#2) does this boy ever get fed beyond his omurice in the morning

[arget-star]

As Complicated As We Are

Sakura Haruka x F!Reader

Summary: Celebrating your first Valentine's Day with Sakura! (Reader and Sakura have graduated high school! They are around 20/21)

tags: fluff, surprise v-day gift

a/n: I did NOT intend for this to be anything longer than a short drabble, but once more, I think about Sakura receiving love and affection and black out and when I come to this happens. This piece is a bit rushed and messy but it's still written with love.

wc: 2.5k

You treat the day like any other.

Wake up beside Sakura, offer a whispered good morning as he slowly rouses. (He’s been working on Keisei Street until dawn for the past few days; the upcoming holiday brings more trouble than it’s worth.) Make omurice he’d once told you is even better than Kotoha’s, then subsequently made you swear to never, ever share such information.

You wouldn’t dare betray his confidence like that. The memory of his flustered face and the quiet way he’d complimented you make you smile every time you crack open the eggs. Sakura appears in the kitchen, summoned by the scent of fried rice, dressed in his beloved white t-shirt and black sweatpants, yawning and scratching absently at his chest. Slowly, he makes his way to the kotatsu, folding his legs underneath him with another yawn.

“Just a few more minutes,” you assure him, tossing in a handful of scallions into the pan. He hates vegetables he can see; mixing in a few here and there to be buried underneath more overwhelming flavors usually works. You even managed carrots once, though he’d caught on to your scheme and quietly picked them out, leaving them in a small pile at the edge of his plate.

He’s quiet as you work, propping his elbow on the low table and resting his head against a closed fist, watching you through hooded eyes. He perks up once you deposit the plate of steaming omurice in front of him. “Looks amazin’,” he murmurs, fingers curling around his spoon.

“Thank you!” You beam, sitting down with your own plate. He’s already chomping away by the time you take your first bite—and it is delicious, if you do say so yourself.

Halfway through, he speaks around a mouthful of rice. “They gave me the night off for patrol.”

“Oh?” You take another careful bite, grateful for the excuse to hide your reaction. Nakamura-san deserves the biggest box of giri-choco for this favor alone.

Sakura sets down his spoon. Stares at you, briefly, then looks away. “Ya ain’t plannin’ some big thing tonight, are ya?”

You’re planning something, but nothing grand. As much as you’d love to spoil him, make up for all the years he went without being loved, smothering him would only scare him. You swallow your food and shake your head. “Nope. I promise, Haru.”

Red spreads from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. You use his nickname sparingly; mostly when emphasizing some emotional point or to remind him that with you, he’s safe. (And, selfishly, you enjoy the knowledge that name is for you alone.)

He mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like good as he swipes his spoon from the table. Pressing your lips together, you reach for your water, afraid your expression may give you away.

Sakura doesn’t mention the holiday for the rest of the morning as you get ready for work. For your part, you chat aimlessly about the latest drama between market owners on the street, grateful the florist you work for stays out of the petty antics.

It’s the kind of conversation you’d normally have while prepping dinner together, followed by Sakura suiting up for his patrol. With all the extra foot traffic, however, he’s been leaving about the time you come home.

You miss those evenings together. Things should settle down after tonight, thankfully.

Drowsy, Sakura nods in all the appropriate places, scoffing when you describe the band of young kids—high school first years, you assume—thinking they can stir up trouble. All they’ve managed so far is knocking over some display signs and stealing merchandise from the grocer.

“The new generation of Bofurin has it well in hand,” you laugh, catching the way his reflection rolls his shoulders in the bathroom mirror. “You know you’re the first person I’ll call if I’m ever in trouble.”

“Bunch’a lame idiots.” Sakura huffs, stretching his neck first on one side, then the other. The crack is audible even from across the (small) room.

You hum in agreement, rummaging through a drawer for your hairbrush. Item in hand, you turn from the mirror to Sakura, watching fondly as he stretches his arms overhead. “Hey. Promise me you’ll try to get some rest today.”

He startles, that crease forming along his brow. An involuntary reaction, you’ve learned, ingrained into his very soul by an unfeeling world. He’s better at hiding it these days, unless you manage to catch him off guard.

“Wha—I ain’t sick!” Immediately, he presses a palm to his cheek to check his temperature. He only naps when he’s under the weather (or recovering from a particularly nasty fight.)

“I didn’t say you were.” You point your hairbrush at him. “You are exhausted. This is the first night you’ve had off in a week, and I’d like to avoid you falling asleep at the dinner table.”

Realization flashes across his expression. You miss him. He misses you, too, as a matter of fact, and now he understands why he’s been feeling extra irritated on recent patrols. It’s not just lack of sleep getting to him.

He lowers his hand. “…I’ll be fine.”

Your entire plan culminates in a small, wrapped box tucked neatly inside your purse. Sakura working all evening did have some advantages—namely, leaving you free to come up with something for your first Valentine’s Day together.

Initially, you’d waffled on the idea of a gift at all. This is a holiday lauding love and relationships, after all, which is not a topic Sakura’s all that fond of having shoved in his face. Yours is a quiet love affair. Safe. Neither of you need elaborate gestures or grand proclamations showing the world how in love you are. (Genuinely, you’re happy for those who do that kind of thing. The romance of it all is easy to get swept up in. But it also sounds a little exhausting, and you are more than content with more subtle gestures.)

Sakura’s contradictory nature wasn’t lost on you, however. You know how desperately he wanted to be included in said lauded holiday, if only because it meant he was accepted by his peers.

After voicing your concerns to Kotoha, she’d encouraged you to proceed with a gift. Something simple. Traditional. And wasn’t it a stroke of luck she had a kitchen you could use? And furthermore, with Sakura working from dusk ‘til dawn, you had plenty of time to perfect your gift! In return, you promised to help her try out a new recipe or two for Pothos’ menu.

All that was left, then, was asking Nakamura-san if he could spare Sakura on what would undoubtedly be a busy night. It spoke to everyone’s belief—everyone who knows your boyfriend, at least—that he deserves to enjoy these special moments, as Nakamura-san agreed without hesitation.

Now, every step closer to home fills you with a giddy sort of nervousness. Your fingers wrap tightly around the strap of your purse. Will he like the gift?

What a silly thought. You know he will, no matter how his temper rises. It’s just another involuntary reaction, one you’ve seen slowly but surely soften.

The last few blocks on your route home pass by in a blur. You’re unlocking your apartment door before you know it, slipping your keys back in your purse with a cheery call of, “I’m home!” Bracing a hand against the wall, you remove your shoes, then neatly place them next to Sakura’s.

“Welcome back,” comes his delayed reply, followed by the sound of water splashing. You peek around the corner to find Sakura standing over the sink, holding a small pot presumably full of rice, gently swirling it the way you’d once shown him. He’s taken to cooking quite well; if you had to hazard a guess, you’d say he even enjoys it.

Padding over to him, purse hanging from your fingertips, you gently brush your arm against his. “Thanks for the starting the rice.”

Sakura ever so slightly leans into you, his body heat a welcome change from the chill outside. A smile blooms along your face, and as if in response, the beginnings of one soften his features as well. He’s absolutely radiant when he allows himself to relax like this. “Did you have a nice day?”

“Didn’t do anything, if that’s what you’re askin.’ Just walked around a bit.” Slowly, he tilts the pot over the sink again, watching as the last of the water trickles over the rim.

It’s then you notice he’s in a fresh t-shirt and actual pants. He must have showered, too, because you catch the faint scent of soap as he moves. Satisfied the rice is clean, he again turns the tap on, filling the pot with water.

You take a moment to really assess him while he focuses on the water levels. His eyes are more alert than they were this morning, his cheeks returned to their natural color compared to the sleepless pallor they’d been sporting. Warmth curls in your chest; he’s the type to push himself until he can’t give any more, never advocating for his own well-being. He took it easy today only because you said so, and he hates disappointing you more than he hates being idle.

Sakura shuts off the tap. Lifts the pot from the sink, placing it gently in the rice cooker. He looks at you funny once he turns the device on. “What’s wrong? Didn’t ya wanna make chicken katsu?”

That is the plan—you’d mentioned as much before heading out the door.

(”Unless there’s something else you’d like me to make,” you said, buttoning up your jacket.

Sakura, hands shoved in his pockets, shrugged. “’S your favorite. And today’s….it’s fine, alright?” Flushing, that was the second and last acknowledgement he’d made about the holiday.)

“You look well-rested. I’m glad. And yes, I still do. However,” you reply, pulling the small box out of your bag and turning to face him, “I can’t wait any longer.” The festive red wrapping crinkles in your hand. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Haruka.”

The box hangs in the space between you both. Sakura, stunned, stares at the box, then slowly lifts his mismatched gaze up to you. Color rises in his cheeks. You don’t move, don’t speak, don’t do anything beyond gently smile and wait patiently for his thoughts to settle. He’s grateful for it, once the blaring alarm bells of ‘romantic intent’ cease ringing.

Sakura snatches the box from your hand with a harshness he doesn’t mean. You retract your arm while he murmurs an apology. “It’s alright. I know this is a surprise.”

He’s fixated on the box again, clutching it with both hands, fingers digging into the wrapping. “Thought ya said you weren’t plannin’ anythin’!”

“Well, to be fair, you asked if it was some big thing, and it’s not.” Your purse thumps dully when you set it on the counter. Sakura frowns.

“Sha—shaddup,” he retorts, thumb tracing a rapidly forming tear. “….Can I open it?”

“Please.”

The sound of paper ripping fills the space, until the last of it flutters to the tatami. He glances at you, as if still seeking permission. You dip your chin and he pries open the lid of the box, tossing it carelessly next to the rice cooker. He tilts his head. Six circular chocolates stare back up at him. “Chocolate?”

Well. You counted on him not knowing the finer points of today’s tradition, but him not knowing anything sends a pang through your chest. “Mhm. Girls give gifts to the men in their lives—”

“I know that!”

“—and traditionally, it’s chocolate. For romantic relationships,” and now your face heats, “tradition dictates it should be homemade. While you’ve been away, I spent the evenings at Pothos with Kotoha. She helped me find the recipe and ingredients.” You rock back on your heels. Fidget with the buttons on your jacket. Explaining it all makes you suddenly nervous; you’re surprised Sakura hasn’t cut you off and removed himself from the situation entirely.

Sakura’s mouth parts. “Ya did all that for me?”

“I know they’re not gourmet or anything. Some of them are a bit lumpy.” Regret comes sweeping in; why didn’t you just buy some fancy chocolates instead? He wouldn’t have felt obligated to pretend to like them. You could just laugh it off, say you attempted normal couple things and then forget about it.

“…fine.”

You didn’t realize Sakura was talking. “Huh?”

“Said they look fine.” He’s holding one up, examining it in the kitchen light. All your self-doubt comes to a screeching halt. Sakura doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean. If he doesn’t see any flaws in them, then this wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

“Really? The molds took some getting used to. Oh! I know you prefer savory things, so they’re all dark chocolate. Three of them have a raspberry filling.” You point to the row on the left side of the box. Sakura considers this a moment, then pops the one he’d been holding—a pure dark chocolate—in his mouth.

You can’t bear to stand quietly while he chews. You open the cabinet next to the sink, removing a cutting board. A bowl follows. Sakura swallows just as you step towards the fridge.

“Thank you.” His voice is soft, full of wonder and adoration.

“You’re welcome.” Your voice is equally soft. Sakura has set the box on the counter by the time you spin around to face him. He’s staring at it with something close to reverence, a fingertip tracing along a corner.

He whips his head up at your approach, eyes wide, like a child caught in the act of breaking a rule. If only you could ease that latent fear so deep within him. Slowly, you reach your hands out, cupping his still-pink cheeks between your palms. He tenses. You gently stroke your thumbs along the curve of his cheekbone, waiting for his shoulders to ease.

They do, after a handful of heartbeats. He blinks, easing back to the present. Only when you’re sure the shadow has faded completely from his eyes do you lean up and press a soft kiss against his lips. Sakura never reciprocates right away. He always hesitates, like his mind just cannot process the fact he’s being touched so lovingly.

He kisses you back gently. Chaste, nothing more than a faint pressure before he pulls back. The faint taste of chocolate lingers on your mouth. You remain in place, still idly smoothing your thumbs on his skin. He’s on the verge of saying something; courage pools underneath his skin, determination flashing in two-toned irises. “I missed havin’ dinner with you.”

“So did I,” you whisper, as if admitting a long held secret.

Steam hisses out of the rice cooker. You both jolt, shocked out of your little bubble. Laughing, you release Sakura from your hold, feeling like you’re floating as you retrace your steps to the fridge. “Guess we should actually make it then, hm?”

“Yeah,” he replies, and something in his voice makes you look back at him over his shoulder. Another chocolate is held delicately between his thumb and pointer finger. A raspberry one, if you’re not mistaken. The corners of his lips are turned upward. “Mind if I have another before dinner?”

“Not at all.”