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Savour

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I. Sight

 

For years, Kakashi woke up to the same picture every morning.

His apartment is small and sparse. It's a bachelor pad to the very definition of its name, but it's not swimming in dirt or grime. No, his home falls into the other group: drab, functional; it only has enough room in it for one.

He has few things to his name. With the chance of never coming home again a very definite reality, it's best to have few effects for his landlord to clean up after. He has a clock, a few photos, a small book shelf, a plant. Against one wall is his bed; on the other is a table and chair. His closet is full of just enough shirts and pants to get through a week or two with a few other outfits for special occasions. There is no kitchen, and his bathroom is essentially a renovated closet with a sink, toilet, and shower crammed tightly inside. Suffice it to say, he doesn't entertain much.

He's alright with that though. No one really visits, and excusing nights where he has female company or is away on a mission, Kakashi sleeps peaceably and wakes up to plain, egg-shell white walls. When he wakes up though, there's usually a brief twinge of pain. It's not enough to alarm, but it's enough to bother him and he rubs his eyes, wondering if all those years of reading late into the night are finally catching up to him or if his walls are just that much of a visual nightmare. He doesn't bring himself to change the walls however, and he tries to get used to the eggshell white. Eventually, he does.

That was then. Fast-forward, and things have changed for Kakashi. His apartment is bigger. His bathroom is, for once, a respectable size. His closet has also grown, and while the amount of clothing he has hasn't changed, there are more than enough things from his other half to fill that vacancy. The number of knick-knacks has also grown and while it is still respectably clean, his home is no longer sparse.

His view has also changed. While his new apartment is still egg-shell white, there are other things to see like the ceiling fan or the small vanity in their bedroom or his girlfriend when she's asleep. Oddly enough, while her pale pink hair is stark against the white walls, it isn't painful to look at. Actually, though she has thoroughly uprooted his life once and for all, he hasn't found the change painful at all.

And as he watches her sleep, eyes shut and lashes low against the apples of her cheek as she sleeps peacefully curled against his side, he's not surprised at all.

She's a sight for sore eyes.

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II. Scent

 

Few people know this, but Kakashi has quite a sensitive nose. Only known to him, he's created a scent profile of his team.

Naruto's recently taken to using cologne. It's banned on missions because it could give their position away, so he usually ends up smelling faintly of ramen and wind-swept plains on sunny days; but on the days when they're not fighting, he smells of cinnamon, cardamom, and the dry spicy air of the Silk Road.

Sai smells faintly of ink stones, paper, and late nights spent awake and alone.

Tenzou smells of wood, forest moss, and sweat with a hint of aftershave and coffee.

As for Sakura, she smells of blood, hospital sanitizer, old books read on rainy days, and the crisp scent of green apple shampoo. She thinks the shampoo is why he never wants to let go of her in the morning, but she would be wrong.

It's because she smells like home.

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III. Hearing

 

It was a few months into their relationship that he found out that Sakura was fiercely ticklish.

It had been an accident when he discovered this facet of hers. They were wrestling for the remote control, and in an attempt to grab it, he had more or less fondled her side and sent her into a laughing fit.

She was angry and embarrassed afterwards, of course—who on earth had heard of a ticklish ninja?—so he used his power over her sparingly, only wielding it when the moment seemed right: when she needed a laugh; when she was neither too sad or too angry that a smile would not be found for a while; when they were both feeling a bit silly.

Like this morning when the sun was still warming the skies and the air was still sluggish with remnants of the night.

Of course, there were drawbacks to his power. Like Sakura, Kakashi was equally ticklish and like him, it was a knowledge Sakura knew all too well; and what had started off as a quiet morning soon devolved into a loud, raucous tickle fight.

Chests heaving and throats burning, Kakashi and Sakura stared up at the ceiling together, blinking away their tears. The fight had ended in a truce—or perhaps a draw?—and the seemingly endless bubbles of energy that had filled them were now gone. Tired, they curled together and caught their breath in the quiet of the waking morning, the sounds of their mingled laughter—"ha-ha-ha"—echoing in his ear.

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IV. Taste

 

With a sizzle and a pop, the kitchen comes alive as Kakashi begins to make a breakfast for two.

Rice is cooking in the cooker on the table; the chopsticks are already laid out. On the back burner, a pot of miso soup bubbles gently as he toasts sesame seeds in a pan over low heat. He can't say he's a great cook, but he knows his way around the kitchen.

Salt. Pepper flake. Stew the green onions in the soup longer. Though he prefers the negi crisper, Sakura doesn't like the onion taste so strong and it's only because of her that he has foregone his usual preference. She's the only person he'd do it for.

On the pan, a single seed shoots up and back-flips, falling back into the pan. Careful not to touch the metal surface, Kakashi picks one out and pops it into his mouth, letting the subtle nuttiness wash over his tongue with a satisfied hum. It's not his favorite taste in the world—that goes to his last meal choices of roasted saury and miso soup with eggplant—but it comes pretty damn close.

He sets the sesame seeds aside for later tonight, refocusing his attention to the fish he has left to broil. He has only finished plating when Sakura enters, a robe draped loosely over her shoulders. Her hair is still a mess, but she looks considerably more put-together than when he left her in bed.

"Something smells good," she says somewhat unnecessarily. They both know it always smells good when he's the one cooking, but it's a habit and habits die hard.

Kakashi only proves it as he pulls out the chair for her with a practiced hand. "Have a seat," he invites and only half pays attention to his meal as he watches her dine on the meal that has called her from bed like a siren with a smile. They haven't even finished breakfast yet, but already the silver-haired man looks forward to the next morning, eager do it all again tomorrow.

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V. Touch

 

Kakashi isn’t a very touchy person.

Maybe it’s because of a childhood bereft of any real contact, or maybe because touch among his kind usually carries deadly intent, but regardless the concept of a personal bubble is very important to him.

He hates unnecessary contact; a overly-friendly shoulder clap, a strong-armed headlock masquerading as a hug, a jerking, whiny tug of his arm—he hates it all. The idea of someone piercing his bubble is abhorrent—an egregious sin against him and everything he stands for—He only just barely tolerates Gai’s antics with the firm mental reminder that this man is supposed to be his friend and not a nuisance, not the enemy his being.

But things have changed recently, and as he lays in bed awake—he’s always the first to rise—his hand wander the covers, searching. He’s looking for something specific and when he finds it, there’s a faint smile on his face as his mind registers the small spark between their fingertips.

Slowly, he marries them together, careful not to wake her as he shifts her hand up with his. Palms kissing and fingers touching, they’re aligned as perfect as the stars in the sky and he stays like that for a while, savoring the feeling of warmth spreading in his chest as he plays with the digits of her hand. He plays with them like a child would in idle experimentation. Open, close; open, close.

Open.

Close.

Despite the difference in size, they move in unison and as he laces their fingers together, he basks in the perfection of their union. Everything about this moment is perfect: their hands, the silence, him…her—especially her. He doesn’t think he’s ever known anything more perfect.

“What are you doing?”

Her voice is slurred from sleep. She isn’t fully alert, but she’s awake and he uses this brief lapse in her thinking abilities to slip his hand away like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar.

“Oh nothing,” he says dismissively as he moves his hand towards his side when she suddenly catches it and pulls it between them, lacing them together under the admiration of her eyes.

They stare together at the sight when he feels her gaze shift up to his face, but before he can say anything, she steals the words from his mouth.

“Good morning, beautiful,” she says with a glittering smile.

And he just chuckles and shakes his head with a smile so deep, he feels it in his heart and bones—because really, what else can he do?—before pulling her close and pressing a kiss into the crown of her head as he tangles their legs together beneath the sheets.

Good morning beautiful, indeed.