A/N: cross-posting all my SasuSaku Month '17 fic over here. each of this is a separate one-shot. enjoy!

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1. first love


At the age of twelve, Sakura dreamt of marriage bells, Sasuke's eyes, and their hands intertwined. It had been easy, then, to sweeten her smile and curl an arm around his. It had been easy to bounce back from constant and biting rejection, all the while balancing fears that turned out to come true. And Sakura hasn't been twelve in a while, but those memories are still crystal clear. She does not need the sharingan to remember the peach color of the sky above them, to feel the humidity of those summers' dusk, to hear Sasuke's low voice as he insulted Naruto over something or other. How her arms pimpled with goosebumps when they were close enough to touch; how her heart caught when they never did.

She loved him so.

She loved him enough to still remember every facet of a boy who does not exist anymore. She loved him enough to still love him today, even as he unsheathes a sword or the red glare of his eyes—

Despite the hurt, Sakura does not dwell on that.

It is easier to remember him as her first love. To ignore he may very well be the only one, even if her mother believes the contrary.

"A girl never forgets her first love," Mebuki said once, combing through Sakura's hair with her fingers.

The smell of brick dust and Sai's ink was still mixed with her strawberry shampoo, even though they'd returned from Sound days before. Sasuke had been so close, close enough to touch.

Sakura did not reply to her mother then. She looked at the fluttering curtains of her bedroom and waited.

"It's not like your father was my first love, you know," Mebuki went on. And Sakura knows how this story goes, but she still waited. "But he was the right one."

At the time, anger and bitterness inflamed her, and she thought: but Sasuke isn't the wrong one.

Now Sakura rubs the knot in her neck, imagining a calloused palm closing around it. Mebuki hasn't seen the bruises; Sakura made sure to heal those before coming home.

Mebuki hasn't seen the bruises, but she must see something else.

"It's enough," her mother says, and her silverware clatters against a half-empty plate.

"You're full already?" Kizashi asks, surprised.

"Kaa-san," Sakura warns.

"It's enough," Mebuki repeats. "I am tired of watching you go out on the field with your heart in your hands, only to come back with it more broken than before. This will not mend, Sakura. Not unless you get it through your head that—"

It is the first time she leaves the house without a word of goodbye.


The war comes to a climax, and all she can think about is damp paper, weighing heavy in her pocket. The smell of dirt and disinfectant, a shy, bandaged smile, and how it was the first time she'd been confessed to.

"Ah, well," the boy had said, "if it's someone you like, then …"

He was wrong, of course.

Sasuke is not a great person. He used to be, when missions didn't end in murder and intimidation, when a runaway cat was the only enemy they had to face. He was great then, cool-headed and smooth, even though the indignity of running after a pet made him embarrassed.

Sakura knew this because she knew him. She made it her business to; teammates or not, Sasuke was still the apple of everyone's eye. But she knew him, and that was more than any other girl could say.

Well. He is still great, in his own way. Still a great fighter. A great threat. A great reminder she should take her mother's advice and move on with her life.

She thinks of finding that boy, of learning his name and his hobbies, whether he likes sweet things, or does he prefer spicy flavors? Has he got a favorite author, or is he more interested in paintings? Does he think he could ever love a girl obsessed with a memory, or does he know she will never be his to keep?

The letter weighs in her breast pocket like an anchor. Sakura stays above the water, but does not know how.


"You waited for a long time," Sasuke says.

He doesn't find it in him to look in her eyes. Instead, he keeps his gaze on the hospital ceiling, like he did years before.

Sakura doesn't bring him into a hug, this time. She wishes she could find the guts to, but all that there is available is dry, stale anxiety. Naruto's occasional snores help, but not enough.

She nods instead, and pretends to analyze Naruto's slumped shape, halfway into falling off his chair.

"I'm sorry," Sasuke says.

At least this part of him hasn't changed—Sasuke still doesn't say what he wants to. Or what Sakura wants to hear.

"Sasuke-kun," she says, unmoving, "you don't have to."

A heart too big for a girl so small, Mebuki used to say, back when Sakura wasn't a top-tier bounty in bingo books. Maybe her mother still thinks so, but there haven't been many opportunities to say it aloud.

Sasuke looks at Sakura. The ends of his hair are split and lie limp against his shoulder. She is overcome with the need to brush those strands of hair behind his ear.

Even tired and healing, Sasuke notices the flinch of her hand, and his eyes stay there for a long time.

"You need a haircut," Sakura says, a little out of breath. An explanation masking a distraction.

"Will you do it?" Sasuke asks, unaware of all the times Sakura wished she could run her hands through his hair.

She had so loved how it stood at the end. Sasuke had never been the sort to use hair gels, or cologne, or anything other than the absolutely necessary. She supposes he still isn't.

"Oh, um," she mutters.

The boy he once was would never ask her that. Sakura once knew enough about Sasuke to write a book about him. Now she writes reports about his physical status and his abilities, and she doesn't know him at all. Nor does she know what to reply. But it matters not; Naruto slips off his chair, and hits the ground with a confused yell.

Sasuke looks outside again, and Sakura gets up to help Naruto to his feet.

The moment, if it was even that, is clipped, abrupt like the snip of a closing scissor. But it lingers. Oh, it lingers.


The first time Sasuke kisses her, Sakura realizes he is no longer her first love.

Her first love was an aloof boy whose darkness could not be contained; a boy who brushed her off as easy as a mosquito in the summer; a boy who would never even admit to looking at her. And that boy is gone, she realizes, when Sasuke keeps his gaze on her without shame, when Sasuke's fingers pad at her forehead, when Sasuke's leaning into her without a grimace or a scowl.

There was a clean break somewhere, somehow.

Sasuke stopped being a rose-colored memory when he chose the cold hue of revenge, and Sakura reacted accordingly. Peace is more important than holding onto the past, and they both know they would've killed one another if given the chance. But the dust settles. Konoha is reborn. And if Sasuke is someone else now, then so is Sakura.

He kisses her, now. She lets him, wondering if she is his first love, if it began before or only after his revenge was quelled, if it even matters. When they part, her face is warm, and Sasuke's eyes are bare and clear.

Numbers are just numbers, Sakura realizes, and she doesn't care about being the first as much as she cares about being the last.

So she smiles through the mist in her eyes, and kisses him again.