A/N: this is actually going to be a series of one-shots, probably the 'Boys and Girls verses.
She liked pretty boys, all elegant and slender, pale skin and harsh black hair like a splotch of spilt ink, and eyes just as dark or red, the shade of love with black points that spun like pin wheels in the wind.
Pretty boys with their faraway eyes and perfect lips all Sakura pink, and she likes to see them because they remind her of herself, almost soft on the pale skin not as harsh but still bold, still silent.
Those pretty boys with 'not there' attitudes of misplaced loneliness turned hate, and longing sighs soft and pleasant making her wish to feel them ghost across her skin, prickle at her senses.
And these pretty boys with no good luck, with all the luck in the world, and subtle touch to show just how much they cared, with no words like I love you, but hands that said I'd die for you.
Yeah the kind of pretty boys who knew nothing about everything, and knew everything about nothing and were like stars reflected on the sea, flickering and fading and shining bright and dull at once.
The pretty boys with the cool tones and warm murmurs all their own, the bundled feelings and give away hearts that are broke to bits, unable to be fixed up again.
The pretty boys that were like the bad boys but only not as nice with their lone existence theory that if it's only one there would be no pain, just them no one else.
The pretty boys with a bad history, with memories filled of backyard butterfly chasing, and a laughing mother somewhere with food waiting, a brother sitting reading not far off but smiling, and a father sipping tea, hiding smiles and chuckles with his drink.
She likes the pretty boys with broken hearts and not there lies and pretend white truths that aren't not true but close enough.
She likes the pretty boys with too long sleeves and just right jeans and wet ink hair against rice paper skin and pin wheel love eyes and Sakura lips.
She likes the pretty boys with distance looks and half a heart to not say the mean things, and luck that wasn't really luck but faith and hands and looks that could speak.
She likes the pretty boys with names that begin with s and end with an e, and are her friend and trade lunch because she doesn't have the heart to tell her mom she doesn't like the food because it was never sweet enough.
She likes the pretty boys with two best friends and says doesn't need more, the kind that she grew up with, the kind who loves her for who she is, even if that love was not like the love that she has.
The pretty boys who sat with her on the porch, with their best friends during summer, doing everything and nothing and living as one, with shared breath and in synch heart beats.
Those pretty boys that hold her hand the other occupied by her best friend and the walks to each other's houses only blocks away.
The pretty boys, who stopped to help her out of a tree when she was six, the one who got his best friend to make her stop crying when she hurt herself because he didn't know how.
The pretty boys like the one sitting on the floor of her living room playing video games with her best friend and munching on chips.
She likes the pretty boys that were all her own and out of reach, but very much there, and who would say she was theirs, because it was these type of pretty boys that she knew.
The kind with too light touches and almost not there whispers and pin wheel hearts and far off eyes and with names like Sasuke and Uchiha, those were the pretty boys that lived in her heart.
She liked pretty boys, all elegant and slender, pale skin and harsh black hair like a splotch of spilt ink, and eyes just as dark or red, the shade of love with black points that spun like pin wheels in the wind.
The pretty boys who were like love letter written in time long ago and drifted into acknowledgement with eras, a romance that threw time, and lived, breathed and stayed, these were the pretty boys she liked.