I promise. Your name. I’ll take good care of it.”
Sasuke doesn’t speak at first. He just looks at her. The trembling of her lip, the fire in her eyes. They burn into his, green like the leaves of the village, bright and alive, reminding him of a spring he never really stopped chasing. A warmth he never deserved. Her endless, endless patience, a love that renders him stupid.
“I know.” He says hoarsely, eventually, pressing his forehead against hers.
They just stay like that for a while, the soft Konoha wind washing in through the open window, moonlight casting long shadows of the trees over the wall. Somewhere in the distance, the gentle noise of wind chimes washes over them.
His hand comes to rest on her waist, fingers brushing over the embroidered thread of the symbol on her back. He knows she understands what it means, that it carries a weight nobody can ever fix. That he thought it would die with him.
But here she is.
His grip tightens instinctively, her body leaning into him ever so slightly. Hardly noticeable, but he does notice. He always does. Everything about her.
“I love you,” she whispers after a stretch, quiet and careful, like she’s scared it isn’t real.
He’s not good at this; words, softness. He’s getting better, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to give her the gentleness she deserves. But she never seems to mind.
“Yeah.” He mutters hoarsely, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, “I know, Sakura.”
A coy smile winds its way onto her face, and he might as well flush preemptively. She’s always about to say something stupid when she does that. Annoying.
“I don’t get a ring?” She grins. Annoying. Infuriating. He loves her so much.
He huffs, looking away from her, pink dusting his cheeks. “You’ll punch something and break it.”
She laughs then - really laughs, giddy and loud and sweet, echoing across the room. He could listen to that laugh for the rest of his life, in a home that’s theirs, safe and happy and something he’s never dared hope for, not a day in his life since Itachi left him alone with that red and white crest that now lies on her back.
“I don’t need a ring.” She shakes her head, smile still plastered over her face, “just you.”
He swallows, thick and heavy with an emotion he’s sure he’ll never get used to. “You have me.”
Something flits across her expression at that, and he has to look away again.
“You know,” she laughs breathlessly, “I thought I’d be chasing you forever.”
A pause washes over them, but it isn’t uncomfortable. She always gives him time to think.
“…I know.” He mutters roughly, “but I’m done running.”
Her thumb traces over his knuckles mindlessly, brushing over a scar she’d tried to heal away a hundred times. I didn’t do a good enough job, she’s always said, it scarred. He’d always told her to shut up because he didn’t care. He’d be dead without her. What was a scar?
“Then we’ll be okay.” She whispers eventually.
“Yeah.”
The word hangs between them, an unspoken promise. They’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. For once, he lets himself believe it.
She shifts slightly, her arms snaking further round his waist as she buries her head in his chest, like she’s trying to ground herself. He says nothing, just pulls her closer, his chin resting on top of her head.
For a while, neither of them say anything. They stay like that, safe and warm and pressed against each other. It feels like forgiveness. Like home. It’s a silence that doesn’t need filling - their breath, their heartbeats, the breeze through the open window.
Eventually, he speaks, hesitant. “Sakura… I…”
She pulls back, looking up at him. “Hm?”
He sighs, heavy and lingering. “I’m sorry I can’t be… a normal husband.”
It catches her off guard. Something flashes across her face at the word husband, and then she laughs again. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s absurd.
“You think I’m normal?!”
He snorts softly at that. No. She’s not. She’s got muscles stronger than his and she’s borderline immortal. She’s too loud and she argues with Ino over whose forehead is bigger and then turns around and runs a hospital department as if it’s nothing. She’s sweet, soft, motherly, with the rage of a thousand suns. A doctor who’s the only person in Konoha who can heal the amount of damage she can cause with a single punch. She’s stubborn and insufferable and so annoying. He doesn’t think he’s ever met a person so surrounded by people who adore her. Tsunade, Shizune, Kakashi. Naruto. Hinata, Ino, Temari. Itachi, his mother, if they were here. Hell, he’d have to pull the Uchiha symbol off her if his mother had ever got her hands on her. They’d love her.
Though not as much as him.
Never as much as him.
“No.” He relents, “no, you’re not.”
“Then you’ll be perfect.” She hums, tapping his forehead with her fingers.
“Stupid.” He mutters as the gesture sends a flutter through his chest, though leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips. “Stupid woman. My wife.”
There are a lot of things he loves about Sakura Uchiha. Her hair, the green of her eyes. Her laugh. Her infuriating habit of working too hard. The way she melts against him, her hand cradling his face, too trusting for her own good. But then, it always did seem to work out for her in the end. And maybe, as he lets himself brush his thumb over her cheek, her lips parted gently underneath his - maybe for him, too.
Yeah. There are a lot of things he loves about Sakura Uchiha.
Most of all, her name.