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Sakura’s used to scrubbing bloodstains from his clothes. He’s learned all the tricks for getting rid of the most persistent ones: baking soda, peroxide, lemon juice. Sometimes his shirts end up ruined beyond repair; with a wardrobe of nothing but identical white shirts, it’s no big deal to throw one away, knowing how easily it can be replaced.
His Furin jacket is another story altogether.
After Bofurin’s fight with Shishitouren, there’s a stain on the cuff of his jacket. Maybe it’s Togame’s blood, or maybe it’s his own; he couldn’t say. No matter how much he scrubs and scrubs at it, though, he can’t get it out—no more than he can erase the memory of that fight from his mind.
He can’t help but feel like they left things unfinished, him and Togame—but even more than that, there’s a feeling he doesn’t recognize scratching at his brain, lingering in the back of his mind no matter where he goes, what he does. It sticks in his throat, clawing at his chest from the inside; he can’t put a name to it, and isn’t sure he would want to even if he could. The thing he keeps coming back to is Togame’s comment in the midst of their fight, the one Sakura had found himself agreeing with before he’d even stopped to think: “Man…I didn’t know fights could feel this good.”
He wants to feel it again. Wants to know if they can recreate it, that chemical reaction that had sparked between them; wants to know if there’s something more there, something he’s never before dared, let alone desired, to consider. He holds out until the cut above his eye has nearly healed, until the skin of his knuckles has knit itself back together once more. Still, the bloodstain on the cuff of his jacket lingers, taunting him every time he catches sight of it out of the corner of his eye.
I don’t avert my eyes, nor distort who I am. He stops averting his eyes (from his sleeve, from himself), swallows his pride, and goes to see Togame.
—
Crossing the overhead tracks still feels like breaking some sort of rule. Sakura doesn’t know why he cares, when he never would have before; that’s Bofurin’s influence, he supposes, creeping further into his life with every passing day. Still, Umemiya is the one who had declared that they were friends with Shishitouren now, so this should be allowed, he thinks.
On this side of the tracks, Sakura’s jacket earns him as many stares as his appearance normally does. Murmurs of Bofurin haunt his steps, but he’s used to ignoring the whispers of others as he passes by. He’s had plenty of practice.
He still remembers the way to the Ori(on) Theater, retracing the path he’d walked that day, following in the Shishitouren members’ wake. He almost turns back twice, half-convinced that he’s making a mistake, but he forces himself to keep walking. If he runs now, he’ll never know.
He hesitates as the run-down theater comes into view; he doesn’t have a plan, per se, and doesn’t know what he’ll say if he comes across anyone other than the person he came here to find. Asking to be led to their second-in-command feels presumptuous, but more than that—he doesn’t particularly want anyone else to know he’s here. It’s already too late, he’s sure, given how quickly word seems to spread across town, but the illusion of secrecy feels reassuring, though he couldn’t say why.
Fate, luckily, seems to be on his side. “Sakura?”
The voice comes from above, echoing across the courtyard. Sakura looks up, toward the spot on the roof where they’d had their ‘afterparty,’ and sure enough: there’s Togame, sitting up, his gaze fixed on Sakura, his expression one of utter surprise.
“...hi,” Sakura calls back, wishing he’d turned back after all, knowing full well the question that’s coming next, the one he still doesn’t have an answer to. Sure enough: “What’re you doing here?”
“I came to see if you’ve been keeping your promise. And…I want a rematch,” is what Sakura settles on, but even as he says it, he knows that’s not the reason. Not really.
Based on his expression, Togame knows it too. “Is that so.” He gets to his feet, slowly maneuvering his way back down to the ground; he may have dropped much of the persona he’d established, but it seems he’s still in no hurry. Sakura waits impatiently until Togame is on level ground, crossing the courtyard to join him. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” Togame comments as he comes to a halt a few feet away. His gaze is piercing despite the lazy smile on his face, and Sakura finds himself looking away just to escape its intensity. Togame keeps talking. “Most of the guys left for the day already, and Chouji just took off, so I was about to head home myself. Walk with me?”
Sakura does his best to hide his surprise. “Alright,” he agrees. It doesn’t escape his notice how quickly both of them disregarded Sakura’s hasty excuse for his presence, though he knows he should be glad Togame let him off the hook so easily. It wasn’t a lie, after all; it just certainly wasn’t the whole truth.
Togame’s apartment is nearby, as it turns out—close enough that they don’t have time to talk about much of anything, Sakura grunting out one-word responses to Togame’s questions as they walk. He’s the one who came looking for Togame, the one who showed up on his turf without any warning; he knows he should say more, but now that he’s here, it’s like he can’t get the words out, like he can’t even find the right words to say.
Sakura hangs back as Togame unlocks his door, and Togame glances back at him questioningly. “You wanna come in?” he asks, and Sakura stares at him blankly. “What? You wanted to talk, right?”
“We never finished our fight,” Sakura says. “Not properly. I told you, I want a rematch.”
“Is that really what you’re here for?” Togame asks, but he once again saves Sakura from having to answer. It’s like he knows if he presses too hard, Sakura will turn tail and run, never to return. “C’mon, come in.”
“Should you be inviting the enemy in?” Sakura grumbles even as he finds himself stepping over the threshold, toeing off his shoes at the entrance.
“Enemy?” Togame laughs. “Thought we were friends now, remember? Our teams, anyway.” Sakura can’t argue with that, as much as he might want to; Togame shuts the door behind them, slipping off his own sandals. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
The apartment is simple, sparse, but neat. “You live alone?” Sakura asks.
“Mm,” Togame affirms.
“Huh. It’s cleaner than I thought it would be.”
“Backhanded compliments aside,” Togame says, “You want something to drink? I’ve got ramune, or I can make some tea…and you wanna tell me what it is you’re actually doing here?”
Sakura accepts the tea, for something to do with his hands, if nothing else. He keeps scratching at his knuckles, where the skin is still healing; Togame nods knowingly as he catches sight of Sakura’s movements, holding up his own hands for Sakura to see, the new skin scratched red and raw. “The itching is the worst, huh,” he says, and Sakura nods in turn. “Give me the pain over this torture any day.”
A smile tugs at Togame’s lips as he sets to work making the tea, waiting for Sakura to address the second part of his question. The water is already boiling by the time Sakura speaks up, his gaze somewhere far away as he watches Togame pour water over the tea leaves. “I didn’t know a fight could feel that good,” Sakura says quietly, and Togame sets the kettle aside, turning toward him and waiting for him to continue, “...and no one’s ever called me by my name during a fight before.”
In that moment, Togame knows: Sakura is as lonely as he is.
Ever since Chouji became Shishitouren’s leader, Togame has felt so alone. Making himself into the villain, trying desperately to hold everything together, to keep everyone from hating Chouji: even right by his side, Togame had felt worlds away from his best friend, to say nothing of the rest of the team. Things have improved since their fights against Bofurin, but they’re still so far from where they used to be, standing on shaky ground that feels like it could collapse beneath them at any moment. They’ll make their way back to where they were eventually, Togame thinks—hopes, because the alternative hurts too much to consider—but in this moment, he still feels stuck in that in-between, alone in a hell of his own making as he attempts to make amends for more mistakes and regrets than he can count.
He doesn’t know if Sakura has ever had that: that sense of camaraderie, of wanting to protect a person and a place so badly that you’ll even lose sight of yourself in order to do so. To have had it and lost it, or to have never had it at all; for a fist to the face to have been the only physical contact either of them has known for far too long; he can hear the ache in Sakura’s voice like an echo of his own heart, seeking relief with no conviction that any such respite exists.
Tea abandoned on the counter, Togame crosses the kitchen to envelop Sakura in his arms. “The hell are you doing—” Sakura starts to say in the instant before Togame pulls him close, arms wrapping around him tightly. Sakura fights it at first, but Togame doesn’t budge, holding him even as he struggles; hushes him, doesn’t let go, and it takes less time than he expects for Sakura to settle down, to let it happen. He wonders how long it’s been since Sakura was last touched like this, how long he’s waited for it, but even as the thought crosses his mind, he knows: Sakura isn’t the only one.
Little by little, he feels the tension in Sakura’s shoulders ease. It’s a small enough shift that it would be imperceptible if Togame weren’t holding him as tightly as he is; Sakura’s still on his guard, still ready to fight, but feeling some small part of him relax reassures Togame that this wasn’t a mistake or miscalculation on his part.
Just as Togame is about to release him, step back and brace himself for a fist to the gut, he feels Sakura raise his arms. He freezes for a moment as Sakura hesitates—and then he’s hugging Togame back, his motions tentative but his grip secure. Togame tries to hide his shock, burying his fond smile in Sakura’s hair and holding him even tighter; hugs him until Sakura has finally had enough, squirming out of his grasp, and this time, Togame lets him go.
“Is the tea ready?” Sakura asks, tripping over his words even as he tries to act like nothing’s happened, his face redder than Togame’s ever seen it. Cute, he thinks as he hands Sakura his mug; dismisses the thought as quickly as it came, but his eyes stay fixed on Sakura as he takes his first sip, watching as the tea warms him from the inside out. “S’good,” Sakura murmurs, gazing down at the mug.
“I’m glad,” Togame comments. He’s pretty sure neither of them are talking about the tea.
They talk for a while about nothing in particular. Sakura’s a little more receptive, responsive than he was on the walk over, like he’s finally relaxed enough to drop his guard, to realize that a proper conversation with Togame is nearly as comfortable as the one they’d had with their fists—at least while they’re talking in circles around the things that matter most. They talk until the apartment starts to grow dark around them, until Sakura is setting his empty mug aside and moving to take his leave. “You still owe me a rematch,” he reminds Togame as he stands in the genkan, slipping his shoes back on. Togame leans against the wall, smiling back at him indulgently. “Sure, sure.”
Sakura turns to go, but hesitates with a hand on the doorknob, like there’s something more he wants to say. Togame just waits: patience is, after all, one of his strongest suits. Sakura doesn’t turn back to face him but keeps his eyes fixed on the door instead, the tension in his body unmistakable. It’s like it’s causing him physical pain, getting the words out—and if this level of vulnerability is more than he can allow, no wonder Togame’s arms around him made him want to run and hide. “Can I—can I come back here sometime?”
Togame aches to reach out for him once more. “Anytime,” is all he says instead, and Sakura nods, raising one hand in an awkward farewell as he opens the door with the other. It swings shut in his wake, and Togame stares at it for a long time after, lifting his own mug of tea to his lips. The tea’s long since gone cold, but all he can think of is how warm Sakura had felt in his arms.
—
It takes less time than Togame expects for Sakura to visit again. Hardly a week later, he returns to his apartment to find Sakura pacing back and forth out front, looking torn.
Togame is suddenly glad Chouji didn’t accompany him home, this time. He doesn’t let himself think too hard about why he feels that way.
“What’s this?” he asks as he approaches, not bothering to keep the lazy smile from curling across his face. “Sorry to keep you, Sakura. Were you waiting long?”
“No!” Sakura insists, though the path of his pacing dug into the dirt, the pink dusting his cheeks, tells another story. “I just—I just got here.”
Togame lets it slide, stepping past him to unlock the door. “You wanna come in?”
“I still want that rematch,” Sakura responds, stubborn as ever.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Togame says, tilting his head, a gesture for Sakura to follow. Sakura hesitates for a long moment—and then gives in, a combination of curiosity and exasperation carrying him through the doorway once more.
He regrets it almost instantly. Togame’s “better idea” is, apparently, this:
“You wanna play shogi?”
“Have you ever played before?”
“No, but—what are you, an old man?”
“They’re the ones who taught me,” Togame says, and Sakura stares at him blankly. “At the public baths. They’re pretty interesting guys, if you get them talking. Lots of stories.” Togame doesn’t mention that he often finds it easier to talk to them than people his own age. “C’mon, sit. I’ll teach you.”
Sakura, as it turns out, isn’t great at games. He gets frustrated too easily, fed up with trying to keep track of the rules, the role of each piece, the best move for the big picture rather than just hanging on for another turn. Togame does his best to walk him through it patiently, though he’s fairly sure the calmer he is, the angrier Sakura gets. His annoyance is amusing, his red ears endearing, but by the time Togame captures Sakura’s dragon king, he’s starting to worry Sakura might just upend the board entirely. “Alright, alright, let’s pause,” Togame drawls, getting to his feet and holding out a hand to help Sakura up; Sakura ignores him, getting to his feet on his own instead. “I’m gonna get us some snacks.”
“You got a bathroom?” Sakura asks, and Togame points him in the right direction. By the time Sakura emerges, he seems to have calmed down a bit—or rather, his restlessness seems to have taken on a different nature. He lingers in the kitchen as Togame finishes preparing their snacks, and Togame can practically feel the tension radiating from him. He pauses in what he’s doing and glances back at Sakura, noting the way he fidgets, unsure where to look, where to put his hands. Togame wipes his own hands clean on a towel and turns to face him properly, opening his arms and waiting.
Sakura’s face goes red instantly. “Wh—what? I’m fine, I don’t need—”
Togame doesn’t say a word, just gestures for him to come closer. Sakura takes a step forward seemingly unconsciously before he catches himself, holds back, grumbling more excuses—though all it takes is one more nod from Togame for him to give in, closing the distance between them, letting Togame wrap his arms around him once more. Sakura relaxes almost instantly, melting into Togame’s touch; he hugs him back more quickly this time, resting his head on his shoulder, and Togame wonders how many times he’s thought about this, craved it, in the past week. Wonders if Sakura wanted it, missed it, as much as he did.
“Y’know,” Togame says after some time has passed, his cheek pressed to Sakura’s hair, “Your team members would probably do this for you.” He feels Sakura tense once more, but he presses on, undeterred. “Umemiya seems like a pretty touchy-feely guy, right? I bet he’d understand.”
“He’s—that’s not—” Sakura pulls back, but Togame’s arms stay wrapped around him, holding him in place. He can feel how quickly Sakura’s heart is beating, despite how relaxed he’d been; their faces are so close Togame can practically feel the heat from his cheeks. Close enough that he can see the flicker of determination in Sakura’s eye, a spark he recognizes from their first meeting, their first fight; close enough that he can see the resolve settle on Sakura’s face in the moment before he leans in, his eyes slipping shut as his lips meet Togame’s.
Ah, Togame thinks. So that’s why.
He’s not surprised by the kiss, not really—had half-expected it the first time Sakura showed up at the theater, in all honesty—but he’s still taken off-guard, knocked off-kilter by how straightforward Sakura can be. His talents for both beating around the bush and being surprisingly direct are unparalleled, and by the time Togame catches up, starts to respond in kind, Sakura is already pulling away. He’s as red as Togame’s ever seen him, stuttering excuses and trying to escape the circle of his arms, but Togame knows: if he lets Sakura leave now, it will ruin everything. This tentative balance they’ve managed to establish, this fleeting comfort they’ve found in one another—he doesn’t want to let it go, doesn’t want to let him go, and he’ll do anything he can to keep Sakura here, radiating warmth within his grasp.
One hand still secure on Sakura’s waist, Togame lifts the other to his cheek, urging him into another kiss—slower this time, gentle but firm, reassuring him: I’m right here. I want this too. I’m not going anywhere.
Sakura’s lips gradually part to welcome Togame’s tongue, and it’s intoxicating: the taste of him, feeling Sakura open up like this even as he trembles in Togame’s arms. Togame licks into his mouth slow and deliberate, and Sakura’s tentative response sends a shiver down his spine; for someone so dexterous in a fight, he sure is clumsy in this, inexperienced and endearing and so, so captivating. “See?” Togame murmurs when they part, his teeth grazing the edge of Sakura’s ear, burning red, “Slow isn’t so bad. No need to rush.”
Sakura looks like he wants to die, and Togame can’t help but tease him a bit more, his tone dripping with affection. “I’ll stay at this speed. You can slowly play along with me.”
It takes a moment for the words to sink in through the haze, for Sakura to remember: Togame’s declaration from their fight, a lifetime ago, maybe more. Sakura’s lips curve into a fierce smile as he recalls his own response: “Bring it.” His voice drops to a whisper as he leans in, breath ghosting across Togame’s lips. “I’ll play along as much as you want.” His mouth seeks Togame’s once more, and the confidence in his kiss this time is reminiscent of the confidence in his fists. Togame recognizes it in Sakura as much as himself: he’s more comfortable with violence than affection, and Togame aches to untangle the two, to remind him, or perhaps to teach him, that they don’t have to be two sides of the same coin.
He kisses him back a little harder than before, kisses him until Sakura’s fingers are twisted in his hair, until all he can taste is Sakura on the tip of his tongue. The next time Sakura breaks their kiss, Togame lets him go, to maintain his own sanity as much as anything else. He looks at him, just looks, for as long as Sakura will let him: two-tone eyes shining, cheeks glowing, fingers raised to his red, red mouth, and Togame balls his hands into fists to keep them at his sides, to keep them to himself. The shogi board lies forgotten in the living room, the snacks forgotten on the kitchen counter. All that remains is this: Togame’s heavy breathing, Sakura’s flushed cheeks, and tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
“Your number,” Togame says, half-coherent, his brain still catching up to his mouth as he reaches for his phone. “Text me next time, okay? I’ll be here.” Sakura ducks his head, and once again, Togame wonders just how long he’d been waiting before he had arrived. They exchange numbers, and as Togame hands Sakura’s phone back, he reaches out to catch his wrist. “Come back soon, okay?” He needs to make sure he knows, needs him to realize: this isn’t a one-off, not something to dismiss or write off as anything less than it is.
Sakura’s breath catches in his throat as he nods. He takes his leave with cheeks still burning and a singular notification blinking back at him from his inbox, Togame’s parting words lingering heavy in his mind.
—
“Was that your first kiss?” Togame asks Sakura, the next time he comes calling. He’s pretty sure he already knows the answer.
Sure enough: Sakura goes red immediately, looking anywhere but at Togame. “So what if it was?” he grumbles. He’s defensive, defiant, and Togame doesn’t bother holding back his fond smile. “I had a feeling.”
“Was it—was it that bad?” Sakura asks; the apprehension bleeds through into his tone, tempering his defiance from moments earlier. Togame shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant,” he reassures him. He puts on a comically serious tone, facing Sakura head-on and lowering his head in a bow. “I’m honored to have been your first, Sakura.”
“Shut up,” Sakura groans, shoving at him; Togame reaches up to catch his wrist as he does so, tugging Sakura a little closer to him on the couch. For all of Sakura’s complaints, he lets himself be manhandled with next to no resistance. With their thighs pressed together, one of Togame’s hands resting on his knee, Sakura scrubs a hand through his two-tone hair, admitting, “I—I’m not good at talking about stuff like this—”
“You don’t say,” Togame can’t help but tease. Sakura bristles, but Togame leans in before he can get too wound up; kisses Sakura until he’s got him pressed back into the couch, hands sunk into his hair, until Sakura’s forgotten the teasing in favor of Togame’s hands on his hips, tongue between his lips. Togame is surprised, when they pause to catch their breath, that Sakura is the one to bring it up once more, his curiosity apparently getting the better of him. “Who was yours?” Togame looks at him blankly for a long moment; Sakura looks back at him, looks away, clarifies, “...your first kiss.”
Togame shuts his eyes, shakes his head slowly. “That’s one thing I can’t talk about.” It’s still too close—to his mind, his heart—and it’s not just his secret to divulge. The few kisses he and Chouji had shared, before Chouji became their leader and the light left his eyes; how many more Togame had wanted, wished for, knowing their timing was all wrong. Where they're at now is still too uncertain—maybe one day, someday—but that’s unfair to Sakura. Sakura, who’s right here; Sakura, who’s asking to know more about him, and Togame knows enough to know that isn’t something to be taken lightly.
“Sorry, Sakura,” he says, voice low. Sakura grits his teeth but shakes his head. He gets it: he has plenty of things he doesn’t want to talk about either, moments and memories he holds close to his chest. He lets his instincts take over instead, stops trying to talk and grabs at the front of Togame’s shirt, dragging him back down into another kiss.
They’re both licking blood from their lips by the time they part, unsure whose it is. Sakura’s angling his hips away, trying not to let Togame feel just how affected he is; Togame’s no better off, but he allows him the illusion, the distance between them helping to clear his own head. He knows Sakura would never run from a fight, but this—this is something else altogether, something still too tentative to test.
Bitten lips, bruised necks: they’ve left their mark all over each other once again, though the ache Sakura feels as he tears himself away couldn’t be further from the way he feels after a fight. “Don’t think this changes anything,” he tells Togame, and this time he doesn’t back down from his blank stare. “Our fight. Next time, I want that rematch.”
Togame’s responding smile curls lazily across his face, though his gaze is piercing. “Next time,” he agrees, and something in his tone settles hot in Sakura’s throat. He swallows around the restlessness, the anticipation, and leaves with a hunger he hardly recognizes gnawing deep within him.
—
That night, Sakura can’t sleep. He’s wide awake, lying on his stomach with his fingers curled into the sheets, hips pressed into the bed, and he’s so hard he feels like he might come with a single touch.
He can’t stop thinking about the way it had felt: Togame’s body over his on the couch, surrounding him, caging him in with his arms and thighs, his sweatpants leaving little to the imagination. He’d only felt it for a moment, Togame’s hips slotted against his before he’d shifted them away, but a moment was enough—the thick length of Togame’s cock pressing heavy against his own through too much material, enough to make his head spin, his mouth water.
Sakura had thought he’d feel weak, being beneath Togame like that, letting him take the lead. He’d felt powerful instead, reconciling his expectations with the realization that Togame had been just as affected as he was.
Next time. The thought of their rematch, of facing Togame’s fists once more, has Sakura brimming with anticipation, though it’s nothing like the usual thrill he experiences before a fight. He doesn’t usually face the same adversary twice, for one; and for two, he’s never felt like this about an opponent, the wires crossed somewhere along the line, confusing Sakura’s libido and his penchant for violence.
Touching himself feels like giving in, like admitting defeat, though he knows that’s ridiculous, that no one will ever know beyond himself and these four walls. Still, he can’t bring himself to do it—it’s the principle of the thing, and sometimes, he thinks, that’s what matters most. He grips at the covers beside him instead, shifting his hips just so against the mattress, rubbing off against the sheets. He keeps his rhythm slow enough that he can deny it, pretend it’s anything but what it is, even as he chases the heat that curls low in his belly, building with each shift of his cock against the bed beneath him.
Sakura imagines how it would have felt to do this right after his first fight with Togame, after the damage he’d both taken and inflicted: imagines the scabs on his knuckles splitting open, blood spilling over, every desperate breath bringing with it a rush of pain. He brings a hand to his own neck now, nails digging into the hickies Togame left behind. They’re a faint imitation of the bruises he’d gifted him before, but just enough (of a reminder, a promise) that the sensation pushes Sakura over the edge, coming without ever putting a hand on himself. His hips stutter against the mattress, the wetness of his release spreading, soaking through his boxers.
He lifts himself up once he’s stopped gasping, shaking, staring down at the mess he’s made with a faint tinge of regret—but that's not all there is, his mind and heart a tangle of contradictions, at this point. He’s resigned, disgusted with himself, but there’s satisfaction there, and exhilaration, too: awaiting promises yet to be fulfilled, and the uncharted territory that lies beyond them.
—
“You better not hold back,” Sakura says, fighting stance poised, and Togame just grins. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He keeps his promise. They exchange blows until they’ve both got blood running down their faces, their knuckles scraped raw. Togame’s gotten Sakura flat on his back, Sakura’s brought Togame to his knees, and neither of them is showing any sign of backing down.
Something in Togame’s movements has changed. He’s no longer holding back, unconsciously or otherwise, like he was during their first fight. He feels—unafraid of his own strength, his own limits, his own reasons, this time. This fight is for them and them alone, and they’re both grinning just the same as the first time they fought, no holds barred, a conversation more honest than any they’ve managed to have with words.
Sakura’s pretty sure he’s got a cracked rib or two, based on the pain shooting through him with each breath he takes; he lets out a barking laugh and drives his fist into Togame’s stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs. He gets in a kick to the face before Togame can put up an arm to defend himself, but he isn’t so lucky with the next blow: Togame manages to right himself and block Sakura’s fists, headbutting him hard enough that Sakura sees stars. He shakes his head, blood pouring from his nose, and catches Togame with an elbow between his ribs before darting just out of reach, blinking to clear his vision.
They lunge toward each other at the same moment, fists outstretched; they connect nearly in unison with a sickening crack, both of them flying backward, hitting the ground hard. Sakura curls in on himself, wincing in agony at the impact on his ribs; Togame lies there for a few moments, gasping until he can breathe again before climbing slowly to his feet and limping over to Sakura’s side. He leans over him, reaching out a hand to help him up; Sakura grabs it and pulls Togame back down instead, pinning him to the ground and raising his fist once more. He’s about to bring it down against his face when he catches sight of the look in Togame’s eyes—and what he sees there is enough to make him hesitate, just for a moment. A moment, but it’s just long enough for Togame to get in two quick jabs to Sakura’s jaw, reversing their positions and pinning Sakura down, holding his wrists above his head with one hand. He holds Sakura there as he struggles, trying to break free, until Togame shifts his weight ever so slightly—and both of them freeze.
They’re panting in unison, gazes locked on one another—and Togame can feel that Sakura is as hard as he is, the look in his eyes just as hungry. He’s not looking away, not backing down, not even blushing, and Togame can barely keep himself from kissing Sakura right there in the courtyard.
Fight forgotten, Togame hauls Sakura up from the ground. Sakura lets him, and that speaks volumes: lets Togame drag him to the door, into his apartment, stumbling over the threshold, and as soon as the door snaps shut Togame’s got him pressed up against it, kissing him hard enough to bruise. He doesn’t care if Sakura calls for another rematch, doesn’t care if he’s leaving things unfinished once more in favor of finishing something else entirely. In this moment, all he cares about is Sakura’s hips pressed up against his—no shying away from it this time, how badly they both want this.
Togame gets Sakura’s belt and zipper undone, working a hand into his pants and wrapping his fingers around Sakura’s length. He licks at the blood streaming from Sakura’s nose as he strokes his cock, unrelenting; “That’s disgusting,” Sakura groans, shoving at him half-heartedly, but even as he complains, his cock twitches in Togame’s grasp, leaking more precome. Togame’s smirk in that moment is reminiscent of their very first fight, but it’s miles away from the mask he’d worn for so long: he’s enjoying himself, genuine in a way he’d nearly forgotten he was capable of, savoring the feeling of Sakura in his arms.
Sakura kisses him once more, the taste of their combined blood bitter on his tongue, to hide the noises threatening to fall from his lips. As he comes, spilling over Togame’s fingers, slumping back against the door, he knows definitively: he’s lost this round.
Somehow—for perhaps the first time in his life—he doesn’t mind as much as he knows he should.
He returns the favor even before he’s fully recovered, still panting against Togame’s lips, still trembling as he lets Togame angle his wrist just right, showing Sakura how he wants to be touched. Sakura finds his rhythm, taking Togame apart bit by bit, and he hates that the sense of pride he feels when Togame comes undone under his touch is the same as the pride he feels when he wins a fight. Togame bites Sakura’s shoulder through his jacket as he comes, and as Sakura wraps his free arm around his waist to hold him up, to hold him close, he’s shocked to feel that Togame is trembling, just the same as him.
They clean themselves up, after, wiping dirt and blood and come from their skin; Sakura lets Togame patch him up, butterfly bandages and carefully-placed strips of cloth setting him back to rights. He’s gonna have to justify himself to the Bofurin guys, he knows; the bruises and cuts may be harder to hide than the hickies he’d sported before, but at least they’re easier to explain away.
They don’t talk much in the aftermath, reveling in the satisfaction instead, the ache of their injuries settling in alongside a contentment that runs bone-deep. Still, when Sakura finally turns to go, he hesitates before he even gets a hand on the doorknob; turns back, and Togame is there to meet him halfway, capturing his lips in a desperate kiss. Sakura kicks off his shoes, steps back into the apartment, never once tearing his lips away from Togame’s—
It’s a while before he makes his way back to the door again, hair and clothes askew once more. Togame watches him leave with a knot in his chest he doesn’t quite know how to untangle, emotions he recognizes and those he can’t yet put a name to at war within him.
—
A month later, and Togame’s learned how Sakura’s come tastes. Learned the noises he makes with his hips pinned down by Togame’s strong grip, the way he’ll toss an arm over his face as Togame takes his cock to the back of his throat, swallowing around him.
Sakura’s learned that Togame rarely makes much noise, but he loves saying Sakura’s name. He’s learned that the spot just beneath Togame’s left ear is particularly sensitive, that he tends to forget his own strength when he gets close to the edge—not that Sakura minds.
Things escalate quickly, once the dam finally breaks. Sakura’s still not used to it, being so physically close to another person. It takes some time, some trial and error, for him not to fight back instinctively every time Togame reaches out; to remind himself that he, too, is allowed to reach out in turn. Sakura’s always fighting, but luckily Togame has the patience of a saint. He’s used to dealing with Chouji, after all.
For someone who can be so vicious in a fight, Togame can also be impossibly, almost painfully gentle—so gentle that Sakura sometimes has to beg him to be rougher. To remind him that he, of all people, isn’t going to break.
It’s strange, reconciling the way Togame touches Sakura now with the way he’d touched him at the start. Those same hands that drove the wind from his lungs, left his skin riddled with bruises and cuts, have also taken him apart in ways he’s never known. Of course, they still spar, and neither of them would dare to hold back; the difference is that now, Togame puts his mouth on every bruise he leaves behind, making the ache so much sweeter.
Sakura’s starting to realize that this intimacy is another kind of ‘conversation,’ like Umemiya had taught him. He’d thought the language of lips and tongues and teeth would be worlds away from that of their fists, but it seems the two are inextricable for them, in a way. Sakura shoves the thought aside every time it occurs to him—he doesn’t like thinking of Umemiya in moments like these, doesn’t like the rush of heat that courses through him at the thought of Bofurin’s leader—but he can’t run from the feeling that Umemiya was right. He’s learning as much from Togame without words as he does from the conversations they have—and he’s learning plenty about himself, too.
There’s the physical things he’d never had occasion to know, before: that he likes having his hair pulled, that his gag reflex is more sensitive than he’d realized, that he wants some pain mixed in with his pleasure (though that last one doesn’t surprise him, not really). He was never fighting because it felt good—not until Togame—but pain is something he’s grown used to, something he’s not sure he knows how to function without, at this point. It’s such a significant part of his existence; it makes sense that it would seep into this, too.
He’s also learning that despite the vulnerability, the inherent weakness of putting himself in Togame’s hands like this—he doesn’t feel weak at all. There’s a different kind of strength to it, and certainly a power in having Togame at his mercy, in turn. Power in bringing Togame to his knees, making him come; strength in learning that he’s allowed to ask for what he wants, that he can withstand even more than he knew. (Being able to endure blow after blow in the midst of a fight is one thing. Being able to endure Togame’s endless patience as he edges Sakura over and over is something else entirely.)
Sakura is also learning—or, well, trying—to believe that Togame thinks he’s beautiful. That’s a word he’s never heard in relation to himself before. He’s still working on believing it, but Togame isn’t shy about telling him.
The first time Togame said it, Sakura didn’t even blush. It was so far out of the realm of credibility that he didn’t even entertain the thought as genuine. “Yeah, sure,” he’d muttered, and Togame had just stared at him, astonished at his dismissive reaction. “I mean it,” he’d said once he found his voice again. “Just look at you, Sakura.”
“How can I look at myself? Anyway, you were the one who said my head looked like an Othello game!”
“I never said that was a bad thing!”
Caught off-guard by Togame’s response, Sakura couldn’t help but huff out a laugh; Togame grinned too, reminding him, “I’m pretty sure I also said your face isn’t one I would forget. I didn’t just mean as an opponent. You’re stunning, Sakura.”
Sakura had his doubts. “I think you might be rewriting history here.”
Togame offered him an exaggerated shrug, leaning in to press lingering kisses to Sakura’s neck. “Does it matter? I mean it now.”
Sakura remained unconvinced, but he wasn’t about to push Togame away—not with his kisses so clearly leading to something more. He’d let it go at the time, but since then, Togame’s made it a point to remind him regularly.
Now: “You’re gorgeous,” Togame will murmur, his teeth tracing a path along the edge of Sakura’s jaw as Sakura’s face goes red. He’s starting to understand that even if he doesn’t believe it, Togame does. Togame just smiles at the heat rising from his cheeks and kisses his way down Sakura’s chest, determined to show him just how gorgeous he thinks Sakura is.
And this, maybe above all else, is new, too—the realization that with one another, they can touch and be touched as much as they want, that they’re allowed. They both went so long without, touch-starved and isolated, and now it’s like they can’t get enough. They don’t talk about it, but they each recognize it in the other—in the way Togame’s hand will find its way to Sakura’s knee or tangle with his fingers during the most casual of conversations, in the way Sakura will catch himself nuzzling against Togame’s neck, breathing him in, whenever Togame wraps his arms around him. It’s hardly a conscious choice, but there’s a relief to it, a sense that when they’re touching—be it fighting, fucking, or somewhere in between—they’re free, in a way they’d forgotten, or maybe in a way they’d never known before.
Sakura finds himself thinking of green eyes, of hands calloused from fighting, of that slow, lazy laughter, even when they’re apart. He thinks, and he wonders—
Sakura wonders what drew him to Togame like this, what made him willing to open up for him like he never has for anyone else. He thinks of how comfortable their first fight had felt, the seed that had taken root in him when Togame had first said his name: he hadn’t understood it at the time, isn’t even sure he understands it now.
Sakura wonders how they would have fared, how different things would be, if they hadn’t found their way to each other. Their first fight had changed them both, for better or for worse—for the better, he thinks. He’s pretty sure. Togame definitely isn’t as lame as he used to be—that he knows for a fact. He tells him that to his face, once, and Togame just smiles, soft and a little sad, before murmuring, “Guess that means I kept my promise, huh?”
Sakura wonders if he was already a lost cause from the moment that fight ended, or maybe from the moment it began. He’d been so angry when Tomiyama had kicked Togame aside after their fight, so close to stepping in, and for once, it had had nothing to do with proving his own strength, his own worth. The desire to fight for someone else, to protect and defend others, was an instinct that had laid dormant in him until he’d joined Furin. It’s an instinct he’s still learning to live with, but if this is where it’s led him, well, he thinks—with Togame’s hands gripping his thighs, Togame’s fingers twisted in his hair, Togame’s lips murmuring his name against the column of his throat—there are worse paths he could have taken.
—
Summer is just around the corner when Sakura starts to hear murmurs about an upcoming festival, a celebration to mark the changing of the seasons. He doesn’t care enough to ask for details, but when Nirei catches him eavesdropping on their classmates’ conversation about it, his eyes light up. “Do you wanna go, Sakura-san?”
“I don’t even know what it is,” Sakura says before he catches himself, curses internally. He should have said no right off the bat, shouldn’t have given Nirei the opening—but it’s too late now. Before Sakura can protest or attempt to make an escape, Nirei’s offering up all the information he knows—a font of knowledge, as always. It’s an annual festival, a small local affair, he tells Sakura: vendors from the shopping district and the pub district come together, uniting the two sides of the tracks for one day each year. “So, what d’you say, Sakura-san?”
“I’ll pass,” Sakura says dryly. He turns to go—and finds Hiiragi blocking his path out the door, looking unimpressed. “Your class is gonna be on patrol, so…no, you won’t,” Hiiragi informs him, and Sakura clicks his tongue, averting his gaze. At this point, he knows better than to try and argue.
That’s how he finds himself here: dressed in his Furin jacket as always, Suou and Nirei by his side as they make their rounds throughout the festival. Everyone calls out to them as they pass by, offering them food left and right; they turn most of them down, trying to keep their hands free in case things go south, knowing they can’t possibly eat everything they’re offered, anyway. There are plenty of familiar faces (Kotoha offering a few treats from the café, the family from Saboten selling their famous bread)—and plenty of unfamiliar ones, too.
Sakura’s seen more than a few Shishitouren jackets around, but Hiiragi had warned them that that was likely to be the case. “The festival is in our territory, and we’ll be patrolling on behalf of our people, but there’ll be plenty of folks from their side of the tracks there as well. As long as no one causes any trouble, they have every right to be there.”
“Aren’t we supposed to be ‘friends’ with them now, anyway?” Sakura had asked before he could stop to think better of it. He’d felt himself go red as Hiiragi looked at him intently, stammering, “That was what that g—Umemiya…san—said. After our fight. That we’re allies now, or whatever.”
Hiiragi had just continued to look at him for a long moment before nodding slowly, clasping a hand to his shoulder. “You’re absolutely right, Sakura.”
Unfortunately, everyone else seems to have taken Umemiya’s words to heart, too—they’re all on their best behavior. It’s almost boring, Sakura thinks.
Still, the festival isn’t bad. This is the kind of thing he never would have done before joining Furin, with his tendency to avoid crowds, without any friends to drag him along. The variety (of food, activities, people) surprises him, and he finds himself admiring the elaborate set-up: colorful pavilions, vibrant lanterns, and windchimes as far as the eye can see.
(That’s something else he never would have done before joining Furin. Too preoccupied monitoring his surroundings for threats to actually take in the atmosphere, to appreciate the effort put in; even though they’re technically on patrol now, he’s more relaxed than he ever would have been before.
The thought occurs to him for a moment, only a moment, before he shoves it back down: he doesn’t know if it’s weakness or strength, the two getting more tangled up in his head by the day, but he’s started to understand, to believe, that the others will have his back, should anything happen.)
“Let’s get some taiyaki,” Suou comments after a while, distracting Sakura from his spiraling thoughts. “Looks like there’s a stand right up there.”
“Aren’t you on a diet or something? And aren’t we supposed to be patrolling?”
“Cheat day. And we’ll be more alert with something in our stomachs, don’t you think?” It’s a weak excuse—if he wants to eat something, he should just say so, Sakura thinks—but he gives in with a minimal amount of grumbling. It’s not worth arguing over—and taiyaki sounds pretty good to him, too, if he’s being honest.
The last thing he expects is to see Togame staring back at him from behind the taiyaki stall, eyes wide.
It’s early evening. The sun has just sunk below the horizon, the lanterns hung around the festival starting to illuminate their surroundings; their glow reflects in Togame’s green, green gaze, and Sakura freezes for a long moment, struck silent until he hears the sound of his name fall from Togame's lips. “...Sakura?”
“What’re you doing here?” Sakura asks in lieu of a greeting, too shocked to care about how rude he’s being.
“Sakura-san!” Nirei scolds, scandalized, before turning to apologize to Togame on his behalf—but the look on Togame’s face is so impossibly fond, the words catch in his throat. There’s no need, apparently. He glances back at Sakura, but he seems oblivious to his presence as well, focused on Togame’s response instead. “I tend to help out with the food stalls during local festivals, when they need some extra hands,” Togame explains.
“You never mentioned that,” Sakura says.
“It never came up,” Togame responds. The familiarity in their exchange is clear even through the awkwardness, and Sakura seems to realize it as well, a beat too late. He catches himself, glancing warily around at Nirei (looking between them in fascination) and Suou (expression too knowing for his own good)—but of course it’s not just them.
Sakura groans internally as Umemiya approaches, Hiiragi and Sugishita at his side. “Togame,” Umemiya offers by way of greeting, tone casual but with something far less easygoing underlying it. “Umemiya,” Togame replies in turn.
Sakura isn’t bored anymore, suddenly. He regrets ever having the thought.
Perhaps, in retrospect, he should have anticipated this. He knew that they’d have to face each other in the presence of their teams one day, knew that they couldn’t run from it forever. This is just—sooner than he’d anticipated. He may trust the others to look out for him, but this—this is another thing entirely. He should have prepared himself, should have figured out what he was going to say; now, all he can do is stand here silently, sure that any words that leave his lips will only make matters worse.
“You two seem to be getting along well,” Umemiya comments, glancing between them; his eyebrows rise as he does so, as though the realization has just dawned on him. “Are you the one our Sakura’s been ‘training’ with? I know it isn’t any of our guys, and I’ve heard he’s been spending a lot of time in your neck of the woods lately.”
Sakura feels himself go red, and for once he’s grateful that nearly everything makes him blush, that he’s not actually giving anything away. It’s not like he didn’t know he stood out like a sore thumb in their neighborhood, but he had naively hoped word hadn’t gotten back to Bofurin—to Umemiya, specifically.
“You sure did a number on Sakura a while back,” Umemiya says, and Togame doesn’t miss the way the Bofurin members start to square up, expressions hardening almost imperceptibly—even the small freckled one with the notebook who doesn’t seem to fight. They’re all ready to defend Sakura at a moment’s notice, and Togame’s glance slides over to Sakura (Sakura, who won’t meet anyone’s eye; Sakura, whose face is so red it’s hard to imagine it’s ever been any other color), wondering if he realizes just how loved he truly is.
“I think if I had held back, Sakura really wouldn’t have forgiven me, that time,” Togame says, keeping his tone light. They’ve fought a few times since then, but Umemiya is clearly referring to the damage done after their first ‘rematch.’ Even Togame has to admit they went a little overboard, that time—though he can’t bring himself to regret it, not when they both so clearly needed it. He wonders how they would react if they knew how that fight had truly ended; if they knew how things have been between them since, if only within the four walls of his apartment.
Umemiya’s gaze turns to Sakura—Sakura, who just nods, still refusing to look anyone in the eye. “He’s right,” he mutters after a long moment, realizing that the fastest way to get this over with is to acknowledge it.
“Well, if Sakura says so…” Umemiya faces Togame once more, the warmth of his smile worlds away from the frost in his gaze. “...that’s that. I doubt I need to remind you of the rest, right?”
Togame’s plenty familiar with the implied threat: been on both the giving and receiving end of it more times than he can count, in his position as Shishitouren’s number two. He shakes his head, slow, laid-back, letting his previous demeanor seep into his movements. The mask still comes in handy sometimes, he finds. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
Umemiya seems satisfied enough with his answer, relaxing into his usual easygoing self; the others follow suit, consciously or otherwise. Togame takes advantage of the shift to change the subject, hoping to take the attention off Sakura, off the matter of their relationship. “Have you seen Chouji yet? I think he was hoping to run into you,” he mentions. “He should be around here somewhere.”
As if on cue, a familiar voice comes echoing from a few stalls away. “Ume-chan! Ume-chaaan!”
Bless you, Chouji. “Ah. Speak of the devil.”
Chouji bounds up to them, as endlessly enthusiastic as ever. Things may have changed after their fights, are still changing—but that spark in him, the one Togame had fought so hard to protect, is still there, undaunted, shining bright as a tiny sun. Umemiya lets himself be taken hostage, dragged away so that Chouji can show him one of the games; Sugishita and Hiiragi trail after him, the latter shaking his head in bemusement.
Suou and Nirei hang back, remaining by Sakura’s side. Sakura is at a loss for what to do, what to say, but Togame has busied himself behind the stall; a few moments later, he reaches over the counter, handing each of them a piping-hot taiyaki. “This is what you came for, right?”
Sakura fumbles for his wallet, but Togame waves him off. “It’s on the house.” Sakura finally meets his eyes, and if any trace of red had faded from his face, it’s back in full force now. “Thanks,” he mumbles.
“Thank you, Togame-san!” Suou says brightly. He nudges a frozen Nirei, who follows suit with his prompting; Togame gives them a nod, a small smile, before returning his attention to Sakura. “I’ll see you around, Sakura.”
“So you and Togame-san are pretty close now, huh, Sakura-kun?” Suou asks once they’ve taken their leave. His tone is as cheerful as ever, but Sakura isn’t fooled. “Shut up,” he mutters, biting into the taiyaki viciously. He practically burns his mouth, but at least it saves him from having to come up with a proper answer. Yeah, we hang out sometimes—he knows that’s all he needs to say, that it wouldn’t even be a lie—so why does it feel so much like one? (You know why, he tells himself, tonguing at the roof of his mouth, the scalded tissue sensitive beneath the deliberate pressure. It reminds him of every bruise Togame has left behind, fingerprints on his hips, teeth marks on his thighs, always just enough of a reminder to keep Sakura craving more.)
Nirei has finally found his voice again; he starts to pepper Sakura with questions, but Suou deftly manages to steer the conversation in another direction. Sakura doesn’t know if it’s intentional—doesn’t dare meet his eye despite his curiosity, too worried about what else he’d find there, given how much Suou tends to see—but he’s grateful for the intervention nonetheless.
Sakura trails after them silently, trying to sort through his thoughts, all the while wishing a fight would break out. What he wouldn’t give to be using his fists instead, to distract himself with anything other than the chaos in his mind. He supposes most of the time he’s spent with Togame has been behind closed doors, just the two of them, and seeing him out in public, with others around, has set him off-kilter, more than he anticipated it would. He wants—doesn’t know what he wants, and maybe that’s exactly the issue. Wants to apologize for not acknowledging Togame properly—though what is proper, in a situation like this? Wants to reach out and touch him, but he never would, not here, not now. Wants to understand what it is he’s feeling, above all else; to know why this encounter has thrown him off, why he cares so much, when he knew full well it was only a matter of time.
Sakura takes his last bite of taiyaki, crushing the empty wrapper in his fist. He doesn’t pass by Togame’s stall again that night; doesn’t want to face him until he’s figured himself out, until he’s decided how best to weather the storm brewing within him.
—
Umemiya pulls Sakura aside as they’re about to go their separate ways that night. He looks like there’s a lot he wants to say, but he seems to think better of it when he sees the look on Sakura’s face. He keeps it simple instead. “Sakura…I hope you’ll let yourself be happy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sakura asks. His tone is more confused than hostile: he genuinely wants an explanation. Wants to know what prompted this, what the hell Umemiya’s trying to get at; wants to know if Umemiya understands his situation better than he’s letting on, before realizing that maybe he doesn’t want to know at all.
Umemiya, of course, has no intention of being straightforward. “Whatever happiness means for you—even if it’s only for now. Even if it’s something you think shouldn’t make you happy. I know you’re not one to care about what things ‘should’ be, but it gets the better of us all sometimes.
“Anyway. That’s all. Just something to think about. Get home safe, yeah? Looks like it’s gonna rain later.” Umemiya waves nonchalantly as he turns to go, his ‘advice’ leaving Sakura even more lost than he was before.
—
Later that night—much later, after the festival lights have dimmed, after the vendors have packed up and left, after Togame has returned home—the gathering clouds finally reach their limit, the first proper rain of the season splitting the skies, soaking the earth.
Togame listens to the sound of the rain pouring down as he gets ready for bed; it’s loud, the raindrops beating like a drum against the ground outside, and he nearly mistakes the first knock at his door for a crash of thunder. It’s not until it comes again, louder, more frantic this time, that he realizes what he’s heard.
He crosses the apartment more quickly than he usually moves, sure that it’s Chouji or one of the other guys, that some trouble has arisen that can’t wait until tomorrow, until clear skies. He wrenches the door open—
—and stares out at a soaked Sakura instead, dumbfounded. It takes his brain a moment to catch up, to cycle through all the questions he wants to ask, what’s wrong are you okay what are you doing here are you insane and Sakura is the first to speak instead, though he’s not doing much better. He starts to stammer through an explanation that leaves Togame with more questions than answers. “I needed—to see you, to—”
Togame practically pulls him inside before he can even finish speaking, dragging him out of the rain and shutting the door in his wake. “Don’t get shy about coming in now, Sakura. How much time have you spent here, at this point?”
Sakura freezes, and Togame wonders if that’s exactly it. If their encounter earlier in the evening had touched a nerve, gotten Sakura thinking, overthinking everything. Then Sakura starts to speak once more, his tone desperate in a way Togame’s never heard from him before. “Umemiya, he—he was spouting some bullshit about…about choosing happiness. He said that, and all I could think about was—”
Sakura can’t finish that sentence. Can’t admit that all he could think of was Togame’s fist against his jaw, followed by his lips; Togame’s hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise, to hold him together.
That his first thought was of Togame’s smile: wild in the midst of a fight, soft in the moment before his lips meet Sakura’s.
He can’t say any of this, can’t allow himself to be that vulnerable, so he does the next best thing: seizes Togame by the front of his shirt, pulling him into a kiss that says every word he can’t. He presses his body to Togame’s, disregarding the fact that he’s dripping from head to toe, soaking Togame as well; disregards everything but Togame steadying himself with his hands on Sakura’s hips, his grip trembling almost imperceptibly, his lips opening against Sakura’s.
When they break apart, they’re both panting, and Sakura still hasn’t let go of Togame’s shirt. “Let’s get you out of those clothes,” Togame manages, extracting himself from Sakura’s grip just long enough to push the jacket off Sakura’s shoulders, pull the T-shirt over his head. He tosses them both across the back of the couch as Sakura toes off his shoes and soaked socks and steps into the apartment properly, reaching for the hem of Togame’s shirt and stripping it over his head in turn. He kisses him again, crowding him up against the wall, as Togame fumbles at his pants; he manages to get Sakura’s belt and zipper undone, and Sakura pushes them down along with his boxers, kicking them aside without ever breaking their kiss. Togame’s sweatpants are easier: they slip past his hips, joining Sakura’s on the floor, leaving not a stitch of clothing between them.
There’s no barriers left between them, no shying away from how hard they both are, how much they want this. The wall is chilly at Togame’s back but Sakura is warm, so warm, against him, and if he could form a single coherent thought, he would marvel at the fact that this situation would have seemed unimaginable hardly two months ago. This kind of intimacy, vulnerability, with a member of a rival team, no less—things have changed so much, so quickly, for them both.
Togame’s got one hand on Sakura’s neck, the other on the small of his back, holding him close; Sakura’s fingers are buried in Togame’s hair, his cock leaking precome where it’s trapped between their bodies. He swallows back a whimper when his length slides against Togame’s, hips shifting, shamelessly chasing more friction, though neither of them seeks to touch the other properly—not yet, at least. They both know where this is heading, and neither of them wants it to end too soon.
The next time they have to part (to catch their breath, calm their racing hearts), Togame’s fingers slip from Sakura’s neck to his chin, tilting his face up until Sakura’s eyes meet his own. “I just laid out the futon,” he says, voice low, gaze dark and glittering like emeralds, the invitation clear. Sakura swallows around the want that rises up in his throat—this is what he came here for, after all—and nods, reluctantly untangling his fingers from Togame’s hair. He takes a step back, giving Togame enough space to pass, the lead the way implied.
(The moment he takes his hands off Togame, he wants them back on him once more. Wants to be touching him, to be as close to him as he can possibly be—Sakura’s fingers clench into a fist, ashamed at how desperate he is, how weak—
But Togame catches Sakura’s hand as he passes by, intertwining their fingers, and as Sakura catches sight of the look in Togame’s eyes, he realizes—maybe it’s not just me.)
“C’mon,” Togame says, tugging Sakura along with him. Sakura lets himself be led, clinging to the warmth of Togame’s hand in his.
Togame doesn’t let go of Sakura’s hand as he steps past the futon, going to retrieve something from the small table in the corner of the room. He pulls a box and a tube from the bottommost drawer, turning the box toward Sakura so he can see its contents. Togame doesn’t ask the question outright, letting the gesture speak for itself, and if Sakura wasn’t red before, he certainly is now. He swallows again, nods, and it takes everything in Togame not to pin him to the futon and take him apart right then and there.
He’s glad he bought condoms when it became clear where all this was heading. This is the one thing they haven’t done yet, the last step they have yet to take, but he’d decided—better to be prepared. He sinks down onto the futon, pulling Sakura with him, into his lap. Sakura’s knees on either side of his hips, Sakura’s arms around his neck, Sakura’s tongue in his mouth: all he can see, feel, taste is Sakura, kissing him deeply until neither of them can stand it any longer.
“Lie down,” Togame murmurs, nipping at Sakura’s ear. Sakura does as he’s told, and Togame can’t help but stare: it’s strange to see him so obedient, but it speaks to how much he wants this, that he follows Togame’s instruction without a word of protest.
“What?” Sakura growls, fighting the urge to cover himself under Togame’s gaze. Togame just shakes his head, reassuring him, “Nothing.” You’re beautiful. He doesn’t say it aloud this time, doesn’t want to hear Sakura deny it, so he says it the only other way he knows how: putting his hands all over him, his lips following in their path. Togame’s fingers stroke along Sakura’s throat as he leans down to take one of his nipples between his lips, his teeth. His hands ghost across Sakura’s ribcage as his mouth slips lower, pressing to his stomach, feeling his muscles jump under his touch. He keeps going, touching, tasting, for as long as Sakura will let him—though he leaves his cock untouched, weeping precome against his stomach—until Sakura is lifting a foot to nudge at his thigh, restlessness written all over his face. “Hurry up,” he breathes, on the verge of begging, and what can Togame do but oblige?
He catches Sakura’s foot in hand before he can pull it away, lifting Sakura’s leg up against his shoulder; he holds it there, pressing a lingering kiss to his ankle, before reaching for the lube to coat his fingers.
“Have you ever done this to yourself before?” Togame asks as he starts to open him up, out of both practicality and curiosity. Sakura shakes his head, and Togame wants to kiss his red cheeks, his flushed neck, wants to make it good, so good for him.
He takes his time, his endless patience once again coming in handy. The sound of the rain pouring down outside is a distant soundtrack, hardly registering beneath the noises Sakura is making as Togame preps him. Little sounds falling from his parted lips, caught somewhere between a whimper and a moan, his breath hitching each time Togame’s fingers reach deeper; his eyes are shut, and when he opens them at last, they’re shining.
Sakura reaches out to catch Togame’s wrist when he’s three fingers deep, begging him to get on with it, his voice ragged with desperation. Togame withdraws his hand reluctantly, lets Sakura lower the leg slung over his shoulder, before leaning in to kiss him, quick, messy. Only then does he sit back on his heels, wiping his hand clean and reaching for the foil packet beside the futon.
Sakura watches him slide the condom on, aching with anticipation, though he can’t quite pin down the apprehension building alongside it. “Wait,” he says, and Togame does, hand stilling at the base of his cock, glancing at Sakura, concern etched across his features as he waits for him to speak. “I want to be on top.”
Togame tilts his head, opens his mouth, but Sakura is already shaking his head, amending, “I mean, I—I still want you inside me,” and oh, it seems he can blush an even deeper shade of red, “But I want to be on top.”
Ah. Togame supposes this is Sakura’s concession to his desire for strength, to not be seen as weak: he’ll bottom, but only from the top. Well. Togame feels his whole body go hot, and he grips the base of his cock a little tighter, shutting his eyes against the thought of Sakura sinking down on his length, riding him: he can hardly object to that proposal. He nods, not trusting himself to speak, and some of the anxiety in Sakura’s chest unfurls as he lifts a hand to Togame’s shoulder, pressing him back against the futon.
Togame gazes up at Sakura as he gets himself into position. His concentration is so endearing—brow furrowed, tongue peeking from the corner of his lips—as he lifts his hips, reaching back to take Togame’s cock in hand and line himself up. It takes him a moment to get the angle right, and Togame holds his breath as Sakura lowers himself down on his cock, trying to keep himself from coming instantly. Feeling it around his fingers was one thing, but this—Sakura is so hot around him, so impossibly tight, and it’s all he can do to hold himself still, to try and keep his heartbeat steady. It’s the first time he’s ever felt something like this, and knowing he’s Sakura’s first as well: something coils hot and dark within Togame’s chest, and he grips the sheets beneath him to keep from taking things too far too fast.
Sakura only pauses once he’s taken Togame’s cock all the way, ass flush against Togame’s hips, hands braced on his chest. His breathing is unsteady, eyes shut, though he doesn’t take a long time to adjust before he starts to move—doesn’t let himself, too determined to stay still for long. Togame knows he should encourage him to take it slow, but he lets his selfish desires win out this time, knowing full well that Sakura probably doesn’t mind the ache, probably prefers it, always more comfortable with his pleasure when it comes hand in hand with the pain he knows so well.
Sakura’s movements are a little awkward as he starts to lift himself up and sink back down, Togame’s hands settling on his waist, feeling Sakura quiver beneath his touch. His hips stutter through the unfamiliar stretch, through a thrill he’s never felt before, until he finds his rhythm, drawing moans from them both. He looks gorgeous like this, lost in the sensation, and Togame lets himself look his fill, his hands stroking their way up Sakura’s back, across his perpetually bruised torso and thighs, touching every expanse of skin he can reach. He touches him until he can’t be satisfied with just that any longer, wrapping his arms around Sakura and sitting up, surging forward to kiss him. The shift in position leaves Sakura gasping, forgetting his own strength as he clings to Togame hard enough to bruise. “Wh—” he starts to ask, but Togame just grins against his lips and thrusts up into him, aiming for that same spot once more. Sakura goes weak against him, moaning into his mouth, and the satisfaction that spreads through Togame is as warm as the boy in his lap, holding on to him like a lifeline, like there’s nowhere else he would rather be.
Togame’s been letting Sakura do most of the work, set their pace, but that reaction sets something loose within him. This time, when Sakura regains his bearings, his rhythm, Togame is there to match him thrust for thrust. Sakura’s legs wrap around his waist in an attempt to get even closer, kissing Togame like it’s the first time all over again, like he’s been starving for it. It isn’t long before they’re both at the edge, overwhelmed, a little surprised they’ve even managed to last as long as they have, given the desperation in their every touch, every kiss.
Only once Togame feels himself getting close does he reach between their bodies to wrap his fingers around Sakura’s cock, determined to make him come first. Sakura curses, taken off guard at being touched directly after all this time: his whole body tenses in Togame’s grasp as his cock pulses and spills over his fingers, making a mess of them both. He tightens around Togame’s cock, and Togame lets himself let go at last, hips stilling as he fills the condom, his teeth sinking into Sakura’s shoulder, feeling as much as hearing him gasp—in satisfaction, in relief.
They stay like that for longer than they should, just clinging to one another in the aftermath, neither of them willing to move or part. Sakura’s hair is damp with sweat and rain where it rests against Togame’s shoulder, his breathing gradually slowing, its rhythm matching Togame’s racing heart. Touch-starved, Togame had thought, before; here, now, it seems unimaginable, a lifetime away, and he wonders how they ever went without.
Once they finally start to grow uncomfortable, the ache and mess outweighing the contentment, Sakura tentatively lifts himself off Togame’s lap. He winces at the loss, surprised by how lonely the emptiness feels. Togame doesn’t let him get far, reaching for Sakura’s wrist and tugging him back down to press a soft kiss to his mouth, another to his forehead, before rising up on shaky legs and setting to work on cleaning them up.
They lie together, after: Sakura in Togame’s arms, listening to the rain come down. It’s tapered off a bit, though it’s still beating a steady tempo against the ground outside; Togame wonders how long it’ll last, if they’ll awaken to clouds or clear skies in the morning, too few hours away. “You could’ve waited ’til the weather cleared up to come by,” he comments, and though he keeps his tone light, it’s clear he’s seeking answers, still curious about what exactly Umemiya had said that had gotten under Sakura’s skin, brought him here like this.
Sakura feels his face heat up, the clarity of hindsight putting his own desperation into sharp perspective. He buries his face against Togame’s bare chest, his response muffled. “I just…needed to see you. I didn't wanna wait.” He doesn’t offer anything more than that, and Togame doesn’t press, dropping a kiss to the top of his head instead. “So impulsive,” he murmurs fondly, and even as he says it, he thinks how different things would be if Sakura weren’t so impulsive: if he hadn’t said every word on his mind, hadn’t picked a fight in the first place. Perhaps they never would have ended up here; perhaps the thought would never have crossed their minds.
“I was surprised to see you at the festival earlier,” Togame says. “Didn’t think that was your scene.”
“We were on patrol. Didn’t have a choice,” Sakura explains.
“Ah, right. Bofurin duties.” Togame wonders what that’s like: being part of a gang, yet beholden to the community. Wonders if it still feels like freedom.
“Still…” Sakura starts, hesitates, then continues, “...it was kinda fun.”
He doesn’t say anything more, just curls closer to Togame, his breathing growing slow and steady with sleep. Togame stays awake for a while longer, the rain and the cadence of Sakura’s heart against his own drumming their way into his consciousness, into the heart of everything he hasn’t allowed himself to look too closely at, until now.
He thinks about how the rain has marked so many turning points, for him: Chouji’s declaration that had led Shishitouren down the wrong path, their fight against Bofurin, and now this—Sakura lying in his arms, the path forward feeling just as uncertain. Togame had spent so long running from himself, trying not to think, and now it’s like he can’t stop thinking, though he knows the speculation does little good. He wonders where this will lead, what the endgame looks like for them. He knows they can’t heal one another’s scars, can’t solve each other’s problems or save them from themselves—but they can make things a little more bearable along the way, at least.
For now, he decides, this is enough: to be here when Sakura comes to call, to seek solace and pain from one another in turn, to whatever end they need. They don’t need any promises beyond the first one Togame made to Sakura, the one he’s determined never to break; they don’t need to be each other’s happy ending, but to be a part of each other’s happiness, for now—that’s allowed, he thinks. Hopes, because Sakura is irrevocably a part of his, whether either of them intended it or not.
He falls asleep with his arms wrapped around Sakura for the first time, and when he wakes, the sun is streaming through the blinds.
Sakura opens one golden eye when he feels Togame shift beside him. “Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning, Sakura,” Togame responds, watching through half-shut eyes as Sakura stretches, winces. “How’re you feeling?”
“Sore,” Sakura says. He shuts his eyes, evaluating. He’s used to pain, but this is a different ache than usual—and he doesn’t dislike it, he finds. When he opens his eyes again, there’s the ghost of a smirk hovering over his lips. “Feels good.”
Togame can’t not kiss him, at that; Sakura’s arms come up to wrap around his neck immediately, pulling him in. Morning breath, last night’s sweat still clinging to their skin: none of that matters when they’re tangled up together, ready to lose themselves in one another all over again.
—
When they finally make it out of bed, they take turns in the shower (one at a time; Togame’s shower isn’t big enough for two) and get dressed. Sakura pulls on last night’s clothes, glad that they’ve dried, even if they’re a bit wrinkled from being tossed aside carelessly; it’s a good thing he wears the same thing every day, he thinks, so the walk of shame won’t be obvious.
“You wanna get some breakfast?” Togame calls from the bathroom. “There’s a place around here I go with Chouji all the time.”
“...can we?” Sakura asks, looking taken aback by the invitation, like he’s unsure what’s allowed, what’s expected after last night.
Togame peeks his head out of the bathroom, shrugging as he towels off his hair. “Everyone knows we’re friends now. What’s the harm?”
Sakura—and more importantly, Sakura’s growling stomach—can’t argue with that.
Togame exits the bathroom properly a few minutes later, shaking out his damp hair. He sees Sakura watching him and runs a hand through it sheepishly, commenting, “I’ve been thinking about cutting it, actually. It’s hot in the summer, and just—too much to tie down, y’know?”
Sakura feels a pang as he says it—he loves sinking his hands into Togame’s hair, using it to anchor himself—but he gets it. It’s something Togame needs to do for himself, a physical change to reflect his own internal shift; Sakura intends to say none of this, but when he sees Togame looking at him intently, he realizes he’s waiting for a response.
“I like it the way it is,” he admits, “But…it matters more that you like it, right? And I think—I think it’ll look good no matter what.” He flushes, looking away, feeling like he’s been too honest; he reaches for his Furin jacket, slipping it on, just for something to do with his hands. He doesn’t dare meet Togame’s eyes, but he can imagine the look on his face: that fond smile he gets sometimes, the one Sakura never quite knows how to react to.
He rubs his thumb unconsciously over the bloodstain on the cuff of his sleeve. He does it every time he puts his jacket on, now, like a ritual: there’s not usually anyone around to see him do it, though. “What’re you fiddling with?” Togame asks, and Sakura flushes all over again.
“There’s this one stain I haven’t been able to get out,” he explains. “Ever since our first fight.”
“Lemme see.”
Sakura holds out his arm to Togame, who reaches out to take a look. “I’m guessing you’ve tried all the usual methods. Baking soda, vinegar, all that,” he says, glancing at Sakura, who nods. “I’ve got this stain remover that works miracles, if you wanna give it a try.”
Sakura stares at the stain for a long moment, considering it—and then shakes his head. It’s a part of his jacket now, as far as he’s concerned, as much as that fight and everything it led to has become a part of him, in turn. He’s grown fond of it, in a way; it’s a reminder he doesn’t want to erase, doesn’t dare let himself forget. “I’m good,” he says. “…but thanks.”
Togame nods, fingers slipping from his sleeve to lace between Sakura’s as he tugs him in for a kiss—short, sweet, not a prelude to anything more. “Let’s go get something to eat.”
He releases his hand as they step out the door, pulling it shut behind them and turning his face up to the sky. He breathes in the fresh morning air, crisp in the aftermath of last night’s rain, as he squints into the sun. “The sky’s beautiful today, huh?”
He glances back to see Sakura’s eyes fixed on him, his gaze unwavering, expression softer than Togame’s seen it yet. “Yeah,” Sakura says. “It is.”
Something twists in the vicinity of Togame’s chest, and he steps back to wrap an arm around Sakura’s waist, press a kiss to his forehead, uncaring who might see, what they might think. He smiles at the way Sakura’s face instantly goes red—but he doesn’t pull away, and that says more than any words ever could. “C’mon, Sakura. It’s my treat.”