—
four—fruity.
—
Tsunayoshi swears that it's her lip gloss that makes him lucky.
It's something intoxicating—he's not familiar with berries, herbs, fruits, vegetables, all of the things that Haru's known for simply because of her name and what it stands for—a constant presence whenever he wakes up, rolls over, and stutters to find her curled up alongside him. It always takes him a moment to remember that they're living together, in Paris, France—the home of all things lovely, romantic, and downright embarrassing—and even though it's not a permanent thing, it still sends shivers running through his body.
Paris. France. The City of Love—or so Hibari told him, the day before he left for his vacation.
(This always reminds him, how the hell does Hibari-san know that Paris, France is the City of Love when he doesn't have a romantic bone in his body?)
(Haru always tells him that maybe Hibari-san's not as oblivious and heartless as everyone makes him out to be—a quick glance from Tsunayoshi silences that thought, squashes underneath an ice cold fist that can only belong to Hibari.)
But when he does manage to keep his head on straight when he wakes up, he doesn't move, doesn't disturb her, just waits until she opens her eyes into the bright, beaming sunlight around them, and reach up with her hands to pull his face down to hers—it's her lip gloss again, and her shampoo, her face wash, her body soap, her taste itself, her scent—
It tastes achingly familiar: spring skies, wildflowers, fruits, something like strawberries and honey—
—and he pulls back: her eyes are brighter than the sun, her hair loose, gathered about her shoulders, her top loose, but attractive enough to hold his gaze, to send his fingertips careening into the tiers and ruffles blowing in the wind at her chest. His irises don't want to wander down to their legs—strawberry-pink entwined with his clear peach-orange—but do so anyway, along with his principles, his sensibilities, oh, God, why are you doing this to me?
He assumes he's said it aloud, because Haru offers an answer, "Because you deserve everything, Tsuna-san."
He wants to counter, to shrink back into his self-loathing, no-good state of mind, but her legs clamp together against his, holding his hand in place just above her stomach, just under the hem of her ruffles and tiers. His fingertips slide across her skin, soft, enticing a reaction out of her—he doesn't mean to, but he can't help but trace the shapes lying hidden to his eyes, he knows they're there.
"Give yourself a chance, Tsuna-san," she pants out, struggling to ignore the touch of his skin against hers as his hands act entirely of their own accord, or so he's deathperate to believe. "I'm not here to judge you—I just want—"
"—Haru," he whispers, embarrassed at his tone, husky and slow, lingering upon her name, before he pulls her lips to his with magnetism and magnetism alone, tasting that saccharinity once more. He knows he's stealing too much, taking too much, but can't stop, dear, God, please, this isn't—
She pulls her lips from his, and kisses his cheek, his temple, his nose, the inside of his elbow, his collarbone, his shoulder. Spreading the luck of her strawberries and honey across his body, igniting his flames deep inside. He can feel her heart resonating with his flames—it rouses Natsu from his place tangled in the bed sheets just beyond their legs, his orange eyes popping open and paws hurrying toward them with a small roar of approval. As Natsu tackles Tsunayoshi in a fit of hysterics—the happy kind, the rare kind that never envelops Tsunayoshi unless he's with Haru—Haru smiles down at them from where she sits, a leaf to the wind, baring her shape to the sun.
She whispers, "I just want you to be happy."
"I am," he responds, laughing as Natsu—in a completely not lion-like move—licks his face, "I just don't know what I did to deserve it, that's all."
Haru touches the lip gloss-stained cheek closest to her with her fingertips: "Because I love you, and I want you to love me too."
Natsu blinks from the top of the stunned Tsunayoshi's head, his heart starts pounding, his eyes widening. "You—"
"—It's okay," she says suddenly, waving her palms in the air, "I—I was just trying to ease your mind, not embarrass you."
He's not embarrassed; he doesn't understand why he should be.
"Haru."
She stops. "Yes?"
"Why?"
Haru bites her bottom lip, and meets his gaze nervously. He knows there's a reason why, there's always a reason why, except when Hibari's concerned, because he never needs a reason to do what he does because he can just do it without fear of the consequences just because he's Hibari Kyouya. It occurs to Tsunayoshi, when Haru's lips near his again, why the hell am I thinking about Hibari-san of all times?—before he decides to forget about his question, and the reason why. He doesn't need it, she's kissing away his doubt, and holding him close, and that's all he needs.
All the lucky lip gloss in the world can't measure up to this, even though she's wearing it.
.
end.
notes: I'm pretty sure most of my grammar's wrong in this drabble. Oh, yeah, inspired by Ichigo Kurosaki, or rather, just the word ichigo in general. God love strawberries—I actually happen to love my face wash with strawberry seeds, and my chap stick that's strawberry-flavored. Thanks for the feedback guys, please keep it up.