A miracle: Alive and writing. Possibly out of character here and there, as it's my first time writing these two. I beg for R&R - ing.
It's odd, he thinks to himself as he presses the heavy towel, filled with at least twenty cubes of ice, against his cheek and cringes, how despite all this (the punches, the bruises, the kicks, the painful kneecaps) he still loves her.
Unfathomable, as some of the smarter people walking around town would say it; How, perhaps, she would say it, after which a question mark would be plastered onto his face, an expression that'll tick her off as she is, no, not exactly patient, and especially not with him, and then that punctuation mark will be literally smacked off his face with a set of leather-covered knuckles.
He's seen those black gloves up close many more times than he wanted, even if it thrills him when she inches a little nearer to him than she'd do to anyone else.
But as of late, those moments have become rare, and he finds himself doubting, doubting whether it is him she thinks of, or the male he's trying so hard to get back to Konoha, if she, maybe, uses him as a substitute, sees black eyes in blue ones.
That is not all, however, because he wouldn't question her, simply, because of just that. There's more to it, multiple things that make him believe less. When he's training, it's mister Dick who watches, and the only thing he sees of her is a straw basket chucked full with fist-size pills of an odd black-grey-brown color that taste tremendously disgusting, sometimes accompanied by a note, that says they are for him.
Sometimes, he takes a break to find and thank her, but she is always busy, every time, and he'll return to the training ground with his figurative tail between his legs, far less hyped up about becoming stronger than before. When he has coupons, or money, he'll invite her to the best restaurant he knows (nothing top Ichiraku Ramen) and she'll turn him down, with an excuse or without further explanation.
And today, just minutes ago, she'd hit him, square against the cheekbone, and then dashed out the door to Tsunade-Knows-Where (that woman, she sees everything from high up there). The smack is a blur in his memory, but the reason behind it, he still knows.
She commented on how he seems to progress slower than usual, something that made his stomach turn and the frustration and fear of the past weeks of aloofness leave his mouth via poorly chosen words.
Words, that were, " I'm not Sasuke-bastard, okay ?"
It's almost painfully obvious now, and it hurts ten, a hundred times as much as the blue-tinted spot on his face, right above his upper left whisker: If the mere mentioning of raven hair and everlasting-glares upsets her this much, then perhaps, maybe, surely –
He doesn't want to think about it, but he is uncertain of how long he'll be able to pretend.
With a weakening sigh, he turns to leave the kitchen of his apartment, sit at his table, wait for her to return, and right when he does so, the door opens, and all doubts that he's ever had melt like the now lukewarm substance in the cloth against his cheek.
Beautiful Haruno Sakura stands on his doorstep and makes him feel like crying when she, rueful and regretful, raises a plastic bag with a sack of ice cubes and two cup of instant noodles, simultaneously parting her lips to speak to him.
"Naruto, want to eat at Ichiraku this evening?"