#i HAD to combine my two fave things. sakura and christmas!

[arget-star]

red 'cause i'm shy, you're my angel in white

Sakura Haruka x F!Reader

A/N: Happy Holidays to everyone who celebrates! I hope they are a joyful time <3 Title unashamedly taken from Christmas Love by Stray Kids This is set within the By Any Other Name verse, but you don't have to read that first :)

tags: none! just fluff :)

wc: 2k

about: Sakura has never experienced a traditional Christmas Eve. He wants to make is special for you

For all the mystery surrounding Sakura, he can be surprisingly easy to read. There’s no hidden agenda with him—what you see is what you get. Even his angry outbursts are easy to decipher, once you get to know him.

Something’s weighing heavy on his mind. That little crease forms on his forehead when he thinks you’re not paying attention, and you’ve caught him texting more than once over the last two weeks. His phone never stops buzzing, courtesy of Class 1-1’s group chat, but he usually scoffs and ignores the thing. Replies from him are a rare thing; a text conversation actually holding his attention is unheard of.

When you asked him about it, an offhand little inquiry over dinner one night, he’d shrugged. “Umemiya’s plannin’ our next captain’s meeting.” But he couldn’t meet your eyes as he said it. Sakura went as far as shoving his phone in his pocket, face a charming shade of pink. You didn’t push the matter; Sakura will tell you when he’s ready. It’s not like you’re concerned he’s cheating or involved in some nefarious matter. He’d struggled enough asking you out for your first official date. Not to mention, if he ever did try and pull some nonsense, Suo and Nirei wouldn’t hesitate in knocking sense back into Sakura’s head.

A day or so after you’d asked him, the texting stopped. He was more engaged than he’d been recently, so you considered everything done and over with. Whatever was going on sounded like Bofurin business.

The odd behavior starts up again a week before Christmas. This time around, along with the increased texting and furrowed brows, he keeps opening his mouth, like he’s about to ask you something, then closing it just as suddenly. You remain patient, despite the worry niggling the edges of your thoughts. Sakura’s demeanor towards you hasn’t changed. If he was upset about something you did, he’d be straightforward enough to tell you.

You both opted to stay in tonight—Sakura’s patrol ran late because everyone in town, according to him, needed help shoveling snow away from their storefronts. It’s sweet, how much he cares, and equally endearing how hard he tries not letting it show. You didn’t mind a lazy evening in yourself. End of term exams consumed your school hours, leaving you exhausted by the time the final bell rang.

You have a sneaking suspicion Sakura prefers lounging around his apartment. There’s no chance of anyone in town purposefully riling him up when they catch sight of the two of you together.

Curled up on the secondhand couch, you lean your weight against him, holding out a volume of some new manga Nirei had recommended. Sakura’s only half paying attention; he keeps asking you to go back a page, or who that character is, or why they’re at that other guy’s house. You’re in the middle of summarizing the last chapter when the cushions vibrate.

Sakura jolts. Fingers scramble for the phone laying underneath his thigh. You trail off mid-explanation, watching Sakura’s expression. A blush creeps up his neck despite the prominent frown curling his lips. The phone buzzes again, his knuckles tightening around the device. Yikes; whoever’s on the other end is in for it next time Sakura seems them in person.

One more buzz. His eyebrow—the white one—twitches. You close the tankōbon, setting it carefully beside you and shifting so your body is facing him. A charged silence settles around you. Patience can only go so far; you’re worried, and a little irritated he’s not making even the smallest attempt at communicating. More messages arrive in rapid fire succession. With each, Sakura’s cheeks turn darker, emanating a heat you can practically feel. He keeps sneaking glances at you, little flashes of gold from beneath a fringe of white bangs.

“Sakura, what’s going on?” You ask gently, daring to rest a hand atop his knee. Physical affection is still a gamble with him. The rules change depending on where you are, who you’re with, his overall mood. Figuring them out is a bumpy, ever evolving road; one you’re proud to navigate so long as it’s with him.

“Hah?” Nothin’!” He says, far too loudly, jumping both at your voice and touch. (Too late, he realizes you didn’t use his first name.) You remove your hand. He fumbles with the phone, finally turning it off and letting it drop unceremoniously into his lap.

Now you frown. Sakura isn’t the type to keep secrets. There are things he doesn’t discuss, like what led to his arrival in Makochi, and that’s fine. You don’t care about any of that. You do, however, care about what’s currently going on in his life, especially as it pertains to your relationship. “It’s clearly not nothing,” you reply, with more bite than you intend.

Mismatched eyes meet your own for what feels like the first time all evening. Gold and blue widen in momentary alarm; he’s caught, and you both know it. His throat works as he swallows back an undoubtedly angry retort. In any other circumstance, you’d be proud of him. Right now, you’d take his misplaced anger over whatever this is.

You’re rarely truly upset with him. Huffy over petty squabbles here and there, like any couple, things that blow over in an afternoon. This time, there’s genuine hurt flickering in your eyes, and Sakura notes how you’ve stopped touching him completely. A sigh escapes his nose a split second before the cursed phone buzzes again.

“They never shut up,” Sakura grumbles. He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, turning his attention to the floor. “I asked ‘em for advice.”

You pause. The admission halts your rising annoyance in its tracks, makes you reconsider the situation. Christmas Eve is around the corner. Judging by his unspoken past, it would not surprise you to learn he’s never celebrated the holiday properly. Your heart skips a beat. You’d love to give everyone who ever made Sakura feel less an incredibly loud piece of your mind. Perhaps a taste of your fists, for good measure.

“Advice about what?” You prod softly. His phone remains untouched in his lap. A lengthy pause follows your question. You’re about to encourage him again when he finally, finally, catches your eyes.

“…D’you wanna go out on Christmas Eve? With me?” Using every ounce of will in his body, Sakura forces himself to stay put. A faint tremor runs through him with the effort. His brain screams at him to run, that old irrational fear of his that you’ll wind up laughing in his face overriding any reasonable thoughts to the contrary.

He knows he’s terrible at this. But you always take it in stride, smiling at him like he’s somehow worthy of being loved.

You’re smiling now. “Haruka,” you say with a surprised exhale—or perhaps it’s relief—cradling his burning face in your cool palms. “Of course I do.”

He’ll never get tired of hearing you say his name. He can’t take it anymore; he looks away, shoulders dropping as the tension leaks away. Dammit, when he tells everyone, they’ll blow up that stupid messaging app all over again. If he waits until he sees them in class, then he’s just asking for them to all pile on him in celebration. Which isn’t so terrible anymore, all things considered.

What a study in contradictions, you think, watching the gears turning in his head. The brilliant blush of his has yet to fade. He’s subtly leaning into your touch, and you swear you catch the faintest hint of a smile tucked in the corner of his lips.

“I was hoping you’d ask.” Initially, you’d planned to spend another quiet evening with him, laughing over homemade karaage while watching the snow fall outside.

“Yeah, well, I did!”

Honestly, you’re impressed he lasted this long without letting off some steam. It’s an improvement from the day he’d asked you out, officially—after barely getting the words out through gritted teeth and a blush to rival this one, he’d stalked off without waiting for your response. Later, you’d heard him yelling at who you assume was Suo-chan. You never did give Sakura a proper answer; just showed up at the agreed restaurant five minutes early and that was that.

Laughing, you release his face, settling back down on the couch. “Please tell everyone I said hello.”

“No.”

(It’s the first thing he does upon entering class the next morning.)

Sakura keeps his hands tucked into his jacket pockets as you stroll along Tonpu Street. Something as simple—as normal—as threading your fingers together is out of the question among the crowed streets. Too many eyes on him, too many people liable to say the wrong thing and set him off. Part of discovering his unspoken rules about physical affection required learning it’s not just how Sakura feels while doing it; it’s how others affect his overall feelings.

Put plainly, he doesn’t want to give anyone more ammunition to start a fight with him.

So you’ve found little ways to compromise. He maintains his dignity and you can still satisfy the urge to be affectionate with him. A desire you know for a fact he also feels. One day, you’re sure he’ll overcome whatever mental hurdle prevents him from doing so in public.

Tonight, you wrap your left hand around his right bicep, both of your shoulders brushing with every step. You prefer this arrangement to holding his hand, truthfully. Not that you’d ever tell him that—you don’t want to risk ruining his carefully built-up comfort.

“We helped put some of these up,” Sakura says, tilting his head at the many strings of lights crisscrossing the street. Their golden glow turns the snow the same burnished bronze as his eye.

“Beautiful,” you reply. Predictably, his cheeks redden, though you don’t think he caught on to the fact you meant him instead of the lights.

You steal glances at him as you wander down the street. Lights reflect off his hair, highlighting the snowflakes stuck to the black strands. He’s scanning the streets with the same purpose he does while on patrol, but you catch him lingering on all the Christmas displays. Beautifully decorated trees adorn various shop windows. Little kids all bundled up in jackets and beanies weave between the crowds, giggling as they clutch boxed up pastries in their gloved hands. A few couples pass by; Sakura misses the first pair, but he makes a surprised noise when the second one stops a few feet in front of you, the girl placing a kiss on her partner’s cheek.

Sakura’s arm tenses beneath you. Muffling a laugh, you tug him along, following the pervasive scent of fresh bread. “Come on. I think Cactus made Christmas cake!”

He follows for a couple steps without protest, if only to get away from the affectionate scene playing out in front of you, and then his brain catches up with your statement. “Christmas what?”

Again, you’re struck with the urge to pummel everyone who ever ignored Sakura. He’s rubbing off on me.

“Christmas cake!” You repeat cheerfully. That doesn’t answer his question, but he appreciates how you never make him feel like an idiot when he unintentionally reveals just how little he knows about the world. “Sponge cake with strawberries and whipped cream. It’s delicious.”

Sakura considers this. He doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth—all that sugar gives him a headache—but the last thing he wants to do is kill your enthusiasm. “If you say so.” It’s petulant, because he doesn’t know any other way to be. He’s trying, even if it doesn’t always seem that way.

You squeeze his arm and lead him through Cactus’ front door. One of the bakers snaps his head up from behind the counter to greet you and Sakura, recognition breaking across his face. “Oh, you’re one of the Furin boys! Hold on, please!”

What a difference it makes, being singled out for something other than his appearance.

A handful of other customers begin whispering to each other. You catch a faint thank you! from someone that goes unanswered. Sakura’s tensing up again, scowling through another blush. Another five seconds and he’ll start throwing punches. “Tch, I’m just takin’ care of business.”

You’ve stepped into his line of sight, prepared to calm him down should he need it. Pride glows warm in your chest instead; he’s looking off to the side as he says it, though you consider the fact he said it at all a victory. You smile, a soft, sweet thing, the type of smile that makes Sakura feel all weird inside. Weird in a good way, he determined all those months ago—because now he has the oddest impulse to smile right back.

The baker returns with a box in his hand. “Enjoy the cake, you two!”

Sakura’s almost-smile drops. He swipes the box, then pauses. “Ain’t this a bread place?”

“He means thank you,” you sigh. Tactful as ever, your Sakura. The baker, to his credit, looks unbothered. He waves before darting behind the counter to assist another customer. You usher Sakura out of Cactus, the little bell above the door chiming in time with your exit.

“It was a genuine question,” Sakura states, hands curled carefully around the box.

“They’re allowed to make other things. Like a special cake for Christmas.” A pause. “Ready to go home?”

You say it so casually. So easily. He doesn’t understand how you’re able to do that. He also doesn’t understand what’s so important about this damn cake, and why it makes your eyes sparkle, or why it suddenly matters to him that this is the best slice of sponge-strawberry whatever you’ve ever tasted.

“Yeah,” he replies, voice suddenly a little hoarse. “Let’s go.”

Truthfully, you would not have minded enjoying the Christmas lights a little longer. Everything felt more magical this year. Most likely due to the boy sitting on the tatami across from you, staring dubiously at the slice of the expertly crafted treat on his plate.

You’ve never spent Christmas Eve in love before.

But you could tell his already wire-thin patience was fraying down to practically nothing. The clear thought and effort he put into this entire evening is more than enough for you.

Sakura cuts off a piece of cake with his fork. You watch him eagerly, your own dessert momentarily forgotten. He chomps down on it, lowering the fork as he chews. A crumb clings to the corner of his lips.

“Well?” You prompt when he swallows.

“It’s…why’re you starin’? It’s good, alright?” There’s no anger behind the words; they’re just a reflex at this point.

Triumphant, you cut your own piece of cake, raising the fork in a mock toast towards him. “Merry Christmas, Haruka.”

That weird feeling returns. He almost—almost—wants to run away, or start shouting, but the reaction is delayed. Distant. Whatever you’ve done to him, he doesn’t hate it. Finding comfort in someone else isn’t the worst thing in the world. His expectations of other people have changed. Slowly. He’ll never completely shake what the lessons of his youth taught him, but he is grateful that tiny shift allowed you into his life.

“M-merry Christmas,” he replies, spearing another bite of cake onto his fork.