I don't know man, I just like hands and gals being pals. And Sakura's character, too.
There was an aspect of Sakura Haruno that fascinated Ino.
(Well, one of many)
She'd known Sakura for a very long time. She'd seen all of her ; she'd seen the shine and the warmth, and she'd seen the cracks and the dark. They'd lived together through times of glory and times of great peril. Always near. Not quite by each other's sides, that was true, but near nonetheless.
She knew the Sakura that she'd met years ago. The crying child, hurt and afraid, that just needed a friend. She remembered her fondly. This Sakura had grown, now. She cried still, of course, because no matter how tough one becomes, the world is still cruel. But they weren't the same tears anymore. Whereas she had once shed tears of fear and of distress, she now wept away her sadness to rid herself of its weight, and it only made her sturdier. Readier.
She knew the Sakura that showed herself to all. Powerful, inspiring, strong, beautiful but above all, kind. The Sakura that nursed, cared for and pushed forward with a smile, a smile radiant enough to put an army back on its feet.
She knew the Sakura that surfaced on the battlefield. Sakura the kunoichi, a Sakura that she'd foreseen from the very beginning and that she'd watched blossom, fierce and proud, posture straight and feet deeply anchored to the ground. The Sakura that enemies saw charging before them, whose eyes they met, green pools of strength and of deeply-rooted determination. An unwavering will to push forward, the very core of who and what she was. Yes, those eyes were what they saw first, and then came the fist.
Ino had held Sakura's hands many times. Even before they'd grown this close. She had put them back on their feet, she had wiped their tears and she had squeezed them into hers before she had kissed and cherished them. And through the years, she'd come to see those hands as a sort of… things of beauty, she'd say. She didn't have the proper words for them ; they were like a poem. Beautiful and contradictory.
They were the pinky promise of a childhood friend. They were the nursing tools of a medical ninja. They were the bruised fists of a fighter. They were the sweet caress of a lover.
They were all of that, and so much more.
Sometimes, when they sat intertwined together, Ino would hold those hands and ever so gently trace every single line, every single curve, every single crack with her own finger. Taking in the history carried by those palms and the beauty woven between those fingers.
Sakura would chuckle every time. "What are you doing?" she would ask, sinking deeper into Ino's touch and enjoying the frail tickle.
"I really love your hands," Ino would answer, never bothering to explain.